Rynna managed a small smile, though it wavered at the edges. She leaned in, resting her forehead briefly to his, holding on to the moment before it slipped away.
“When this is over,” Bran finally spoke again, “you’ll tell me about them? My family?”
Her stomach clenched, and she touched her forehead to his, too, then Elara’s, one by one, binding the circle. “When this is over, I will share every memory I have of your father, your grandmother, and the Hearth.”
Crickets sang in the darkness, yet the moment between them felt untouched, suspended.
“We fight for each other,” Bran whispered.
“The Hollow-born standing beside you,” Elara added, her hand finding his.
“And the ones who can’t defend themselves,” Taren said, taking Bran’s other hand.
“Fang Unit.” Rynna squeezed shut.
“Fang Unit,” they echoed together.
Rynna opened her eyes and glanced over her shoulder—first to Fenn, solid as stone, then to Kaelith, shadows carved along the sharp line of his profile.
They were ready. But not to die—no.
To fight. To endure. And to make damn sure none of them were lost this time.
Chapter fifty-one
Thestonepavilionencircledthe Waygate like a crown, wide and weathered, its surface scorched pale by centuries of sun. Towering menhirs lined the outer ring, monolithic guardians that reached skyward in a jagged rhythm, each one carved with faded symbols of power. Their shadows, narrow and useless, shifted slowly as the sun hauled itself across the sky’s molten arc.
Rynna huddled in the only scrap of shade to be found—pressed against the base of the Waygate, where its curved frame blocked just enough light to spare her from being baked alive. Even so, the heat clung to her like wet cloth. Her skin was slick with sweat, and her hair stuck to her cheeks in damp, curling strands.
Digging her fingertips into her temples, she squeezed her eyes shut against the light. The headache was brutal. More than just a throb, it pulsed like a second heartbeat behind her eyes, budding with every movement, every sound. The aftermath of the Waygate jump, or any portal jump for that matter, had never bothered her before, but this one had been gutting.
A gust swept through the pavilion, stirring sand and rustling loose fabric. She winced, forcing her gaze up and stilled.
Kaelith stood a few lengths away, leaning his weight onto his uninjured leg, the other held carefully straight. The long, lean line of his body was all tension and control, a quietcontrast to the raw heat around them. He didn’t seem to notice the sweat slicking down his back or the punishing sun overhead. He was utterly absorbed.
His chin rested in one hand, thumb beneath his jaw, index finger tapping loosely along his cheek. The other hand hovered near the stone, fingers tracing the carved outline of a serpent etched deep into the menhir’s face. His touch was reverent. Slow. As if the snake might move beneath his fingertips and bite.
She couldn't look away.
The black pants clung to his hips, the fabric pulled taut across the strong cut of his thighs and ass, cinched by the simple wrap of a dark sash. He’d discarded the sleeves of his uniform earlier, unwinding the black cloth and letting it hang from one shoulder in loose folds, fluttering in the breeze like a discarded promise. The fine lines of muscle along his back gleamed with moisture, catching the light with every breath. Even his goddamn ponytail, the mess of ink-black hair bound hastily on his head, looked deliberate, strands escaping to stick against the damp nape of his neck.
The pain in her skull flared, and still, she stared.
Something about the focused intensity of him, how he bent toward the snake with all the concentration of a scholar or a priest, dug under her skin in ways she didn’t have the energy to unpack. It wasn’t fair, how good he looked while she sat here, cracked open by the travel, feeling like her insides had been raked raw.
Rynna let her head tip back against the stone, eyes half-lidded. Maybe if she stopped fighting the pounding in her skull, it would pass. Maybe if she stared at Kaelith long enough, she’d forget it entirely.
She doubted it. But, stars, he was beautiful.
As if sensing her attention, Kaelith stilled. His shoulders shifted subtly, pulling back and drawing his body into sharper focus before he glanced over his shoulder.
“Will you please drink some water, pet?” His voice carried easily across the ring, low and even, but tinged with something heavier. Concern, maybe. “I can feel your head pounding from here, and you still need to get us off this rock.”
She swallowed hard, her throat rasping dry against itself. The light seared through her eyelids when she squinted up toward the sun, and her vision swam with heat.
“I’m fine,” she managed. “And we need to conserve supplies. I don’t think we’ll be able to return if we leave.”
Just the thought of reactivating the gate made her skin crawl. She shuddered, memory prickling across her spine. They’d only just survived the first crossing. The fraying weavesof corrupted Source had barely held the portal together, let alone tethered it to this ancient, rotting place.
