“Promise me,” he says.
My throat tightens.
I open my eyes again and meet his gaze. There’s no command there. No expectation. Just hope—raw and terrifying and offered without armor.
“I promise,” I say.
The words land heavy between us.
He lets out a breath I didn’t realize he was holding and presses a soft kiss to my forehead, then another to my temple. His thumb strokes once over my knuckles, grounding, gentle.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’m very bad at half-measures.”
I snort weakly. “Yeah. I noticed.”
Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Not empty. Not tense. Just… quiet.
I listen to the sound of his hearts beneath my ear, the distant hum of the city outside, the faint buzz of my security system resetting itself for the third time tonight. The air smells like ozone and clean bandage wrap and something warmer underneath—him.
“Hey, Sable,” he says after a moment.
“Mm?”
“You’re shaking.”
I realize he’s right only when I stop trying not to.
“Adrenaline crash,” I say. “It happens.”
He shifts carefully and pulls me closer, one arm coming around my shoulders, tucking me into the curve of his body like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Then let it,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
And for the first time since Glindora—since the alley, since the gunfire, since the cat with pink eyes—I let myself believe that might actually be true.
I limp.
Not in a dainty way. Not in a brave, cinematic way. In a very real, very annoyed,everything hurts and I’m too stubborn to admit itway.
The sun is just cresting the horizon when we stagger out of the fortress, turning the ash-choked sky a bruised gold. Morning on Novaria doesn’t ease in gently—it arrives like an afterthought, like the universe saying,Fine. You lived. Here’s daylight. Don’t get used to it.
The fortress behind us looks worse in the light. Burn scars crawl up its outer walls. Sections of it still smoke, lazy tendrils drifting upward like the place is exhaling its last regrets. The air reeks of scorched metal, ozone, and old violence. It coats my tongue. Every breath tastes like the aftermath of bad decisions.
Voltar is at my side, massive even when he’s moving carefully. One arm is looped loosely around my waist—not holding me up exactly, just… there. Present. A silent agreement that if I stumble, I won’t hit the ground.
I’m covered in ash. It’s smeared across my cheekbones, tangled in my hair, ground into the knees of my pants. My hands are shaking again, but this time I don’t bother pretending they aren’t. I’ve pushed my body past polite limits and it’s filing formal complaints.
We make it ten steps past the blast perimeter before I hear the whine of engines.
Alliance transports settle into the open ground ahead of us, sleek and angular against the wreckage. Tactical lights flare. Boots hit dirt in crisp, efficient lines. Backup. Real backup. The kind that shows upafterthe worst part is already over.
Lazarus strides toward us, flanked by two armed officers and a data tech clutching a slate like it’s holy scripture. He looks… relieved. Which is unsettling. Lazarus doesn’t do relieved.
“Well,” he says, stopping a few feet away. His eyes flick over us—Voltar’s injuries, my limp, the state of our clothes. “You look terrible.”
“Good morning to you too,” I mutter.
Voltar huffs a weak laugh. “You should see the other guys.”
