“It better not,” I whisper.
He kisses my hair. Gentle. Unhurried. Like he’s memorizing the moment.
Then he straightens, shoulders squaring, war sliding back over him like armor snapping into place.
“I’ll come back,” he says.
I nod, even though my chest aches. “You better.”
He grins faintly. “You’ll keep my spot warm?”
I snort, wiping at my eyes with the heel of my hand. “You snore like a freight engine. I’ll never get the smell out of the couch.”
“That’s love,” he says solemnly.
I watch him turn toward the waiting transport, each step steady despite the weight of the order he didn’t ask for.
The sun crests fully over the horizon.
Ash drifts in the light like falling snow.
And for the first time since all of this started, I understand something with terrifying clarity:
Surviving the fight was the easy part.
CHAPTER 23
VOLTAR
Isit on the edge of her bed and stare at the floor like it’s got answers written into the grain.
It doesn’t.
The room smells like her—clean soap, heat-styled hair, a faint chemical sweetness from whatever product she used last night. There’s ash ground into the rug from our boots, a cracked lamp leaning against the wall like it gave up trying to stay upright. Morning light bleeds in through the window, thin and pale, catching on the metal edges of my armor where it lies scattered across the floor.
Half of me is dressed for war.
The other half doesn’t want to move.
My chestplate rests against the dresser, still smeared with soot. One gauntlet sits by the door. The other is already locked onto my arm, servos humming softly every time I flex my fingers. The sound is familiar. Comforting. Like a heartbeat I’ve trusted for most of my life.
Behind me, fabric rustles.
Sable doesn’t say anything.
That’s what hurts the most.
I glance back just enough to see her reflection in the mirror. She’s pulling on a shirt—slow, precise movements. Button. Button. Button. Her hands are steady, but her knuckles are white, blood pressed tight beneath the skin like she’s daring it to surface.
She isn’t crying.
I’d almost prefer it if she were.
I clear my throat. It comes out rough. “You don’t have to?—”
She cuts me a look in the mirror. Sharp. Not angry. Controlled.
“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t start with that.”
