Or had he been avoiding eye contact even then?
My chest tightens with a realization that hits like ice water: I can’t remember the last time Finn sought me out. The last time he appeared at my shoulder with a grin and some ridiculous observation. When did he stop gravitating toward me like he used to?
When did they both stop fighting for the seat next to me?
The memory hits without warning—that night in my room, after everything with the bonds and the Hall of Echoes. Finn’s easy laughter as he sprawled across my bed. Malrik’s careful distance that somehow felt more intimate than touch. The way they’d both looked at me like I was the center of their world.
Now Malrik rides beside Finn, their conversation quiet but intense. And I’m here, surrounded by the others but feeling more alone than I have in months.
“Did I do something wrong?” The question slips out before I can stop it, barely audible over the wind.
Aspen glances over, his ice-blue eyes sharp with concern. “What?”
I shake my head, heat flooding my cheeks. “Nothing. Just… thinking out loud.”
But Aspen doesn’t let it go. He guides his horse closer, close enough that our legs nearly brush. “Kaia.” His voice is gentle but insistent. “What’s wrong?”
How do I explain the growing certainty that I’ve lost something I didn’t know I was supposed to fight for? That whatever connection I thought I had with Finn and Malrik has somehow shifted, leaving me on the outside looking in?
“They’re different,” I say finally, nodding toward the back of our group. “Finn and Malrik. Something’s… changed.”
Aspen follows my gaze, his expression thoughtful. When he looks back at me, there’s understanding in his eyes that makes my chest ache.
“People change,” he says quietly. “Relationships evolve. That doesn’t mean you’ve done anything wrong.”
“Doesn’t it?” The words taste bitter. “I mean, look at them. When’s the last time you saw them that comfortable with each other? That… synchronized?”
As if summoned by my observation, Finn’s laugh carries forward on the wind. Not his usual bright, attention-seeking laughter, but something quieter. More intimate. Shared.
With Malrik.
Not me.
My shadows coil tighter, responding to the spike of something I don’t want to name. It’s not jealousy—not exactly. It’s more like the hollow ache of being forgotten. Of realizing you were never as important as you thought you were.
“Maybe,” I whisper, more to myself than to Aspen, “they never needed me at all.”
“Stop.” Aspen’s voice cuts through my spiral with gentle firmness. “That’s not true, and you know it.”
“Do I?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like they’ve figured out they’re perfectly fine without me.”
Mouse makes a soft sound of distress, pressing closer to my neck. My shadows flutter anxiously, Bob actually abandoning his post to drift back toward me in what looks like an attempt at comfort.
“Your shadows don’t think so,” Aspen observes, a small smile tugging at his lips. “And they know you better than anyone.”
Before I can respond, Kieran raises a hand, signaling for us to halt. Below us, a clearing opens up in the mountain forest, the perfect place to rest and water the horses.
As we dismount, I watch Finn and Malrik swing down from their saddles together, their movements unconsciously coordinated. Finn says something that makes Malrik’s lips quirk in what might be amusement, and the casual intimacy of the moment hits me like a physical blow.
They’re not avoiding each other anymore.
They’re gravitating toward each other.
And I’m not part of that equation.
I slide down from Enif’s back, my legs unsteadier than they should be. The bond in my chest pulses—not with pain, exactly, but with a hollow ache that feels like absence. Like reaching for something that’s no longer there.
Torric appears at my elbow, his golden eyes scanning my face with characteristic directness. “You look like someone stole your favorite dagger.”
