"We can't stop her," I say finally, because someone has to voice what we're all thinking.
"We don't want to stop her," Malrik corrects. "But we can keep her grounded."
"How?" Finn asks.
I look at each of them in turn—these men who've become brothers in all the ways that matter, bound together by something deeper than blood or magic. "We don't slow her down," I say. "We remind her why she has to lead, not just charge. We hold her up before she breaks."
Aspen nods, understanding immediately. "I'll stay close on her flank. Make sure she's eating, drinking. The basics she's ignoring."
"I'll manage our rest breaks," Malrik adds. "Under the guise of rechecking formations. Force her to stop without making it about her."
"And I'll make space for her to talk," Finn says, his voice unusually serious. "When she's ready. If she's ready."
"I'll monitor terrain with actual scrutiny," Kieran finishes. "Not just Callum's word. If this is a trap, we'll be prepared."
It's a good plan. Simple. Focused on what we can control rather than what we can't. But as we separate back to our bedrolls, something cold settles in my stomach.
Because I've been watching Kaia all day, studying the rigid set of her shoulders and the desperate edge to her determination. And I think I finally understand what's driving her forward with such relentless purpose.
"She thinks she's chasing Seren," I say quietly, just loud enough for the others to hear. "But I think she's chasing forgiveness."
No one disagrees.
And that terrifies me more than any trap Alekir could possibly set.
Because forgiveness isn't something you can rescue from a convoy or earn through a perfectly executed mission. It's something you have to give yourself.
And Kaia's never been good at that.
Chapter 46
Finn
Finn
The fire's down to embers when I finally work up the nerve to approach her.
Kaia sits on the rocky outcrop like a statue carved from guilt and determination, her gaze fixed on the darkness where our enemies might emerge. She hasn't moved in over an hour. Hasn't blinked, as far as I can tell.
I toss a wrapped ration at her feet, the sound sharp in the silence.
"Fuel for the guilt machine," I say, settling onto a boulder a few feet away. Close enough to talk, far enough that she can't pretend this is just another one of our easy conversations.
She glances down at the food but doesn't reach for it. "Thanks, but I'm not—"
"Hungry. Yeah, I figured." I study her profile in the dim light, noting the sharp angles that weren't there a week ago. "When's the last time you actually ate something?"
"I'm fine, Finn."
"Sure you are." I lean back, chaos magic sparking absently around my fingers. "You got a minute, Trouble?"
The nickname hangs between us, weighted with everything we used to be. She finally turns to look at me, and something in my expression must tip her off because her guarded expression shifts to concern.
"What's wrong?"
I almost laugh. Of course she notices something's off now, when I'm about to tear my chest open and show her exactly how wrong everything's been.
"You ever feel like you're losing someone who's sitting right in front of you?"
