We walk toward the main hall, toward food, toward whatever the rest of the day might hold. Not talking much. Just… together. Letting the world settle.
And for the first time since this started, the road ahead doesn’t terrify me.
It feels like something I don’t have to walk alone.
Chapter Thirty
Flavius
By the time the sun slides behind the trees, the sanctuary has gone soft around the edges. The worst of the heat has burned off; the tourists are gone, leaving only dust on the road and the hum of crickets tuning their legs.
Sophia and I walk the path back to her cabin in that kind of quiet that isn’t empty. It’s full. We spent the afternoon together—eating, breathing, letting the world put itself back in order at its own pace. We didn’t talk about the committee much. Only enough for her to repeat, “I told the truth,” and for me to answer, “That is already a victory.”
Now the day hangs on a thin thread between before and after, and I feel it in my bones like the moment in the arena when the gate is still closed but the crowd has fallen silent.
She stops at her door, fingers brushing the handle, then turning back to me.
Her eyes look… different.
Not raw like this afternoon. Not bright like a performance. Steady. Deep.
“Come in?” she asks.
Two words. Simple.
They feel like a door opening that has nothing to do with wood or hinges.
“Yes,” I say.
She shuts the door behind us and leans against it for a moment, palms pressed to the wood like she’s confirming it’s real.
The cabin smells like her—tea and paper and the faint ghost of the lotion she uses after showers. The lamp on the bedside table is on, casting the room in warm gold.
She exhales slowly, then looks at me.
Really looks.
My shoulders want to square like I’m bracing for a blow. Instead, I make myself stand easy. Open. No armor. No performance. Just me.
“Today was…” She grimaces, searching for a word big enough and not finding it. “A lot.”
“Yes,” I say.
“I don’t know what they’ll decide.” She lifts one shoulder, lets it drop. “I hate that. That it’s out of my hands now.”
“It has always been out of your hands,” I say. “The only thing that was yours was whether you vanished.” I hold her gaze. “You did not.”
Something softens in her face.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For being there. For… catching me afterward.”
“I did not catch you,” I say. “You did not fall.” My mouth curves, small. “I only reminded you how to breathe.”
Her lips twitch—the shadow of a smile. “You did more than that.”
Silence settles between us again.
But it’s a different kind now.
