“I lost something,” I say aloud.
Silence answers.
But I still stay.
Back in the sleeping chamber I lie on the cot. My body aches. I cannot find stillness. I touch the scar on my side where the Maze beam hit. The mark’s faded, but the pain hasn’t. I dream—not right away—of her.
Her voice: “Gyon…”
Her scent: burned ozone, hot metal, promise.
And then a child—tiny, silver-eyed—calls me “Papa.” I wake with my claws digging into the mattress, a howl in my throat.
Tayani comes in quietly. She waits at the door. I don’t sit up. She shakes her head gently. “Good night,” she says and leaves.
I lie in the dark, the wind towers humming. The field outside is still. I stare at the ceiling.
Tomorrow…I’ll haul sacks again. I’ll fetch water. I’ll try to bend my body to the rhythm of peace. But my mind will keep scanning the sky. The stars will keep hiding. And I’ll keep waiting.
The next day begins with a familiar ache in my chest and golden light in my eyes. The sun is a ruthless overseer today. I’m bending over a row of cracked soil, sweat streaming down my temple and into the crease of my shoulder. The sickle in my hand slips once, and the stalk I meant to cut stands mocking me. I curse under my breath—metal taste in my mouth—and palm the damp hilt again. The field smells like raw dust and sweat and the faint tang of grape-wine from the vineyard above.
A young Solari boy—maybe ten—scrambles beside me, carrying a bucket half-full of water. His tunic’s too big, sleeves rolled up. “Sir?Gyon,” he says in that soft voice of theirs, “you work like someone trying to outrun something.”
I stop mid-cut. Dirt covers my face. My ribs ache. I lift my head until the sun glares off my visorless eyes. “What do you mean?” I ask.
He glances at me, then at the sickle. Then shrugs. “You plant fast. Break too many stalks. Always looking up at the sky.”
I snarl. “Go pull the bucket.”
He nods and hurries off. His boots stir the dry grass like distant thunder.
That statement—“trying to outrun something”—stabs me. I tilt the sickle back and stare at the blade. I work for peace, the Solari say. I tend the crops, haul water, avoid battles. But inside, I’m roaring. I’m still hunting. Not running from something—running toward something. Her. But I don’t know where she is. Don’t know if she’s dead. Don’t know if she remembers me.
Later that afternoon, after I’ve dumped a sack of harvested grain at the silo, I retreat to a quiet workshop tucked under the vines. The Solari gave it to me—tools, wood planks, chisels. The smell of shaved pine curls in the air. My arms still ache when I sit at the bench. I pick up a piece of pale wood and draw the outline of a woman’s face. Sharp cheekbones. A curl of hair. Her name: Liora. I carve quickly. My knuckles whiten. The rasp of the chiselsounds loud in the stillness. Chip after chip falls onto the floor. Each one like a memory I’m forcing free.
A small figure emerges on the plank: her silhouette. I run my fingers over the carved contours. I taste the grain dust in the air. I lift the piece and place it on the shelf beside another—less finished, small. I stare at the second plank. It’s a child. Small, twin braids carved deep into the wood. A fierce smile. Eyes too sharp for a child’s.
“What is that?” I mutter. I lift it and look. “Who are you?”
My hands tremble. I set the child figure on the firepit stones outside. The night wind turns. I snap the plank in half mid-thought. The crack echoes across the field like a gunshot. The two pieces tumble into the coals. I drop to my knees, stare at the fire, the smell of sap and burning wood licking my nostrils. I feel rage. I feel grief. I feel everything I’ve tried to bury.
“Don’t belong,” I whisper to the figure’s ashes. “You don’t belong here.”
The next day, I wake before the suns. The sky is pale grey. The field is quiet. My muscles protest climbing out of bed, but I pull on boots and head for the workshop. I find the wood I used last night still there: sawdust, charred edges. I pick up the remaining piece of the child figure and stare. The twin braids. The fierce smile. The same shape.
“Sorry,” I say, though it’s useless. I set the piece on the bench. I take a new plank. I carve again. This time I trace the braids slow, deliberate. The chisels bite in. The scent of shavings fills the air. I hum under my breath—a low sound of focus, of hunger.
“You think you’re running toward something,” the boy Aren says, stepping into the workshop. “But maybe you’re just standing still.”
I don’t look up. I keep working. The blade hits harder. I don’t answer.
Hours later, I’m carrying boxes of harvested grain across the yard when the sun dips low. The long shocks of shadow stretch across the ground. I measure the length. I’ve been here fourteen weeks, maybe more. The shadows say so. My chest tightens. I wonder if she’s alive. If she’s waiting. If she thinks of me.
At dinner, they ask me to join the singing. A circle of Solari gather under the vines. I stand at the edge, fingers still wood-dust stained. The song rises—soft, pure. Their voices echo in the evening air. I listen. I watch. I feel the rhythm inside me, but I don’t sing. I cannot. Because my voice is built for war, not lullabies.
A Tayani presence next to me. She places a vine-leaf for me as my plate. “Your strength is in waiting, Gyon.”
The dawn ispale when I walk to the edge of the commune. The ground is chill—dew glistening on the whispergrass like shards of broken starlight. I breathe in the cold air and let it fill my lungs. My ribs ache, as they always do lately, but the ache is familiar now. It reminds me I’m alive. Not just surviving. Alive.
