Let himfeelit.
Let him feel every second I felt—every broken breath, every second-guess, every time I couldn’t sleep because I kept hearing hull breaches in my dreams.
He steps to the viewport, the stars spilling across his features in soft reflection. His voice is almost inaudible now. “I never stopped watching. Just... from a distance.”
“You watched?” My voice cracks. “Youwatched?”
“I had to know you were alive.”
“Youhad to know?Ineededyou!”
The room goes quiet again.
Except for our breathing.
My heart slams against my ribs. His shoulders rise and fall in slow, mechanical rhythm. Outside the window, ships drift past like distant ghosts, pretending this isn’t happening. Pretending the two of us aren’t standing in the ruins of something we can’t name.
“Why now?” I ask.
Garokk doesn’t turn around.
But he says, “Because he smiled. And I sawme.”
CHAPTER 22
GAROKK
The door hisses open like it resents being part of this moment.
I step into the secured corridor with the kind of stillness that comes from war—not the kind you fight, but the kind that comesafter. The kind that lingers in your bones like smoke. Every inch of me is alert, but nothing shows. You can’t give them your nerves. Not here. Not in front ofthem.
Isolde stands at the far end of the room, back straight, jaw locked, eyes unreadable. There's an observation panel behind her, framing the void of space like a painting. But it's not the stars I see first.
It’s the boy.
He's to her right—half behind her, half beside her. His stance wobbles between pride and uncertainty, as if he's still deciding whether to stand tall or cling tighter to the hand looped around his shoulder.
She’s holding him with one arm, anchored with the precision of a woman who’s had to keep herself and another alive at the same time. It’s not protective in the way people usually mean it. It's abarrier.A line drawn.
My boots click once against the floor.
The sound echoes.
He hears it—turns his face slightly, just enough to catch me in full. Eyes like polished storm glass. Alert. Too alert for his age.
He doesn’t flinch.
Not even a little.
Just watches.
Sizing me up.
Like I’m some equation he doesn’t know yet—but means to solve.
A small crease forms between his brows. His mouth tightens. His shoulders pull back a little, like something inside him’s already made the call: I am not afraid of you.
And that...
