Auryn was slipping through his fingers. Weeks passed with her presence dwindling, her body absent from their chambers, her light tucked away in her study in the Sokâr's wing or buried in endless duties. When she did return, her smile was too quick, her words too shallow. She pressed her exhaustion into silence.
He told himself she was preparing for his departure, the same as he. But beneath the justifications lay a hollow ache: she was avoiding him. And he allowed it.
One day, he found Zarrek in the shadow of the training halls, helm set aside, scars catching the Polis-light. Kailorien had reinstated him, the crest of command pressed back into his palm. He'd been busy these weeks, scouring records and interrogating suspects in Sevrion's network. Some was delicate work, for their plan was not to oust the traitors but gather them into the open, lull them into complacency. Those who could not be gathered were culled, one way or another. Not with a blade to the throat, but with trials, evidence, Doctrine.
"Zar," Kailorien called to his brother in arms. "You're early."
The Bloodletter grunted, turning to face him. "Said you wanted to talk, so I came. Need to make it quick. I'm going down to the Cataclyss after dark."
"Following a trail?"
Zarrek nodded. "An old one."
Kailorien raised a brow, noting the way Zarrek tried to skirt the topic. "This is personal."
"It is." He folded his arms across his chest. "It's the reason I came back to this rot in the first place."
Kailorien stepped close to him, setting a hand on his shoulder. "I think I know," he said. "The one with golden feathers?"
Zarrek blinked at him, his face like stone. "And if it is?"
Kailorien smirked. "I'd wish you luck, then. Though I never thought—"
"It's not that," Zarrek cut in, shrugging off Kailorien's hand. "No plans to obsess. That'syou."
For a moment, the noise of the Crucible seemed to fall away—the clash of steel, the barked orders, the sounds of clashing magic. All of it dulled beneath the weight of Zarrek's accusation. A slow smile touched Kailorien’s mouth, but there was no humor in it.
"We said the same thing once," he murmured.
Zarrek’s brow furrowed. "What?"
"When one of the men got too attached on the Surface. We called him weak. Said it was a liability."
Zarrek huffed. "It is."
Kailorien’s eyes snapped back to him. Sharp. Certain.
"And yet here you are. Chasing ghosts into the Cataclyss."
Silence stretched between them.
Kailorien stepped closer again. Careful. As though approaching a cornered beast instead of a brother.
"You tracked her once already," he said. "Could’ve stayed on the Surface. You chose the Veinroads. I saw the way you looked at her when the Blightsphere tore apart the Han. She's the Riven's ward, Zar. She's a—"
"I know what she is," Zarrek stopped him. "And the Riven doesn't scare me."
Kailorien frowned. "He's an Apex."
"That supposed to worry me? Fought beside him in the old war, same as you," Zarrek shrugged. "I saw him in the Han. To me, it seemed like hewas more interested in your little star than he was in his ward." He made a dismissive sound. "I'm not one of your Kelvasari to interrogate, Resh. Back off."
"Did you really think I wouldn't notice?" Kailorien tilted his head. "That orb you always kept in your tent. With the golden feather. You don't keep things close, Zar. Not resentments, not people, especially not trinkets."
Zarrek’s nostrils flared. "You don’t know what you’re talking about."
"I know obsession when I see it."
That landed.
