*Trigger warnings* betrayal, hurt, angst, medical issues, loss of loved ones.
We were running out of food.
And worse—hope.
The air in the catacombs was beginning to rot with the scent of mildew and sweat. Our supplies were low enough now that people had stopped joking about it. Ms. Marvos had started rationing without telling anyone that she was. Araxie caught her quietly skipping meals.
Ardere was still gone.
The echo of her grief had vanished sometime in the night. It hadn't faded. It had been cut off—like someone slammed a door shut from the other side. And that was somehow worse. At least when her emotions were leaking into the rest of us, it meant she was alive. Awake. Feeling.
Now, it was nothing. Just cold stone and silence.
And Riven was gone with her.
I hated how quiet it had become. Not the kind of quiet that made you feel safe or hidden—but the kind that crawled under your skin. The kind that made you realize something was listening just outside your torchlight. The kind that meant the storm hadn't passed, it was just waiting.
I kept watch near the entrance to the tunnels we thought they might've taken. The same entrance I'd stared down every hour since we got here.
"She should be back by now," I said to no one in particular.
Araxie looked up from where she was scribbling notes on the cave walls. "You said that an hour ago."
"She should still be back by now."
No one argued with me. What was there to say? Ardere—if she was awake—was with the one person who might drag her deeper instead of pulling her out.
"We can't just sit here forever," Araxie muttered, snapping her pen closed with a sharp click. "We're not exactly thriving down here."
"We're not leaving without them." My voice came out sharper than I meant, but no one flinched.
Ms. Marvos glanced up from where she was inventorying the food scraps we had left—three protein bars, half a water jug, and something that used to be fruit but now looked more like science fiction. "We might not have a choice."
"So we're just gonna turn our backs on them?" I snapped.
"No one's turning their backs on anyone," she said, in that same maddeningly calm tone she always used when she was getting ready to make a call no one liked. "But we're down to two days' worth of food at best, and these catacombs are bigger than any map we've got. If they're lost—or worse—then staying here waiting to starve helps no one."
"They're not lost," I said. "They're not dead. You felt it—Ardere's grief, her panic—it was like being yanked into her chest and suffocating. And then nothing. That wasn't death. That was... something else. Something deliberate."
Araxie stood and crossed her arms. "Even if you're right, it doesn't mean they'll find us. If they've got control of the suppressor again, maybe they've abandoned the mission. Maybe they're not coming back."
I gave her a look. "You really believe that?"
"If we go back, we might not survive the route. We barely made it out the first time. You saw what those tunnels did to people."
"I'm not scared of the tunnels," I said, and I wasn't lying.
"Then you're an idiot," Lysander said bluntly.
"Enough," Ms. Marvos cut in, rising. "No one's calling anyone anything right now. We're going to make a plan. We have one day to decide: keep moving forward toward the extraction point—or go back and try to find them."
I looked around the space at the rest of them. Gaunt faces. Eyes ringed with exhaustion. No good choices left on the table. Just one terrible one I couldn't stop staring at.
"If we leave," I said, quieter now, "and they're still out there... we're not just abandoning them. We're leaving them in the hands of someone like Tallis."
That name turned the air colder. No one said a word.
"We're not going to make the right call sitting on our asses," Lysander said suddenly, breaking the silence. He stood, rolling his shoulder like he'd been waiting for someone to invite a fight. "So let's stop pretending there's only one move here. We split."
"Split?" Araxie echoed, eyes narrowing. "That's your brilliant idea? Divide a group that's already barely functioning?"
He nodded. "Marvos and Araxie keep heading toward the extraction point. Dorian and I double back and look for Ardere and Riven."
"No." Ms. Marvos didn't raise her voice, but it hit like a gavel. "Splitting weakens both groups."
"Staying together weakens all of us if it means we leave people behind," Lysander shot back. "We're not dragging them out of hell just to walk away when things get uncomfortable."
"I'm not uncomfortable," Araxie snapped. "I'm starving. I'm bleeding from places I didn't know had blood vessels. You want to go on a suicidal rescue mission? Be my guest. But don't act like the rest of us are cowards because we're trying to survive."
Lysander didn't even blink. "I'm not asking you to come."
I stood slowly. "You really think we can find them again? In that mess?"
Lysander turned to me. "You felt Ardere, didn't you? Through whatever's left of her link to this world. She's not gone. You know it."
I did. I hated that I did.
Ms. Marvos looked between the two of us. "And if you walk straight into another suppressor zone? You'll be blind. Useless."
"Not me," I said quietly. "I don't have powers."
Marvos exhaled through her nose, long and tight. "Which makes you the only one who might walk out alive."
Silence again.
"We'll be back," Lysander said.
"You better be," Araxie muttered, already turning away.
I looked at the dwindling food, at the tunnel map Ms. Marvos had half-sketched in blood and dirt, then down the dark hallway we'd crawled through days ago.
The catacombs swallowed sound as much as it swallowed light. The only things that echoed were footsteps and breath.
"Slower," Lysander grunted behind me. "I'm not following your ass into a pit."
"You can stay behind if you'd like," I muttered, not bothering to glance back. My voice came out raw, like the air down here scraped on the way in. "But if you're coming, keep up."
"I don't even know where the hell we are," he said. "Remember? I was out when you left them."
I stopped at the edge of a turn and finally faced him. The dull green of the glowstick in my hand cast him in a sickly hue. "Yeah. I remember. You were too busy bleeding all over the floor to be useful."
His jaw flexed, but he didn't respond. Good.
I turned forward again, the pulse in my neck pounding harder the deeper we got. "It was right past this point. The alcove with the water runoff. Riven set up near the wall with the sigils carved into it."
"You're sure?"
I didn't answer. Because I wasn't sure—not in the way he meant. This place was a maze stitched together by ghosts and rot, and it changed depending on the way you breathed. But I felt it. Some kind of invisible thread, tugging at the part of me that never settled since Ardere vanished.
We stepped into the alcove.
It was empty.
No Riven. No Ardere.
Just an overturned water flask and the burn-mark of some small, extinguished fire on the stones.
Lysander crouched by it. "This is fresh. Within the last day or two."
"I know."
I moved to the wall. The sigils were still there—some sharp, some crumbling. Blood had dried in between them, but it was old. None of it new enough to explain where they'd gone.
"They wouldn't just leave," I said. "Not without something chasing them. Or forcing them to move."
Lysander stood slowly. "Then we follow the tracks."
"Not much to follow down here," I muttered.
I crouched near the blackened fire pit, running my fingers over the half-melted wax from one of Riven's signal candles. "If he had to move her," I said, half to myself, "he wouldn't risk going deeper. Not without backup."
Lysander stood off to the side, scanning the walls with his flashlight. "You think he went up?"
"If there was an up, yeah." I rose slowly. "But more likely? He'd look for a place to hole up. Somewhere small. Defensible. Close enough to here in case we came back."
Lysander made a low noise in his throat. "He'd carry her?"
"He'd have to." My voice came out tighter than I meant it. "She wouldn't have been able to walk after that much exposure to the suppressor. And if she was bleeding like the others, her system might've shut down entirely. She could've flatlined."
"You don't think she's—"
"She's not." I cut him off sharply. "I'd know."
That hung there between us for a long moment. Not challenged. Not confirmed. Just… suspended.
Lysander sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Okay. So, let's think like Riven. He's smart, cautious, and arrogant enough to believe he can outmaneuver anything. Where would he go?"
I turned in a slow circle, eyes tracking the layout of the alcove. There were three branching paths. One that sloped downward with heavy moisture in the air—too risky with someone unconscious. One that led back toward us. And one that slanted up and narrowed into a tight passage only a little wider than my shoulders.
"That one," I said, pointing. "It'd force anything to approach single file. Fewer angles. He could hear anyone coming."
Lysander stared at the tunnel, then back at me. "You really think he carried her through that?"
"If he thought it would keep her safe? He'd crawl through glass."
A grim smile tugged at the edge of Lysander's mouth. "Right. Well. After you, fearless leader."
I didn't answer. I just lit another glowstick and ducked into the passage.
It was damp. Cramped. A slow incline. I scraped my knuckles more than once along the stone. Behind me, Lysander cursed quietly every time he hit his head.
We moved in silence for a while, until I caught something—half a smudge on the wall. Blood. Not much, but enough to tell me someone had been dragged through here recently.
I stopped, holding my hand out. "Look."
Lysander leaned over my shoulder. "That's hers?"
"Could be. Could also be his." I swallowed the tightness in my throat. "Either way, we're close."
Far ahead, the faintest flicker of orange light danced off the wall—then disappeared.
I didn't wait for permission. I pushed forward, faster now, even as my shoulders brushed both walls and my breath quickened with the narrowing space.
The tunnel spat us out into a hollowed-out cavern barely big enough to stand in. My glowstick cast a sickly green light over the uneven rock, catching on what looked like a nest of shredded blankets and crumpled emergency rations.
And them.
Riven was slumped against the far wall, legs splayed, shirt torn, one eye swollen shut. Ardere was half on top of him, half curled inward like her body had folded in on itself. Her skin was ghost-pale beneath the dirt, her hair matted with blood. Her lips were moving, but no sound came out.
Riven's good eye squinted against the light. He raised one grimy hand and let it fall again with theatrical weakness.
"Took you assholes long enough," he rasped, voice raw and shredded from dehydration. "What, did you stop for brunch?"
Lysander dropped to a knee next to Ardere. "Holy hell—how long have you two been in here?"
"Long enough to name every stalactite," Riven muttered. "That one's Jeremy. He's an optimist."
But I wasn't listening anymore. I was already crouched beside Ardere, brushing dirt off her cheek, ignoring the way my hands shook. Her skin burned under my touch. Feverish. She flinched, but didn't move.
"Ardere." I kept my voice low. Steady. "Hey. Look at me. It's me."
Her eyes fluttered. Then closed.
My heart stopped.
But then they opened again, slow and unfocused. She blinked, and blinked again, squinting against the glowstick.
"Dorian…?" Her voice was paper-thin. "Are you…"
I nodded quickly. "Yeah. It's real. We're real."
She stared like she didn't believe it. Her gaze slid to Lysander, then back to me, slow and sluggish. Her lip trembled—then steadied. "I thought… I thought I was dreaming again."
"Not this time." I swallowed hard. "You're safe now."
A sound escaped her—something between a laugh and a sob. "That's new."
Lysander was already pulling medical supplies from his pack, checking her vitals while I kept her upright. Riven hadn't moved.
"You okay?" I asked him.
He gave me a lazy two-finger salute. "Oh, peachy. Lost about a pint of blood, haven't slept in two days, and your girlfriend bit me in her sleep. Pretty sure she thinks I'm a demon."
Ardere mumbled something unintelligible and immediately passed out again.
"See?" Riven muttered. "That's what I get for carrying her princess-style like a damn idiot."
"Why didn't you try to find us?"
He gestured vaguely at the walls. "And risk getting turned around in that maze? Nah. Better odds staying put and letting you play bloodhound."
He was wrong. He was always wrong when he acted like it didn't matter. But still—he'd stayed. He'd kept her alive. And despite everything, he'd waited.
"I owe you," I said quietly.
Riven just rolled his eyes. "You owe me a drink. And a shower. And maybe a lobotomy."
Lysander finished bandaging one of Ardere's arms, then looked up. "She needs water and rest. And probably an actual medic."
"We'll get her out," I said.
"Back the way we came?" Lysander asked.
"No." I stood slowly, tucking Ardere's arm around my shoulders. "We go forward. Marvos and Araxie will have found something by now."
"Assuming they're not dead."
Riven tried to get up—and immediately collapsed.
"Okay," he muttered, cheek pressed to the floor. "You go on ahead. I'll just die dramatically here."
I reached down and grabbed his arm. "Get up."
"Bossy," he muttered. "You know I'm injured, right?"
"Yeah. And I'm not carrying you both."
Lysander snorted. "I would pay to see that."
Ardere's dead weight against me when we haul her out of the cave. Her legs give up immediately, folding like wet paper, and I end up on the ground with her in my arms. She's burning up, breath shallow, covered in dirt and dried blood that's starting to smell wrong. Her eyes flicker open for half a second, unfocused. Then close again.
"Hey," I say, tapping her cheek gently. "Nope. No sleeping. Come on, Ardere."
She barely reacts.
I pull out my water and press the bottle to her cracked lips. Her eyes squint open again, this time with a little more awareness and a stubbornness that's unfortunately familiar.
"Don't," she rasps. "You need it too."
I ignore her and tilt the bottle anyway. She turns her head away, weakly.
"Ardere," I snap. "Don't be noble. Drink."
She tries to shake her head, but she's got nothing left. I use my other hand to guide her chin back and tip the bottle again. A few sips make it past her lips. She swallows slowly, like it physically hurts her to obey.
"That's it," I say. "Good. More."
I don't stop until she's had at least half. Then I grab a protein bar, break off a chunk, and try to hand it to her. She tries to push my hand away.
"Not hungry," she mumbles.
"Don't care," I say, pushing the bite into her mouth anyway. "Chew."
She does. Barely. But it's enough.
Off to the side, Riven watches us from where he's slumped against a stone pillar, blood crusted in his hair and down one arm. He looks like hell. Still smirking, though—of course he is.
He glances at Lysander with a pointed look. "Well? Gonna play Florence Nightingale, or am I the only one who gets to suffer through this?"
Lysander doesn't even hesitate. "Not a fucking chance."
Riven shrugs. "Didn't think so."
Ardere sways against me, her fingers curling lightly into my shirt. I don't know if she's aware she's doing it, or if she even knows it's me. But she's still breathing. Still fighting.
Ardere's weight in my arms is all wrong. Too light. Too limp. Every time I shift her closer to my chest, I can feel the heat radiating off her skin and the way her breaths stutter against my collarbone. I keep moving anyway. Slow and steady through the uneven path, careful not to jostle her more than I have to.
Behind me, I hear Lysander mutter something—probably some half-assed warning—as Riven slings an arm around his shoulders.
"Try not to bleed on me," Lysander snaps.
"No promises," Riven rasps, somehow still smug through a throat full of dust and whatever internal injuries he's clearly not acknowledging. "You weren't exactly the softest pillow back there either."
I glance back for a second. Riven's pale under all the grime and dried blood, but his eyes are still sharp. Watching everything. Including me.
I don't waste time.
"What happened?" I ask, my voice low.
He doesn't answer right away. Just lets out a long breath that sounds like it costs him something. Finally, he says, "She was crashing. After the suppressant wore off. Couldn't breathe right. Shaking all over. I wasn't gonna wait around and see if her heart gave out while you were gone."
"She looked stable when we left—"
"She wasn't," he snaps, voice harder than before. "Or maybe she was. And then she wasn't. I don't know. I'm not a goddamn medic."
I adjust my grip on Ardere, careful not to touch the bruises blooming down her spine. "Why the cave?"
"Smaller entrance," he says, like it should be obvious. "One way in. Easier to guard. No breeze, no movement—I'd hear anything coming before it got too close."
I swallow hard. "You carried her all the way there?"
"What, you think she dragged herself in?" He barks a dry, humorless laugh, then grimaces like it physically hurt. "Yeah. I carried her. Because nobody else was there to do it."
I glance down at Ardere's face. Her lips are cracked. There's dirt stuck in the dried blood near her temple. She doesn't even twitch when I shift her weight again.
"How the hell did you even manage that?" I mutter, mostly to myself.
"Because I had to," Riven says simply.
Of course. That's always how it is with him. No matter how broken he is, no matter how much of an asshole he acts like—when it comes to her, he doesn't hesitate.
He never does.
"And what?" he adds after a beat, slurring slightly. "You two get lost on the way back? Stop for a picnic? Have a heartfelt emotional breakthrough?"
Lysander scoffs. "You're welcome."
I don't say anything. Just shift Ardere's weight again and keep walking. Her breath is still shallow, but it's there. That's all that matters right now.
We'd only been walking a few minutes when Riven said it—like he was commenting on the weather or the terrain, not casually dropping a death sentence into the air between us.
"If we try to catch up with Marvos and Araxie, she's dead."
I blinked. "What?"
He didn't even pause to look at me. Just kept limping forward, one arm still slung across Lysander's shoulders like he owned the guy. "Ardere. She won't make it. Not in her condition. Not through the catacombs and definitely not through the woods beyond them."
"She's not going to die," I said, too fast. Too sharp.
"She will," Riven said simply. "If we follow Marvos. We'll barely survive the trek as it is. You think she'll survive with a fever, infected cuts, and no strength to even chew her own food?"
"She'll recover. Once we're out—"
"She won't make it out," he interrupted, turning his head just enough to catch my eye. "You think I'm trying to be a dick, but I'm not. I'm telling you the math. She's running on fumes. You saw her. If she survives the catacombs, she'll die from infection or dehydration before we even reach the woods. And if not that? Starvation. Exposure. Take your pick."
Lysander's jaw clenched. "You done?"
Riven ignored him. "We need to go back to the Grove. The observatory's our only shot. There's still medical supplies there. Clean water. Shelter."
I looked down at Ardere again. Her face was drawn and pale, lips cracked, skin hot even through my shirt. She hadn't stirred once since we started walking.
"She won't like that," I murmured.
"No shit," Riven muttered. "She'll probably scream at us. If she's conscious. But alive and pissed is better than dead in a ditch."
I hated that he was right.
And I hated even more that I had to be the one to carry her back into the last place she wanted to see.
I looked back, just for a second. The catacombs swallowed the light like they were trying to eat it whole. Nothing behind us but wet stone, bad decisions, and the direction Marvos and Araxie had taken.
"They won't wait," I said. "If we don't catch up in time, they'll assume we're dead or compromised. They'll leave."
"No 'assuming' about it," Riven said, still half-dragging himself on Lysander's shoulder. "They will leave. And honestly? They should."
I ground my teeth, swallowing back the part of me that wanted to argue.
"If we go back now," I said slowly, "we may never see them again."
Riven didn't even blink. "Welcome to the age-old dilemma: save your girlfriend's life, or stay on good terms with her family."
I exhaled through my nose, sharp and tight.
He wasn't wrong.
But I hated that he was the one who said it.
Ardere let out a soft sound in my arms—too quiet to be a word, too broken to be anything else. Her fingers curled again, not grabbing, not holding—just twitching in some reflexive response to the heat boiling inside her.
I looked at Lysander.
He met my gaze over her head. His jaw was locked. His expression unreadable.
"Your call," I said.
His eyebrows twitched.
"You're her brother," I added. "Whatever we do next—whatever we don't do—you're the one who has to live with it. So you decide. Forward or back."
Silence stretched, taut and thin.
Riven didn't speak. For once.
Lysander looked down at Ardere, his hand drifting near her shoulder—not touching, just hovering. He stared at her like he was trying to memorize something. Like he already knew she wasn't going to be the same when she woke up. If she woke up.
Then he looked at me.
"Turn around," he said.
His voice was flat. Unshakeable.
"We go back to the Grove."
"You're sure?"
"She'll die if we don't."
That was it. No hesitation. No agony over losing the others. Just this raw, brutal certainty.
Riven let out a low breath that might've been relief.
I adjusted my grip again and turned around.
"Hold on, Ardere," I murmured, mostly for myself. "We're not losing you. Not like this."
Behind me, I heard Riven hiss something under his breath and Lysander grunt as he caught more of Riven's weight. But neither of them argued.
It took hours to crawl our way back through the catacombs. Maybe longer. Time didn't move right down there—it stretched and snarled and looped back on itself. Every few minutes, I thought Ardere stopped breathing, only to feel the faintest rasp of air against my neck. Riven stopped talking. Lysander kept quiet too, except when he had to pause and shift his grip.
When we finally saw the first crack of daylight bleeding through the stone above us, it didn't feel like a victory.
It felt like stepping into something we couldn't take back.
We emerged through the old entrance near the eastern ridge, behind the hill where the Grove used to hide itself from everything that wanted it dead. The moment my boots touched dry earth, it felt like the air got ripped from my lungs.
Not because it was clean. But because it wasn't.
Smoke still clung to the trees.
The scent hit first—ash, burned wood, and something worse underneath. Something that used to be people.
Lysander cursed under his breath.
I stepped over the last ridge of broken stone, dragging Ardere up with me, and stopped dead.
The Grove was gone.
Where the main cluster of buildings had stood, there was now only a skeleton of blackened support beams and stone walls licked with soot. The canopy had burned, and the forest around it still smoldered in places, thick with charred branches and collapsed walkways. Smoke clung to everything like a second skin. The sanctuary dome had collapsed inward, the glass shattered and the vines that once bloomed across it burned to stubs.
No movement.
No voices.
Just the wind, and the settling groan of something broken.
I couldn't breathe.
Riven moved past me, slower now, one hand pressed to his ribs. When he reached the edge of the ridge, he stopped. His eyes went flat, like they always did when he was trying not to react.
"Well," he rasped. "Guess I was wrong."
I couldn't speak.
"They… they couldn't've all been here when it happened," Lysander said, his voice cracking for the first time. "Some of them must've gotten out. Some had to—"
"There's blood," Riven said, pointing down the incline. "There. And there. Trails. Drag marks."
I looked away. My arms tightened instinctively around Ardere's body.
She didn't react.
A lump burned in my throat, but I forced the words out. "Whoever didn't escape…"
"They were either taken," Riven said, his voice cold, "or they're ash."
Lysander turned in a slow circle, his hands curling into fists. His eyes were wild now. "Where the hell were the lookouts? The alarms? There were wards, I saw them myself—how the fuck did they get in?"
"Same way they always do," Riven muttered. "They sent someone ahead. Someone who knew how to break the line. Someone we trusted."
I didn't ask who.
Didn't need to.
None of us said anything for a long time. The Grove had always been more than a location. It was a promise. A sanctuary built out of fear and rebellion and stubborn, reckless hope.
And now it was just a graveyard.
"We can't stay here," I said finally. My voice didn't sound like mine. "Not for long."
"No," Riven said. "But there might be survivors. Or stashes left behind. We need supplies. Shelter. Weapons."
I nodded, but my eyes were still locked on the wreckage.
Ardere shifted slightly in my arms, a tiny movement—but enough to remind me she was still alive. Still burning up. Still bleeding under the dirt.
The Grove was gone.
But she wasn't.
Lysanders jaw clenched. His gaze dropped to his sister, to the way her fingers had curled again into my shirt like some piece of her still knew she was being held.
His voice, when it came, was hoarse and raw. "Get her somewhere safe."
The old infirmary had been built into the roots of the north side, tucked under the thickest trees for shade. I didn't expect much. If anything had survived, it'd be a miracle—and we'd used up most of those already.
"Get her inside," Lysander said, eyes scanning the blackened treetops. "I'm going to scout the rest of the Grove. Check for survivors. Or stragglers."
Riven raised a brow. "You think anyone made it?"
Lysander didn't answer right away. Just adjusted the strap on his shoulder and muttered, "Won't know 'til I look."
He disappeared into the trees before either of us could say more.
I carried Ardere down the scorched path, cradling her against me. Her skin burned with fever, her breaths shallow and uneven. She shifted once, half-conscious, a grimace flickering across her face. I wasn't sure if she even knew where she was anymore.
The infirmary door hung off one hinge, corners blackened but still intact. Riven kicked it open the rest of the way, pausing to scan the dark interior with a blade drawn.
"No bodies," he muttered. "No fresh ones, anyway."
I stepped inside behind him, ducking beneath a half-collapsed beam. The air stank—old antiseptic, smoke, something sour underneath it all. Cabinets were torn open. Glass littered the floor. It had been looted already. Maybe twice.
Riven moved fast, quiet as always, rifling through half-crushed drawers. "Someone picked through here, but they weren't thorough. Left the junk."
I laid Ardere down on what was left of a cot—just the metal frame and half a mattress, scorched at the edges. Her wound was worse now, angry red and oozing heat. I peeled back the cloth and tried not to curse.
"Here." Riven tossed me a half-used bottle of antiseptic and some gauze. "And this." He held up a cracked syringe with an unmarked vial, half-full.
"You trust that?" I asked.
"Nope. But it's that or let her rot."
I didn't argue. I cleaned the wound. Wrapped it tight. Gave her the last of my canteen. Her breathing hitched at the antiseptic. Still responsive—barely—but she was hanging on.
Riven lingered by the door, arms crossed, blade still in hand. "He's taking too long."
"Give him a minute."
"I don't like this place. It's too quiet."
He wasn't wrong.
I shifted beside Ardere, brushing soot from her hair. "If there were survivors, they'd be here. Or at least bodies."
"She could've died out there too," Riven said, his voice low. "If we'd waited. If we'd gone after them instead of turning back."
"I know."
And I did. I knew the cost of that choice. I just wasn't sure if we'd paid it in full yet.
Riven stilled suddenly. "There," he said.
I looked up.
Through the broken window, past the trees, we saw movement—something quick and sharp. Lysander, dropping low behind a broken wall, a blade in hand. A soldier was patrolling the ruins near the outer ring of what used to be the kitchens.
We watched as Lysander ghosted behind him, fast and brutal. A silent takedown. No wasted motion. Just one sharp, clean strike—and the guard collapsed without a sound.
Riven let out a low whistle. "Guess someone stuck around."
Lysander stood over the body a moment longer, then looked toward the trees—and vanished again.
We didn't see him for another fifteen minutes.
When he finally returned, it was alone. No survivors. Just blood drying on his forearm and a blank look in his eyes.
I didn't ask. I didn't need to.
"There's no one left," he said. "And we're not alone out here. Saw bootprints near the northern ridge. Campfire's still warm."
"Reinforcements?" I asked.
"Or cleanup crew. Either way, we need to move before they sweep back through."
I looked down at Ardere. Her pulse fluttered beneath my fingers like a trapped bird. She wouldn't make it another run.
Riven straightened. "Then we make this place work. Just for a while."
Lysander didn't argue. He just turned toward the door and said, "I'll take first watch."
***
Ardere stirred sometime near dawn, the faintest tremble in her hand the first sign she was still fighting.
I was slouched in a chair next to the cot we'd laid her on, too exhausted to sleep, too wired to sit still. Riven was passed out on the ground across the room, surrounded by pilfered IV bags and half-used medical supplies. We hadn't found much, but it was just enough. Enough to stop the worst of the damage. Enough to hope.
She blinked, lids twitching, lashes caked with soot.
"Hey," I said, my voice raw. "You're back."
Her brow creased like she was trying to remember how to exist. "Dorian?"
I leaned forward. "Yeah. I'm here."
She tried to sit up too fast—typical—and winced so hard it felt like my chest got sliced open. I was already at her side, hand hovering above her shoulder but not quite touching.
"Careful. You're still torn up."
Her eyes locked on mine, cloudy with pain and fever but clearing by the second. "I thought I dreamed you."
I swallowed. "No. I'm real. I'm here."
She looked at me like I was both a miracle and a curse.
"I woke up," she said softly, "in that wreckage. Alone."
My chest ached. I knew where this was going.
"I couldn't move. I couldn't even breathe. And you were gone." Her voice cracked like a bone splitting. "You were just… gone."
"I didn't want to leave—"
"But you did." Her voice was sharper now, not angry, just breaking apart. "I waited for you to come back. Every sound, every creak in the dark—I thought it was you. And when it wasn't, I thought maybe you'd already decided it wasn't worth it. That I wasn't worth it."
"Ardere—"
"I was so scared." She didn't let me speak, like she had to force it all out before the words dissolved. "Not of dying. Not really. Just… that if I did, I'd go out thinking you didn't come back for me."
I felt like I couldn't breathe either.
"I wanted to go back," I said, too fast, too broken. "I fought Marvos on it.. She made me choose between staying alive… or risking both of us dying."
Her eyes shimmered, fury and grief tangled in one impossible knot.
"I never stopped trying," I said.
Her expression cracked completely. "Then why did it feel like I was waiting forever?"
I didn't have an answer for that. Just guilt. Just the sick feeling that maybe she had been waiting forever, down in those broken catacombs, while I was somewhere safe. Eating. Sleeping. Breathing.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered, sitting beside her on the cot. "You didn't deserve that. None of this."
"I didn't need a rescue," she muttered. "I just needed you."
I reached for her hand. She let me take it.
That silence stretched between us again, heavier this time. Quieter. And in the dim glow of a battery-powered lamp, I watched her finally let herself breathe, like my presence was the only thing holding the fear at bay.
Then the door creaked open.
Lysander stepped inside, coat dusted with ash and his jaw grim as always. He looked between us—didn't say a word about what he'd just interrupted.
"You find anyone?" I asked him, still not letting go of her hand.
"No survivors," he said, voice clipped. "But I caught a guard trying to circle back. Took him out before he made a sound."
Riven stirred, groaning from the floor. "They doubling back already?"
"Maybe. Maybe just stragglers. Either way—" Lysander's gaze fixed on Ardere, then shifted to me "—we might need to move again. Tonight."
"You've got to be kidding," I said.
"She's not stable—" Riven argued.
"I know. But we won't survive another hit, not like this," Lysander said. "So I'm going to scout the edges. Figure out where we can go. Buy us some time."
Ardere had closed her eyes again, but her fingers tightened in mine.
She heard every word. And she knew what it meant.
So did I.
Outside, a rifle cracked.
We all froze.
"Time's up," Lysander said.
Another crack, closer this time.
Adrenaline hit like a lightning strike.
Ardere flinched beneath me.
"She's not walking anywhere," Riven said, already unslinging his weapon.
"Then I'll carry her."
"Dorian—" Lysander started.
"I'm carrying her," I snapped, already hooking one arm beneath her shoulders, the other under her knees. Her body felt fragile as hell in my arms—bones and bruises and all the things they'd done to her while I wasn't there.
She gasped a little, pain catching in her throat, but she didn't argue.
I turned to the others. "Cover us."
We burst out of the building just as a second shot rang out—too damn close. Splinters of wood exploded off the doorframe behind us. Riven shouted something, returning fire without hesitation.
I ran.
The world narrowed to her heartbeat against mine, the weight of her in my arms. I kept my head down, legs pumping harder than they had any right to after everything we'd already been through.
Another shot. Sharp. Burning.
Something hit me—side of my ribs. It felt like getting punched by something white-hot. My foot caught uneven ground and I stumbled, almost went down.
But I didn't let go.
Riven and Lysander moved around us like a shield, driving us deeper into the trees. I didn't know how long I could keep it up. My vision was starting to tilt. The edges blurred. But I wasn't stopping. Not until I got her somewhere safe.
****
We made it to the observatory just as the last traces of daylight bled out of the sky, leaving nothing but shadows and the faint, grim glow of the fading twilight. The place looked just as abandoned as the last time we'd seen it—overgrown, windows broken, and the weathered stone walls bearing the marks of time and neglect. But it was shelter. It was something to cling to when everything else had already slipped through our fingers.
I didn't even notice the pain in my side at first. Not until I felt it, burning sharp with each step, as if it had been waiting for me to stop running before it reminded me of its existence.
I paused just inside the doorframe, bracing myself against the jagged wall. The rest of the team had already moved inside, Riven carefully easing Ardere onto one of the old couches in the corner, her unconscious body barely stirring as she was laid down.
Lysander was checking the perimeter, his eyes scanning the woods like a hawk on high alert. "This place is still as dead as I remember. No sign of pursuit yet."
I barely heard him.
The warmth of the observatory made me dizzy. The blood soaking through my shirt, mixing with the adrenaline that had been coursing through me for hours, was starting to make my limbs feel like lead. I leaned against the cold stone, forcing my breath to steady.
It wasn't a bullet wound, not exactly. But it didn't matter. The bullet had torn through muscle and skin, leaving a gaping wound that would likely be an infection waiting to happen without the proper care. But for now, I had no time to care. Ardere needed me, and that was all that mattered.
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe through the pain. It had been worse than I expected—worse than I had let on. But I wasn't about to admit it to anyone. Not now. Not with her still fighting for air, her body trembling beneath the blankets Riven had draped over her.
I wiped my hand against my face, leaving a streak of blood, and finally pushed off the wall, dragging myself into the main room.
"Dorian," Lysander's voice was low, controlled, but I could hear the warning in it. He looked me over, his sharp eyes catching the blood seeping through my shirt. "What the hell happened?"
"Nothing," I said, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "Just a little nick. I'm fine."
Riven glanced over, shaking his head, and then turned his attention back to Ardere, checking her vitals with quick, practiced hands. "If by 'nick' you mean 'bullet wound,' then sure, you're fine."
"I said I'm fine," I repeated, my voice rougher now.
Lysander didn't buy it. He crossed the room in three long strides, standing in front of me like a wall. "You're bleeding out, Dorian. Don't play games."
"I'll live," I said, more forcefully this time, though my chest tightened as the room spun again.
Lysander wasn't backing down. "You don't get to play hero here. You're already carrying her, you're already running on fumes—so don't pretend you're fine. We can't afford for you to go down now too."
I clenched my jaw, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest, the way my body kept threatening to betray me. "Just… keep an eye on her. She's the one who needs help."
"Yeah, I get that," Lysander shot back, frustration lacing his words. "But if you go down, we lose both of you. And I'm not fucking dealing with that."
I was about to argue when I heard the soft rustling from the corner. I turned to find Ardere's hand twitching beneath the blanket.
Lysander immediately moved to her side, crouching low. "She's waking up."
I was at her side before anyone else could move, my hand brushing the hair away from her face again. "Ardere?"
She blinked slowly, her eyes unfocused, trying to make sense of the world around her. Her lips parted. "Dorian…?"
"I'm here," I whispered, pressing my forehead to hers for a brief moment, letting the connection ground me. "I'm not going anywhere."
Her eyes fluttered, and then her gaze flicked to Lysander, to Riven, and then back to me. "You're bleeding," she said quietly, hoarse. Her hand reached for my side but stopped short, as if the effort exhausted her before it even started.
"I'm fine," I lied again, pushing her hand gently away before she could touch the wound. "Don't worry about me."
But she wasn't buying it. Not for a second. Her eyes narrowed, frustration building behind her exhaustion. "Dorian…"
"You need to rest," I urged, my voice softer now. "You've been through hell."
"You have too," she replied, her voice sharp despite her exhaustion. "You think I can't see it?"
I didn't know how to respond to that. So I didn't.
"Dorian," Lysander said, his voice interrupting the moment, "we need to figure out our next move. We can't stay here long."
The weight of those words hung in the air like a storm cloud.
I glanced at Lysander, his face serious. "What do you mean?"
"We're out of options. We need to move again. The woods aren't safe, and I doubt anyone missed the smoke from the Grove. Sooner or later, they'll come for us here, too." Lysander's words were harsh, but they were grounded in the truth. We couldn't afford to get comfortable. Not now. Not when everything was still so unstable.
I swallowed hard. "Where are we supposed to go?"
"I don't know," Lysander replied. "But staying here isn't an option."
I turned my focus back to Ardere, her breathing shallow, her gaze softening as she drifted back into unconsciousness.
Riven presses a rag between his teeth and tells me not to scream.
"I won't scream," I mutter through clenched jaws. "I'll just vomit on your boots."
"Not these ones," he replies, wincing in sympathy as he peels back the soaked bandage on my side. "They're the only ones that don't have someone's blood on them already. Well—had."
I grit my teeth as the alcohol bites through me, lighting every raw nerve like a fuse. My head thuds against the observatory wall behind me. The smell of rust, smoke, and rot clings to everything. Lysander is just a few feet away, bent over Ardere's still, too-still form, injecting a mix of antibiotics, antipyretics, and IV fluids into the last usable line he could find.
"She's going to wake up, right?" I ask. I don't mean to say it out loud. But it slips.
"She'd better," Lysander says without looking at me, "because this is everything we've got."
I swallow the lump that's been threatening to choke me all day. She's lying there like a shadow of herself, face pale and slack, fever still flickering under her skin. Her chest barely moves.
I should've been there.
"Just breathe through the pain," Riven says, voice almost gentle as he threads a needle through my skin. "Think about her yelling at you. That should be grounding."
I huff a laugh, only it doesn't come out as a laugh—it comes out as a shudder. I look down at my side. It's a mess of torn flesh, angry red and swollen. Riven's stitching is fast, clinical, and only a little cruel.
"She's going to be furious when she wakes up," he continues conversationally. "You think she was pissed when Tallis told her we scrambled her feelings like eggs and served you up like a breakfast crush? You think she was mad about leaving Araxie and Ms. Marvos behind?"
"Riven." My voice comes out as a growl. "Not now."
He shrugs. "You want quiet, go sit with Lysander. I'm the friend who gives you the truth when you need it most. She's going to wake up, she's going to remember what we did—and then she's going to realize what we left behind."
"I didn't want to leave her!" I snap, louder than I mean to. The words burn. "I didn't want any of this. Ms. Marvos made me go.. And I failed that too."
Silence.
Just the soft drip of the IV. The sound of wind brushing through the shattered windowpanes. The hiss of a match as Lysander lights a portable heater to keep Ardere from seizing again.
"You didn't fail," Riven says, and for once his voice doesn't carry a smirk. "You came back."
"She didn't know that," I murmur, eyes fixed on her. "She woke up in the dark, alone. Probably thought I was dead or that I left her. And I did. I left her."
Riven doesn't argue.
Because he can't.
Because I'm right.
Lysander moves toward us, hands still coated in iodine and gauze wrappers. His eyes flick to me, then to the bloodstained floor where I'm sitting.
"She'll pull through," he says quietly. "But we've got maybe twelve hours, tops, before her fever spikes again. Less if she's septic."
I close my eyes.
Lysander doesn't ask.
He just rolls up his sleeve, tightens a length of rubber tubing around his arm, and says, "Start boiling water. I'll need clean tubing, saline if we've got it, and at least one of you to stop hovering like a nervous pigeon and hand me the siphon."
We don't argue. Not even Riven.
It takes a minute to set up the gravity-fed transfusion. It's crude, desperate—but Lysander's blood is the only thing in this room with enough synthetic immunity built in to maybe, maybe give Ardere a shot at surviving the night.
I hover anyway.
Her skin's too pale, lips starting to crack with dehydration, cheeks red with a fever that doesn't seem to break. She doesn't even flinch when Lysander sticks the line into her arm.
I try to pretend her hand isn't going cold in mine.
"Alright," Lysander says, voice tight, like he's keeping it from shaking. "This'll either help stabilize her, or it won't. But if it does, we've bought her another day. Maybe two. Enough to get her to real help."
I exhale. Then look toward the cracked observatory doors, where the light's starting to slip in soft, orange and bleeding across the floor.
We're going to have to move her.
"How far to the truck?" I ask, rubbing at my temple like the number might be buried in there.
"Three days," Riven replies, already pulling a half-crumpled map from his pack and spreading it across the closest dry patch of floor. "If we go the way we came, with breaks. No breaks if we want to make it in two."
"She's not going to survive two days of hiking," Lysander says flatly, not looking up.
"She's not going to survive not hiking if we stay here and wait for her fever to finish the job," Riven counters.
"Wait," I say, leaning closer over the map, "what if we don't take the old trail? There's a cut through here—" I tap a narrow ravine, a white crease on the map like a scar. "It's tighter, but it drops us right near the forest edge. If we carry her, we can make it in a day and a half."
Riven raises an eyebrow. "You mean if you carry her. Because I'm not hauling her through riverbeds and thornbrush with a dislocated shoulder."
"You shouldn't carry her at all," Lysander says. "Not until the transfusion takes. If it takes."
"Then we wait till morning," I say. "Give her a few more hours. We pack light, strip what we don't need, and go as soon as she's stable."
"She won't be stable," Lysander says. "She'll be alive. Maybe. That's not the same thing."
It's the first time I hear the edge in his voice crack. Just a little.
"I know," I whisper.
None of us say what we're all thinking. That if Ardere wakes up and finds out what we've done—what we didn't do—she might not come with us at all. Not willingly.
But that's a battle we can't afford to think about yet. We need her alive before she can be angry.
Riven folds the map again, slow and careful. "So. We make a sled. Something that won't snap in the first half-mile."
"I'll strip the frames from the cots," I say.
"I'll see what supplies we can ditch," Riven says, then adds with a glance at Ardere's barely rising chest, "She'd better wake up. Because I swear to god, if we went through all this and she dies before she can be furious at me, I'm going to be pissed."
I try to laugh. It catches in my throat.
And as we move around the room, gathering rope and splintered wood, melting snow for water and loading up what little we can carry, I keep looking over at her.
—
The scream rips through the observatory like a knife through glass.
Not a scream of pain. Not fear.
Fury.
I'm on my feet before I know it, pushing through the hallway, heart hammering against my ribs like it wants out. When I reach the infirmary, I nearly trip over the overturned chair.
Lysander's backed halfway into a cabinet, arms up, face bruised. Ardere's on her feet—barely—swaying under her own weight, her IV stand dragging behind her like she doesn't even feel it. Her eyes blaze. Her hands shake, but not with weakness. With rage.
"You left them!" she snarls, and the venom in her voice is something I've never heard from her before. "You left Araxie—you left Ms. Marvos—you left them to die!"
Lysander doesn't flinch. "We didn't have a choice—"
"Don't give me that!" Ardere screams. "You always have a choice! And you chose me."
Lysander's jaw tenses. "You're my sister—"
"And they were my family too!"
Her voice cracks mid-sentence, but her eyes don't waver. There's no tears yet. Just fire. I think she's going to hit him—but she doesn't. She stumbles, braces against the wall like it's the only thing holding her up.
Then she turns—and sees me.
And suddenly, the fury directed at Lysander is nothing but a warm-up act.
"You," she says, voice low and shaking with more than just fury now. "You."
I can barely breathe. "Ardere—"
"You let them in my head," she seethes. "You let Riven mess with my mind. You let him plant that—" She chokes on the words. "That crush—that obsession with you—like I'm some pathetic puppet for you to wind up and play house with!"
I take a step forward. "That wasn't—"
"Don't you dare," she snaps. "Don't you dare try to justify it."
Riven—ever the ill-timed jester—leans against the doorway, arms crossed. "Hey, to be fair, it was a light nudge. And look how well it worked out. You were practically married—"
Ardere moves so fast I barely see it. One moment she's swaying on her feet, the next she drives her fist straight into Riven's face. There's a sickening crunch and a bark of pain as Riven stumbles back, nose bleeding.
"Still worth it," he mutters, pinching it to stop the bleeding.
"Shut the hell up!" Ardere shouts.
I'm frozen. I should stop this. I want to stop this.
But maybe I deserve every second of it.
"I trusted you," she whispers, and it hurts more than any scream. "I woke up after the Grove burned with nothing but a crushed chest, infected wounds, and you gone. I thought you were dead. I thought you'd left me. I thought—" Her voice breaks. "I thought none of it was real."
"It was real," I say, stepping closer despite the warning in her eyes. "Ardere, I swear to you, even if it started out—wrong, it became real. Everything I felt for you—it is real. What Riven did—what I let happen—there's no excuse for that. But I never lied about how I feel."
"Doesn't matter," she mutters. "Because you let it happen. You stood there and let him overwrite me. And then you left."
I don't try to defend it again. What could I possibly say? That I was trying to keep her safe? That Marvos told me to leave? That I didn't fight hard enough?
All of it feels hollow now.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I'm so—"
"No," she says. "Not yet. But you will be."
Then her legs give out and she crumples forward. I rush forward, catching her before she hits the ground. She fights me at first, fists weakly pushing against my chest, but she's too exhausted. Her head drops against my shoulder, shaking with silent, angry sobs.
Behind me, Lysander approaches quietly.
"She's burning through the meds fast," he says low. "She shouldn't even be standing."
"She's running on hate," Riven mutters, wiping blood from his upper lip. "And to be fair, we earned it."
I hold Ardere tighter, lowering her gently back onto the cot, brushing her damp hair away from her face.
"I'm here now," I whisper, even if she's not listening anymore. "I'm not leaving again."
She's drenched in sweat, hair matted to her forehead, eyes glazed and wild—but they still lock on me like crosshairs. I can hear the fever in her voice, the rasp, the delirium. But that rage? That's crystal clear.
"Get out," she snaps, her voice cracking. "I don't want you near me."
"Ardere—"
"Don't you dare say my name."
She tries to sit up, teeth gritted like sheer will alone can anchor her to this plane, even as her body sways from the fever. Lysander moves like he might try to help, but she throws out a shaky hand to stop him.
"No. He wants to talk? Then he can look me in the eye while I melt from the inside out."
I swallow hard. There's a tremor in my chest I can't settle. "You need to rest—"
"No, what I needed was you—back at The Grove. I woke up alone, and I thought I'd been captured. Or worse. I screamed until my throat bled. I waited and waited until I stopped being scared and just started hating you."
My throat closes up.
Lysander tries again. "He didn't have a choice—"
"I don't care." Her voice fractures. "I don't care if Marvos made the call or if the sky fell out of the fucking clouds—he left me. And he let Riven—that smug, self-satisfied parasite—tamper with my head."
"Ardere, please," I try again, stepping forward.
She throws a vial from the nightstand. It shatters at my feet. "How long was it in my head, huh? How long was that crush fake? Did you laugh about it when I wasn't around? Did you two high-five?"
"God, no," I whisper, stunned by the venom.
"I don't even know what I feel anymore," she growls, voice fraying, her body trembling now. "You rewired me—and for what? So I'd trust you? Obey you? So your little rebellion project would run smoother?"
"It wasn't like that—" My voice cracks. "I never wanted to use you. I just... I didn't know how else to keep you with us. I thought I was helping."
She laughs, sharp and broken, then coughs hard into her sleeve. "Helping? You turned me into something I didn't recognize—and you think that's love? Or loyalty?"
"I'm sorry," I say, because I have nothing else. "I am so fucking sorry."
"Not good enough," she hisses, her voice weakening. "You don't get to play the tragic hero after this."
Riven mutters something about needing air and disappears before she can throw another punch.
Her breathing is ragged, lips cracked, but the hate still burns behind her eyes as they flick up to me. She should be unconscious. She wants to be unconscious. But her hatred keeps dragging her back.
"You think I'm mad because you left me?" she croaks. "That was just the spark, Dorian. That's not even the bonfire."
She fights to stay upright, her hand gripping the edge of the cot hard enough to turn her knuckles white. Lysander tries to calm her, but she jerks away.
"No," she whispers hoarsely, eyes locked on mine. "He's going to hear this."
I take a hesitant step forward. "Ardere, you're burning up. You don't have to—"
"You don't get to decide what I have to do. Not anymore."
Her voice shakes, but not from weakness. From the sheer weight of what she's holding back.
"That crush Riven planted?" she says. "It wasn't just some harmless push to make me like you, Dorian. It was... warping. It made me love you."
The word hits like a gut punch. I feel the breath leave my lungs.
"You don't get it, do you?" she continues, voice going sharp even through her fever haze. "I wasn't just into you. I worshipped you. Every time you looked at me, my heart raced like I was dying. I would've followed you anywhere, even when I knew I shouldn't."
She swallows hard, blinking through tears that won't fall. "I sat up at night trying to memorize your laugh. I knew every scar on your hand, every twitch in your jaw when you were stressed. I wanted to be good enough for you, even when I hated myself."
I try to step closer again, but she flinches like I'm made of fire.
"And the worst part?" she says, her voice a low, shaking thing. "I thought it was real. I thought I'd finally found someone I could trust with the softest parts of me. Someone I could let in without needing to barricade every damn door inside my head."
"Ardere," I whisper, choking.
"But it wasn't real," she spits. "It was a mind trick. A push. A manipulation. You didn't even ask me if I wanted that. You let Riven screw with my heart, and you didn't say a word."
I can't look at her. I can't breathe. My shame feels like it's strangling me.
She leans forward, her body trembling with the effort. "So hear me now, and hear me clearly, Dorian: whatever that twisted little version of love I had for you was? Whatever you saw in my eyes when I looked at you like you hung the fucking moon?"
Her voice drops to a whisper so raw it peels something inside me open.
"You'll never see that look again."
*****
The others are packing. I can hear the shuffle of boots through the underbrush, the zippers tugged closed, the way someone coughs like they're trying not to cry. The air is cold, but it's not the kind that bites—it just sinks in. Heavy and dull.
I haven't touched my bag. I haven't even laced my boots. What would be the point?
I keep staring at the trees like they'll shift and give me an answer. They don't. Just stand there, tall and indifferent. I envy them a little.
I hear Riven before I see him—his footsteps aren't quiet, they never are—but I don't bother looking up.
"You planning to grow roots here or something?" he says, stepping into view. "Because I'm not carrying your ass through the woods. You've got ten minutes, tops."
I don't answer.
Riven clicks his tongue and crosses his arms. "Dorian."
"I'm not coming."
The silence that follows is brief but pointed. I can feel him processing it, can practically hear the sarcasm building behind his teeth.
"Oh, come on," he says. "Don't start this brooding bullshit. We have three days of terrain and a walking corpse of a girl who thinks she's invincible. Don't add 'melodramatic forest ghost' to our checklist."
"I'm serious."
"Yeah, I get that, but unfortunately, so is dysentery. Doesn't mean we let it win."
I finally look at him. "She doesn't want me there."
He rolls his eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't fall out. "She also doesn't want water, rest, or antibiotics, but we're giving her those anyway."
"I'm not the same as antibiotics."
"You're right," Riven says dryly. "They're helpful."
I almost laugh. Almost.
But it dies in my chest. "She told me I'd never see it again. The way she looked at me. Like she loved me so much it hurt. Like it meant something. She said that's gone now."
Riven goes still for half a beat.
And it's not the kind of still that means he has nothing to say. It's the kind that means he's trying not to say the wrong thing.
"She meant it," I add quietly. "Every word. And if being near me makes her hate herself—or remember any of what we did—then I'm not coming."
He steps closer, and I can see the restraint behind his eyes. Riven, holding back? That's new.
"Dorian," he says, softer this time, "you think staying behind is some kind of noble gesture? You think it's going to heal her? No. It's going to haunt her."
"I'm not doing it for her," I lie.
"You are. You always are."
I run a hand through my hair, jaw tight. "I put the crush in her head, Riven. I made her fall for me. And then I let it happen. I let myself believe it was real even when I knew better. That's not just manipulation. That's cruelty."
"She still chose to care about you."
"Because I let her think it was hers to choose."
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. I don't think he has a comeback for that.
"I ruined her," I say, and my voice cracks just a little. "And then she got to watch me stand there like it wasn't my fault."
Riven stares at me for a long moment. No smirk, no bite. Just... tired eyes.
"I don't think she wants you gone," he finally says. "But I think you're scared of what it means if she doesn't."
I don't answer. Because he's not wrong. And I don't have the strength to lie again.
He sighs and steps back. "We leave in ten."
I nod, but I don't move. I don't plan to.
Not this time.
The others are still arguing about maps and routes and how to stop Ardere from walking herself into an early grave. I can hear Riven's voice carrying from the other side of the observatory walls—something about rations and how no one listens to him, not that he's wrong. He's never wrong. That's what makes him unbearable.
I wait until their voices shift further away, muffled under the grind of gear and the tension of people too exhausted to fight properly. Then I slip through the back hall, through the cold metal corridor lined with broken instrumentation, past a long-dead telescope and shelves of notebooks warped by time and moisture.
The door creaks louder than I want it to. I wince and pause—half-expecting someone to come storming after me.
No one does.
The forest is blue and gray, morning sun strangled by clouds. I shoulder my bag—it's light. Too light. I didn't pack like someone with a plan. Just a bottle of water, two protein bars, my coat, and the knife I never leave behind.
I start walking east. Not the direction the others will go.
They'll head down the main ridge, past the old fire trail, into wilderness. I head toward the lower hills. Toward the road that, if I keep moving, will snake out to the Roos and lead—eventually—to some gas station town where no one knows my name.
Where I can be useless without it hurting anyone.
The trees crowd close, but the trail is faintly visible. Old boot prints from months ago, maybe years. Maybe mine.
Each step feels too quiet, too intentional, like the forest is holding its breath.
I don't look back. I don't check if anyone followed. I just keep walking.
Because if I do turn around, and she's there—half-alive, fire in her eyes, asking me why—I might not be able to leave again.
And I need to.
I need to.
Because the way she looked at me last night—like I was the thing she had to survive—it'll gut me forever.
And I deserve that.
I keep walking.
The path thins and buckles beneath my boots, dissolving into deer trails and overgrown roots. Branches claw at my jacket. My legs burn. My breath fogs faint in the damp air.
I check the sun's position—high now. I must've been walking for hours. But I've seen no signs of a road. No sound of cars in the distance. No flickers of telephone wires or fence lines.
Just trees. Trees and silence.
Too much silence.
I pause. Kneel down by a patch of flattened moss. Not animal tracks. Boot prints. Deep, crisp edges. Heavy soles. Military.
I don't breathe. I listen.
A twig snaps behind me.
I spin—nothing.
Then—
"Drop the bag."
The voice isn't loud. But it's close. Closer than it should be.
I turn slowly, and a figure steps out from behind a tree, rifle leveled and visor reflecting my own face back at me. A second soldier emerges from the other side. Then a third, behind me.
I'm surrounded.
No gun. No powers. Just me and a three-inch knife.
"Don't run," the lead one says. "We've been looking for you."
They don't look like scavengers. These aren't rogue militia. These are coordinated. Official.
Government issue.
I raise my hands, heart pounding. "I'm not who you think I am."
"Oh," the lead says, "we know exactly who you are."
Something sharp jams into the back of my thigh—too fast to dodge. I fall forward, vision white-hot with pain, as the sedative floods in.
Before I black out, I hear them talking.
"Bag him."
"Bring him in alive."
"And make sure she doesn't find him."