They found shelter in the skeletal remains of an old theater, its velvet seats shredded, its stage warped by years of neglect. A weave storm howled outside, threads whipping like ghostly ribbons, rattling the broken windows.
Selene sat with their back against the cracked stage, their coat discarded, the gash in their ribs now crudely bandaged. Arielle knelt beside them, hands shaking as she tied the last strip of fabric.
"You're reckless," Arielle murmured, voice trembling from more than just the cold. "Taking on three Enforcers when you're half-dead."
Selene gave a faint, humorless smile. "You're worth reckless."
Arielle froze, her breath catching. The storm outside roared louder, as if echoing the sudden rush in her chest.
For a long moment, they just sat there, the only light the faint glow of Selene's needle resting beside them. The hum in Arielle's chest was softer now, steadier, syncing strangely with Selene's breathing.
She reached for their hand before she realized she was doing it. Selene's fingers closed around hers, firm but warm.
"Arielle," Selene said softly, their silver eyes catching the dim light. "If we survive this… you need to know something. The hum, the tether, Draven — none of it matters to me more than you."
Arielle's heart pounded. The storm outside cracked, a flash of light illuminating the hollow theater. She leaned forward, hesitating only a breath before their lips met — tentative at first, then deepening as the storm's howl faded to nothing but a dull, distant hum.
For the first time since the threads began fraying, Arielle felt anchored.
But the hum in her chest, though softened, whispered a single, chilling truth: Anchors break, too.