Even Kaia’s shadows sense something wrong. They’re just not sure what it is.
I’ve spent these four days watching, cataloging small inconsistencies that individually mean nothing but together paint a picture I don’t like. The way Kaia now echoes phrases Callum used the day before. How Finn nods along to suggestions that sound reasonable but feel wrong. The subtle way Callum undermines confidence in any decision that doesn’t align with his preferences, always with such perfect logic that arguing seems petty.
By evening, when we make camp in a sheltered valley, I’m certain of two things: Callum is not who he pretends to be, and whatever his real agenda is, it doesn’t align with ours.
The question is what to do about it.
As the others settle into their bedrolls and the fire burns down to embers, I volunteer for first watch. Let them think I’m being paranoid. Let them assume I’m seeing threats where none exist. I’d rather be wrong about Callum than right about what his presence might mean for all of us.
But as I sit with my back against a boulder, eyes scanning the darkness beyond our camp, I can’t stop glancing back at the sleeping forms of my companions. At Callum’s bedroll, positioned just close enough to the center of camp to seem protective while maintaining easy access to the perimeter.
At Patricia’s empty shadow, nowhere to be seen among the others clustered around Kaia.
I’m not sure who I’m watching anymore. Only that something is very, very wrong.
And after four days of watching it happen—little shifts, familiar phrases in unfamiliar mouths, trust given too easily—I’m the only one who seems to see it.
Chapter 40
Kaia
I need silence.
Not the comfortable quiet that comes with trusted company, but the kind of silence that doesn’t ask questions or offer solutions. The kind that lets you fall apart without witnesses.
Four days of Callum’s careful observations and helpful suggestions have left me feeling like I’m being studied under glass. Four days of watching Patricia’s formations deteriorate while pretending not to notice. Four days of Kieran’s distance and the growing certainty that I’m losing pieces of myself I can’t name.
The bonds in my chest hum with tension, a web pulled so taut it might snap if anyone breathes wrong. I need space. I need water. I need to remember what it feels like to be alone with my own thoughts.
The lake spreads before me like black glass, reflecting the last traces of sunset in shades of deep purple and gold. It’s perfect—isolated, quiet, mercifully empty. I wade in slowly, letting the cold water shock some clarity back into my system.
My shadows drift nearby, uncertain. They hover at the water’s edge like they’re afraid to follow, their usual protective instincts confused by my need for solitude. Even Mouse has remained at camp, sensing that this grief is something I need to carry alone.
I sink deeper, letting the water rise to my chest, my throat, until I’m floating in silence broken only by gentle lapping against the shore. For the first time in days, I can breathe without feeling like I’m performing for an invisible audience.
That’s when I hear footsteps behind me.
“Whoever you are,” I call without turning around, “I need a few more minutes.”
The footsteps don’t retreat. Don’t pause. They continue with deliberate, measured precision until they stop at the water’s edge.
I turn, expecting to see Torric’s concerned scowl or Finn’s worried grin.
Instead, I find Callum standing at the shoreline, his silver eyes taking in my exposed shoulders, the way the water clings to my skin, with an assessment that makes my stomach clench.
“You need to leave,” I say, my voice sharper than intended. “Now.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away. Just studies me with the same calculating attention he’s been giving everything else for the past four days.
“You thought hiding in water would protect you?” His voice carries an odd note of amusement, like I’ve done something predictably foolish.
“I’m not hiding.” But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. “I came here to be alone.”
“Did you?” He steps closer to the water’s edge, close enough that I can’t rise without putting myself within his reach. “Or did you come here because the bonds are starting to hurt?”
The question hits like ice water, stealing my breath. How could he possibly know about the ache that’s been building in my chest? The way the connections feel strained, wrong, like they’re pulling in directions that don’t make sense?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
