Especially not the bond that's still waiting for me at the edge of everything I can't forgive.
The incomplete connection throbs like a bruise I can't stop pressing, and I want to scream at it to just fuck off already.
Soon, I'll have to face it. Face him.
But not today. Today I can pretend I'm not completely screwed.
Even if deep down, I’m starting to wonder if the only choice I ever had was how fast to fall.
Chapter 44
Kieran
I leave before the others finish breaking camp.
Not because anyone asks me to scout ahead. Not because tactical protocol demands it. I leave because standing there, watching Kaia move through the morning routine with Malrik's quiet presence at her shoulder, makes something in my chest pull too tight to ignore.
She's settling. With them. Finding her balance in bonds that grew instead of being forced into place.
And she should.
But every time I see it—the easy way she leans into Aspen's steadying touch, the soft smile that curves her lips when Torric brings her tea without being asked, the comfortable silence she shares with Malrik—I wonder if she would've needed them so desperately if I hadn't broken her first.
The thought tracks me up the mountain, silent and patient. Like it knows I won't shake it this time.
My horse's hoofbeats ring against stone as I put distance between myself and the weight of watching her heal from damage I caused. The morningair carries the familiar wrongness of Absentia—corruption that tastes like metal and old death, thick enough to coat the back of my throat.
This is what I do. Look ahead so I don't have to look too close. Motion as habit. Silence as armor.
It's served me well for centuries.
It's killing me now.
The ridge comes into view an hour before dawn, a natural vantage point that overlooks the main pass through the mountains. I've used it before, back when these routes were mine to guard instead of navigate. Before everything changed. Before I learned that good intentions and ancient power make a poison that can destroy everything you're trying to protect.
I dismount, letting my horse graze while I settle into position among the rocks. The pass stretches below me like a scar through the corrupted landscape, winding between peaks that scrape the belly of gray clouds.
That's when I see them.
Six soldiers. Maybe eight. Moving in tight formation down the far slope, their pace measured and deliberate. Not the loose sprawl of a patrol or the urgency of messengers. Something else.
A cart rolls between them, wheels turning with mechanical precision over the rough ground. Two figures sit in the back, heads down, shoulders curved inward. The posture of defeat. Of resignation.
Prisoners.
I shift position, drawing a collapsing spyglass from my pack. The lens brings them into sharp focus—professional soldiers in unmarked leather, weapons worn but well-maintained. The kind of men who follow orders without asking questions, who transport cargo without caring what's inside.
The wind shifts, catching at loose fabric. One of the hooded figures sways slightly, and for just a moment, her hood slips back.
Violet hair catches the morning light like a banner.
The spyglass doesn't waver in my hands. My breathing doesn't change. Centuries of practice have taught me to observe without reacting, to catalog information before emotion can interfere with judgment.
But I note it. The unusual color. In a world where survival means silence, purple hair is either defiance—or bait.
I don't follow the thought. Not yet. It's not mine to name.
I just watch. Record. Prepare to report what I've seen without the weight of what it might mean pressing against my ribs.
