I don't know whether to cry or vomit. I do neither. I just sit there, hollowed out.
The silence stretches between us. Ron doesn't seem inclined to fill it. He's said his piece, laid bare the horror that shaped his life with the detachment of someone reciting historical facts. But he's fifteen.
When I was fifteen, I'd been dreaming about kissing Rafe for the first time. Silly adolescent dreams. Normal fifteen-year-old problems.
"How do you even know these things?" It comes out somewhere between accusation and plea. Because no child should know these things. No fifteen-year-old should talk about breeding programs and energy-to-lifespan ratios with such clinical distance.
Ron scoffs. "You don't get to stay a kid when you're born like this."
As if childhood is a privilege we can revoke. An expiration date stamped on innocence.
Caine shifts beside me, the tension in his body palpable. His face is carefully composed, but I can see the storm raging, can feel it in the air crackling around him. Something inside me surges and twists, trying to reach out to him, but failing and falling short.
When he speaks, his voice is low and controlled. Calm, as if we hadn't listened to the horrors of a child too grown for his years. "It's late. Go get some sleep."
Ron hesitates, then nods, pushing himself to his feet. He turns and heads toward the alcove, but pauses at the entrance. "Owen's good people," he says quietly. "If you're wondering."
Knowing their past, it would be insanity to think otherwise.
He must be an angel, to sacrifice himself for these kids. To try and try again, despite so many failures.
My eyes burn.
Caine waits until Ron is out of earshot before he turns to me. Even in the dim light, I can see the weight of knowledge pressing down on him.
"Grace..." His voice is a whisper, his eyes too somber. He doesn't want the kids to hear. "The rescue mission. Jack-Eye updated me."
It's not good news.
If it was good news, he wouldn't have sent Ron away.
"What happened?"
I don't think I can take any more sadness today, but I straighten my back and take a deep breath, preparing for the emotional blow.
"They're all dead. Everyone in the cages. Everyone Lyre found. All of them. Even the kids."
The air leaves my lungs in a slow, painful exhale. "All of them? But—"
"How many?" The question's hard to choke out.
"Too many."
I close my eyes, trying to block out the images his words conjure. It doesn't work. I see small bodies in cages. I see blood. I see vacant eyes staring at nothing.
"If we had known sooner… if we had found out earlier—"
"Don't." Caine's voice is firm. "That path leads nowhere good."
I bite my lip. Lyre had forgotten about them. For how long? If she'd told us earlier, would we have been able to save them?
Is she okay, knowing they were alive before, and now they're not?
Is it okay to be angry with her for this?
Harsh lines of grief are etched into Caine's face. His hand rises, almost involuntarily, reaching toward me. For a moment,I think he's going to touch my hair, offer some physical comfort, and I yearn to lean into him. But then he flinches. His hand falls to his side, fingers curling into a fist.
Right. No touching.
