Her hand reached out, squeezing mine, grounding me for one last moment.
“Promise me you’ll stay in touch?”I asked, my voice quivering despite every effort to keep it composed.
Mary’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears, but she nodded.“Always.”
Her promise hung in the air, fragile and uncertain.It was a thread of hope we both clung to, even knowing the world could fray it beyond repair.Still, it was a comfort—a sliver of light in the gathering storm.
Turning away, I hugged Roman tighter, his tiny form a lifeline anchoring me against the waves of grief and fear rising within.The journey ahead was unknown, but I would walk it—for him.
Cradling Roman in the crook of my arm, I moved through the camp, each step heavy with memories.The crisp morning air filled my lungs but did little to ease the pressure in my chest—the unrelenting ache of everything I was leaving behind.
And still, there was one wound I could not bear to leave untended.
The rift between Dancing Fire and I had widened with each passing day, our once-strong bond scorched by harsh words, silent stares, and unspoken grief.I could no longer bear the distance—not now.
I found him where I always did—in the quiet dawn light, seated by his tent, grinding his tools with methodical strokes.The rhythmic sound was jarring against the uneven beat of my heart, a stark reminder of the man who had stood beside me through darkness and loss.
Swallowing the knot of hesitation, I stepped forward.
“Dancing Fire,” I began, my voice barely more than a whisper, “I came to apologize.I was cruel… during our argument.”
His hand stilled.Slowly, he looked up, eyes as deep and still as the night sky.His gaze held no anger, only sorrow.
“Elizabeth,” he said quietly, setting aside the blade and cloth.“I also owe you an apology.I should not have spoken to you that way.”
His sincerity bridged the chasm between us, and the tension that had lingered like a wound was now beginning to close.
I stepped closer, my free hand reaching out to him, uncertain but needing connection.He opened his arms without hesitation, and I stepped into them, holding Roman between us.Warmth.Forgiveness.The first I had felt in days.
“Thank you… for all you’ve done,” I murmured into the fabric of his shirt, breathing in the familiar scent of woodsmoke and earth.It grounded me, steadying me in a world that felt like it was unraveling.
His arms tightened around us—not possessive, but protective—a shelter against the storm, a silent acknowledgment of all we had endured.Whatever roads now lay ahead, we had weathered this storm together.
Dancing Fire gently took my hand, his calloused fingers intertwining with mine, rough and sure.His eyes met mine, open, earnest, unwavering.
“Please stay,” he said, voice low but resolute.“Marry me.I will protect you and Roman.”
The words struck me—soft in delivery but cutting all the same.His offer stirred something inside me—duty, honor, comfort—but another image rose, fierce and consuming—Amir.
His face.His touch.His absence.
I could not forget.
“I can’t,” I whispered, the words tearing from my throat like splinters.“My heart belongs to Amir.”
His name was a sacred incantation, etched in sorrow and devotion.It was pain and release—a vow I could not break.
Dancing Fire’s gaze didn’t falter, though grief pooled in his eyes.He nodded slowly, the weight of understanding settling over him like ash.
“The love of darkness is strong,” he said, his voice tinged with something ancient, mystical.“Potent.It will always pull you toward it.I hope it brings you peace.”
His eyes flicked to the worn tools at his side as if they could anchor him from his churning emotions.He hesitated, then drew in a deep breath.
“I can’t thank you enough… for all you’ve done,” he said, his voice cracking beneath the weight of unspoken gratitude.
Then, carefully, he reached for Roman, and I let him go for a moment.Dancing Fire cradled him in strong arms, the contrast of infant innocence against a warrior’s burden almost too much to bear.His gaze softened, reverent.
“One day we will meet again, little one,” he murmured, his voice low, prophetic—the kind of truth that clung to your soul, no matter how hard you tried to shake it off.
