After we fled the capital, we set up camp just beyond the western gate, far enough that the city lights couldn’t reach us. The clearing was small, barely big enough for three tents and a fire. I sat alone beside the flames, watching them crackle and fade, replaying everything that had happened today.

  The guilt sat heavy. What had I done? I’d doomed us all because I couldn’t hold my temper. The moment he said her name, something in me broke. Maybe they were right. Maybe I was defective, unfit to stand where I do now.

  The thought settled in my chest like an anchor, dragging me beneath its weight. I should’ve listened to my brother. Should’ve stayed. Faced the consequences. Instead, I’d endangered the people I cared about most, all because I couldn’t stand by and watch any longer.

  In my head, stopping him was supposed to make things better. Maybe even make me feel better. But it didn’t. It marked us as heretics, sentencing us to a lifetime of flight from an enemy far greater than ourselves. Maybe this was how it had to be; that’s what I told myself, anyway. But all I had left was this fire and a silence too heavy to carry.

  A faint flicker caught at the edge of my vision, a stray thread, wavering and pale, brushing against the edge of my senses. It pulled me back to the present. When I looked up, a familiar presence stepped from the trees.

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  Lira moved carefully between the roots and leaves, her silhouette catching the firelight with every slow step. She didn’t say anything at first, just sat beside me. Her presence carried a quiet warmth, a comfort I couldn’t explain, the kind that dulled the ache for a moment. I didn’t know what to say. Not after what I’d put them through.

  Then I saw it, the small shift of her hand. She almost reached for me, but stopped halfway. Her fingers hovered in the space between us, then fell back to her lap.

  “You did what I was afraid to do,” she said softly. Her voice cracked, barely holding together. Then, quieter still: “Thank you.”

  Two simple words. I’d never heard her say them before, but somehow, they were enough. The weight in my chest eased, and a faint smile tugged at my lips.

  We sat there in silence. The fire dimmed, the night leaned in, and the wind whispered through the trees in a language I still didn’t understand. Threads wove softly through the dark; faint, distant, almost still. Eventually, the last ember went out, but for once, the cold didn’t follow.

  “We should sleep,” I murmured. “We don’t know what tomorrow brings.”

  She nodded and stood. We moved toward our tents with the quiet understanding of people who had nothing left to say.

  We’d lost the city, the certainty, maybe even our path forward. But not each other. Not yet.

  As I lay down, afraid of what I might see when I closed my eyes, I realized that for the first time in days, the silence didn’t hurt. I didn’t know what tomorrow would ask of me. But tonight, at least, I wasn’t alone.