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I turn to the old man. And this time, I do not fight.

There’s no use pretending or resisting.

I was never fighting them.

I was only ever fighting myself.

And I am too tired.

Too fucking exhausted.

Too empty to keep up the war Zephiran refuses to let go of.

So instead?—

I take my first step.

Not toward Zephiran.

Toward them.

Zephiran voice is not a command.

Not a growl.

Not a threat.

It is a plea.

"Naira."

I do not stop.

I do not turn because I have already chosen.

42

NAIRA

The area is silent now, the echoes of battle fading into the night. The air is overflowing with the stench of pine and blood, the remnants of a fight that changed everything.

Zephiran stands a few feet away, his back to me, his shoulders tense, his sword still gripped tightly in his hand. He hasn’t spoken since we left the clearing. Since I made my choice.

I want to explain. To tell him why I did it.

To make him understand that this isn’t about betrayal—it’s about survival. But the words stick in my throat, heavy and useless. He wouldn’t understand. He can’t.

Not when he still believes in me. Not when he still thinks there’s something left to save.

“Zephiran,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. It’s not an apology. Not an explanation.

Just his name, hanging between us like a thread stretched too thin.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t move. But I see the way his grip tightens on the hilt of his sword, the way his shoulders stiffen, as if he’s bracing himself for what comes next. And maybe that’s why I step closer. Even now, even after everything, I can’t stop myself from reaching for him.

My hand brushes his arm, and he flinches, a sharp, involuntary reaction that makes my chest ache.

But he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t tell me to stop. So I let my fingers trail down his arm, over the curve of his elbow, until I’m gripping his wrist, turning him to face me.