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“You’re not enemies anymore. You’remine now.My people. Whether you like it or not. So figure it out.”

My voice echoes off the stone. Z’leni stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. Ryatuv looks... stunned. And then Z’leni’s lips twitch, just slightly.

“Yours,huh?” he grunts.

“That’s not— I didn’t mean—” I say, flushing hot and fast. Shaking my head I stumble over my words.

“Didn’t you?” Ryatuv says, stepping closer.

Now I’m the one caught between them but it’s in a new way. No longer dancing on the edge of the two of them beating each other senseless. This is something else entirely. Z’leni steps forward. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough that I feel the heat radiating off his body.

“You are not a prize to be won,” Ryatuv says low, his voice like gravel. “But I would carry you through fire if it meant seeing you safe.”

Z’leni’s eyes soften, focused on me, not on Ryatuv.

“And I would follow you into the heart of the Paluga’s nest, just to make sure you weren’t alone.”

My breath catches as an entirely new kind of tension surges between the three of us. I’m not ready for this. But I want it. Gods, Iwant it.

Z’leni reaches first. He lifts his hand, fingers brushing against my jaw. My skin tingles where he touches. He drags his thumb across my cheek with reverent gentleness.

“Elara...” he whispers. “May I?”

I nod—barely.

I’m not even sure I breathe as he leans in.

His lips brush mine; soft, tentative, aching.

Like he’s kissing something fragile. Like he’s not sure I’ll kiss him back.

But I do.

Just once.

And then I pull back, stunned at the raw, molten feeling pooling in my chest.

Before I recover, Ryatuv shifts forward. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t even try. But his voice, when he speaks, is lower than thunder.

“I will not fight him, for you,” he says. “But I will fightwithhim… for you.”

His eyes burn into mine, full of fire and restraint and something wildly desperate.

“Don’t ask me to choose,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I can’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

Z’leni exhales like I’ve knocked the air from him.

“Then we survive. And let fate decide the rest,” Ryatuv says, nodding sharply.

And that, somehow, is enough. For now.

We don’t kiss again. We don’t speak. But when we set off again, it’s different. The silence between us now hums with an awareness. The tension is no longer only one of wariness and resentment. It’s something far more volatile.

Hope.

And maybe love.

And that—gods help me—is the most dangerous thing we’ve faced yet.