Page 10

TEN

CASSIAN

C assian watched her in the firelight.

Seraphine’s voice still lingered in the air like smoke—quiet, uncertain.

“…I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore.”

She hadn’t looked at him when she said it. Just stared into the flames, like they might burn through whatever truth she didn’t have the words for.

He knew better than to poke at that kind of wound.

Hell, he’d worn the same expression himself more times than he could count—numb, angry, wrapped too tight in duty and expectation.

So instead of saying something sharp or stupid—he leaned back against the log, exhaled slow, and checked to make sure Brann was still out cold.

He was. So was Alek. Lira snored like a bear in heat, one boot off and one hand curled around her blade like she’d gut someone in her sleep.

Good. No ears or eyes.

Cassian glanced at Seraphine again, then down at the small fire between them.

“She was a healer,” he said finally, his voice quiet, rough. “My mother.”

Seraphine blinked, startled. “What?”

He didn’t look at her. Just kept his gaze on the fire.

“Before the warlines hardened. Before the Accords got enforced with blades and blood. She used to travel between Veil towns—human ones, shifter ones. Didn’t care who you were, just cared if you were bleeding.”

Seraphine said nothing, but she shifted, turned slightly toward him.

Cassian rubbed his thumb across a scar on his palm—thin and white, like a thread pulled too tight.

“She was killed in a shifter border raid. Dragonfire. Some… patrol gone rogue. Didn’t matter that she was trying to stop the bleeding. Wrong place, wrong blood.”

He laughed, but it was hollow. “They said it was an accident. Said she shouldn’t’ve been there. That she wasn’t sanctioned.”

Seraphine’s throat worked. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “I’m not telling you for sympathy. Just thought… if we’re gonna bleed together, might as well know the reason I don’t flinch around dragonfire.”

She looked down at her hands, fingers curling unconsciously.

“Do you remember her?”

“Yeah.” He smiled, faint. “She used to hum when she worked. Never a song I knew—just… sound. Said it kept her from shaking. Told me once that healing was half pressure and half pretending you weren’t scared shitless.”

Seraphine smiled, small and sad. “She sounds like someone I would’ve liked.”

“Yeah,” Cassian said, meeting her eyes now. “I think she’d have liked you, too. Probably told me to shut up and listen to you more.”

Seraphine chuckled. Just once. But the sound was real. Honest.

Her gaze drifted back toward the treeline. Toward the place where the Hollow-dragon had fallen.

“I knew him,” she said softly.

Cassian stilled.

She didn’t wait for him to press. Just kept going, voice low and steady.

“That dragon. Before the corruption. His name was Velisar. He served as my flight tutor when I was thirteen. Used to take me into the upper stratosphere, where the air went thin and cold enough to hurt.”

She reached up, touched the pendant at her throat—something simple, black stone set in copper.

“He taught me how to fold with the wind. Said fire wasn’t enough. That a true Drakar heir had to learn how to fall and not break.”

Cassian was silent, listening.

Seraphine swallowed. “He disappeared five years ago. They said he went rogue. Abandoned his post. No body. No farewell.”

Her eyes glittered in the firelight, not from tears—but from something heavier.

“I didn’t believe it then. I thought maybe he’d just… had enough. Left. I used to dream he found a new sky.”

She looked down again. “Instead, I burned him today.”

Cassian didn’t speak. He reached across the fire, slowly, and placed his hand on hers. Not tightly. Just enough to say: I’m here. I get it.

She didn’t pull away.

For a long time, they sat like that—no armor, orders, or blades between them. Just silence. Just the ghosts of what they’d lost.

Finally, Seraphine exhaled. “You know what scares me more than the Hollow?” she whispered.

He tilted his head. “What?”

“That after this is over… I’ll have to go back to being who they expect me to be.”

Cassian met her eyes. “Then don’t.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

She smiled again—but it was tired. Honest.