Page 39

Kaia

The rhythm of Enif’s hoofbeats against the mountain path should be soothing.

It’s not.

We’ve been riding for hours, the sanctuary shrinking to a distant speck behind us, but something feels wrong. Not the usual wrongness of riding into danger—I’m getting used to that. This is different. Personal.

I shift in my seat, Mouse’s warm weight across my shoulders the only thing keeping me grounded. My shadows coil restlessly around Enif’s legs, their movements sharp and agitated in ways that mirror the knot forming in my chest.

“Easy,” I murmur to them, but they don’t settle.

Because they feel it too.

Kieran leads our formation, his golden eyes scanning the horizon with military precision. Torric and Aspen flank me on either side, close enough to protect but not so close as to crowd. Everything looks normal. Everything should be normal.

Except Finn is nowhere near me .

He rides at the back with Malrik, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he’s not talking. Not grinning. Not making ridiculous observations about the landscape or trying to name the clouds. He just… rides. Silent. Distant.

And he won’t look at me.

I try to catch his eye, craning my neck to see past Torric’s broad shoulders. But every time I look back, Finn’s gaze is either fixed on the horizon or locked in quiet conversation with Malrik. Their heads bent together, voices too low to carry.

The sight makes something cold settle in my stomach.

My shadows sense it before I do, the shift in dynamics, the way the air between us all feels charged with unspoken tension. Patricia abandons her usual frantic note-taking to drift toward the back of our group, returning moments later with what I swear is shadowy concern radiating from her form.

“What?” I whisper, but she just flickers and rejoins the others.

Even Bob seems agitated, marching back toward Finn and Malrik’s position before returning to hover near my ankle with obvious displeasure. His usual military bearing is replaced by something that looks suspiciously like worry.

Mouse shifts against my neck, his violet eyes reflecting my unease. “Something’s changed,” I murmur to him, low enough that the others can’t hear.

He doesn’t disagree.

The wrongness builds as we ride, settling into my bones like a fever I can’t shake.

I keep replaying the morning’s departure, looking for clues I might have missed.

Finn had been there, helping with supplies, making his usual jokes about our chances of survival.

But now that I think about it, had he looked at me? Really looked?

Or had he been avoiding eye contact even then?

My chest tightens with a realization that hits like ice water: I can’t remember the last time Finn sought me out. The last time he appeared at my shoulder with a grin and some ridiculous observation. When did he stop gravitating toward me like he used to?

When did they both stop fighting for the seat next to me?

The memory hits without warning—that night in my room, after everything with the bonds and the Hall of Echoes.

Finn’s easy laughter as he sprawled across my bed.

Malrik’s careful distance that somehow felt more intimate than touch.

The way they’d both looked at me like I was the center of their world.

Now Malrik rides beside Finn, their conversation quiet but intense. And I’m here, surrounded by the others but feeling more alone than I have in months.

“Did I do something wrong?” The question slips out before I can stop it, barely audible over the wind.

Aspen glances over, his ice-blue eyes sharp with concern. “What?”

I shake my head, heat flooding my cheeks. “Nothing. Just… thinking out loud.”

But Aspen doesn’t let it go. He guides his horse closer, close enough that our legs nearly brush. “Kaia.” His voice is gentle but insistent. “What’s wrong?”

How do I explain the growing certainty that I’ve lost something I didn’t know I was supposed to fight for? That whatever connection I thought I had with Finn and Malrik has somehow shifted, leaving me on the outside looking in?

“They’re different,” I say finally, nodding toward the back of our group. “Finn and Malrik. Something’s… changed.”

Aspen follows my gaze, his expression thoughtful. When he looks back at me, there’s understanding in his eyes that makes my chest ache.

“People change,” he says quietly. “Relationships evolve. That doesn’t mean you’ve done anything wrong.”

“Doesn’t it?” The words taste bitter. “I mean, look at them. When’s the last time you saw them that comfortable with each other? That… synchronized?”

As if summoned by my observation, Finn’s laugh carries forward on the wind. Not his usual bright, attention-seeking laughter, but something quieter. More intimate. Shared.

With Malrik.

Not me.

My shadows coil tighter, responding to the spike of something I don’t want to name. It’s not jealousy—not exactly. It’s more like the hollow ache of being forgotten. Of realizing you were never as important as you thought you were.

“Maybe,” I whisper, more to myself than to Aspen, “they never needed me at all.”

“Stop.” Aspen’s voice cuts through my spiral with gentle firmness. “That’s not true, and you know it.”

“Do I?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like they’ve figured out they’re perfectly fine without me. ”

Mouse makes a soft sound of distress, pressing closer to my neck. My shadows flutter anxiously, Bob actually abandoning his post to drift back toward me in what looks like an attempt at comfort.

“Your shadows don’t think so,” Aspen observes, a small smile tugging at his lips. “And they know you better than anyone.”

Before I can respond, Kieran raises a hand, signaling for us to halt. Below us, a clearing opens up in the mountain forest, the perfect place to rest and water the horses.

As we dismount, I watch Finn and Malrik swing down from their saddles together, their movements unconsciously coordinated. Finn says something that makes Malrik’s lips quirk in what might be amusement, and the casual intimacy of the moment hits me like a physical blow.

They’re not avoiding each other anymore.

They’re gravitating toward each other.

And I’m not part of that equation.

I slide down from Enif’s back, my legs unsteadier than they should be. The bond in my chest pulses—not with pain, exactly, but with a hollow ache that feels like absence. Like reaching for something that’s no longer there.

Torric appears at my elbow, his golden eyes scanning my face with characteristic directness. “You look like someone stole your favorite dagger.”

“Do I?” I force a smile. “Must be the altitude.”

He doesn’t buy it for a second, but before he can push, Finn approaches. My heart does a stupid little leap of hope—maybe I was wrong, maybe nothing’s changed, maybe—

“Kaia.” His voice is carefully neutral. Polite. “You should eat something. Long flight ahead. ”

He hands me a piece of travel bread, our fingers not quite touching, and something in my chest cracks. This is Finn—chaotic, tactile, never-met-a-boundary-he-wouldn’t-cross Finn—being careful not to touch me.

“Thanks,” I manage, accepting the bread.

He nods and turns away, back toward where Malrik is examining our route on an ancient map. No lingering grin. No ridiculous comment about the bread’s personality or the way the sunlight hits my hair.

Just… politeness.

I watch him go, noting the way his shoulders relax as he rejoins Malrik’s side. The easy way they fall into conversation. The space they create that doesn’t include me.

Mouse nuzzles my cheek, his warmth a small comfort against the growing cold in my chest.

“They used to fight for my attention,” I whisper to him, the words barely audible. “Now I think they’re fighting to forget me.”

The worst part? I can’t even blame them.

Maybe this is what I deserve for taking so long to figure out what I wanted. For being too scared to choose, too paralyzed by the fear of hurting someone to risk reaching for what I actually needed.

Now it looks like the choice has been made for me.

And I’m not part of it at all.