Page 46

Kieran

I leave before the others finish breaking camp.

Not because anyone asks me to scout ahead. Not because tactical protocol demands it. I leave because standing there, watching Kaia move through the morning routine with Malrik's quiet presence at her shoulder, makes something in my chest pull too tight to ignore.

She's settling. With them. Finding her balance in bonds that grew instead of being forced into place.

And she should.

But every time I see it—the easy way she leans into Aspen's steadying touch, the soft smile that curves her lips when Torric brings her tea without being asked, the comfortable silence she shares with Malrik—I wonder if she would've needed them so desperately if I hadn't broken her first.

The thought tracks me up the mountain, silent and patient. Like it knows I won't shake it this time.

My horse's hoofbeats ring against stone as I put distance between myself and the weight of watching her heal from damage I caused. The morning air carries the familiar wrongness of Absentia—corruption that tastes like metal and old death, thick enough to coat the back of my throat.

This is what I do. Look ahead so I don't have to look too close. Motion as habit. Silence as armor.

It's served me well for centuries.

It's killing me now.

The ridge comes into view an hour before dawn, a natural vantage point that overlooks the main pass through the mountains.

I've used it before, back when these routes were mine to guard instead of navigate.

Before everything changed. Before I learned that good intentions and ancient power make a poison that can destroy everything you're trying to protect.

I dismount, letting my horse graze while I settle into position among the rocks. The pass stretches below me like a scar through the corrupted landscape, winding between peaks that scrape the belly of gray clouds.

That's when I see them.

Six soldiers. Maybe eight. Moving in tight formation down the far slope, their pace measured and deliberate. Not the loose sprawl of a patrol or the urgency of messengers. Something else.

A cart rolls between them, wheels turning with mechanical precision over the rough ground. Two figures sit in the back, heads down, shoulders curved inward. The posture of defeat. Of resignation.

Prisoners.

I shift position, drawing a collapsing spyglass from my pack. The lens brings them into sharp focus—professional soldiers in unmarked leather, weapons worn but well-maintained. The kind of men who follow orders without asking questions, who transport cargo without caring what's inside .

The wind shifts, catching at loose fabric. One of the hooded figures sways slightly, and for just a moment, her hood slips back.

Violet hair catches the morning light like a banner.

The spyglass doesn't waver in my hands. My breathing doesn't change. Centuries of practice have taught me to observe without reacting, to catalog information before emotion can interfere with judgment.

But I note it. The unusual color. In a world where survival means silence, purple hair is either defiance—or bait.

I don't follow the thought. Not yet. It's not mine to name.

I just watch. Record. Prepare to report what I've seen without the weight of what it might mean pressing against my ribs.

The convoy disappears around a bend in the path, swallowed by twisted trees and morning mist. I remain in position for another quarter hour, making sure they don't double back, that this isn't some elaborate trap or misdirection.

When I'm certain they're gone, I pack my equipment and mount my horse for the ride back to camp.

By the time I crest the final ridge, the others have nearly finished preparing for the day's ride. Horses stomping impatiently. Packs secured with military efficiency. The orderly chaos of a group that's learned to move as one.

Callum stands near the center of it all, gesturing toward his map with confident authority. "The main pass is the obvious route," he's saying to a cluster of warriors. "But obvious means watched. We should take the northern approach, avoid unnecessary contact."

I don't announce myself. Don't interrupt his tactical assessment. I just stop at the edge of the group and wait for him to notice me, the way I've been doing for centuries whenever lesser commanders need to feel important.

When he finally looks up, I keep my voice level. Matter-of-fact.

"There's a convoy on the main pass. Six soldiers. Clean formation. Moving with purpose."

Callum barely glances at his map, his dismissal swift and calculated. "Not worth the engagement. We maintain our route."

"They're transporting prisoners," I add as Kaia and the others approach, drawn by the discussion. "Cart. Bound figures."

"Still irrelevant to our objectives," Callum says, his tone sharpening with authority. "Any deviation would compromise our timeline, regardless of their direction."

Something cold settles in my chest at how smoothly he writes off potential captives. How his logic feels rehearsed, too clean.

"Prisoners should be freed," I say, my voice carrying more weight than before.

Callum’s mouth curves, not in amusement, but like a man calculating how much morality he can afford. "Noble sentiment. Poor tactics. We can't rescue everyone we encounter."

I watch his face carefully, noting the calculated nature of his responses. The way he positions himself as the voice of reason while discarding lives with surgical precision.

Something's not right.

But before I can pursue that thought, I add the detail I don't realize will change everything:

"One of them had purple hair."

Kaia freezes .

It's not fear. It's not surprise. It's something older. Something scarred.

The words drop into the clearing like stones into still water. Simple. Factual. Devastating.

Every line of her body goes rigid, shadows stilling around her feet like they've suddenly forgotten how to move.

The others—Torric, Aspen, Malrik, Finn—all freeze as well, their faces shifting from confusion to the same stricken understanding that's written across Kaia's features.

I watch them all react to something I don't understand, cataloging the signs of shared recognition, shared dread.

"Are you sure?" Her voice is quiet. Controlled. But I hear the fracture underneath, the hairline crack that threatens to split wide if pressed.

"Yes."

The silence that follows is deafening. I watch them all process something I clearly don't understand—some shared knowledge that turns their faces grim and determined.

When Kaia speaks again, her voice carries the weight of absolute certainty. Command that brooks no argument.

"We follow. We intercept at dawn."

The response is immediate. Torric moves toward the horses without question. Aspen begins redistributing supplies with fluid efficiency. Malrik's shadows coil like living weapons as he calculates angles and approaches.

Even Finn drops his usual humor, chaos magic sparking around his fingers as he prepares for whatever's coming.

Callum protests—something about unnecessary risks and mission priorities—but his voice fades into background noise. No one's listening to him anymore. They're all focused on her, on the steel in her spine and the fire in her eyes.

This is what she looks like when she stops asking permission.

This is what she looks like when she remembers she's a Valkyrie.

The camp transforms around her, shifting from travel formation to strike preparation in the space of heartbeats. Orders flow without being spoken. Equipment appears without being requested.

I should be helping. Should be coordinating our approach, planning contingencies, doing what I've done for centuries.

Instead, I find myself standing at the edge of it all, watching her move like the commander she was always meant to be.

She doesn't cry. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't let emotion cloud her judgment or compromise her effectiveness.

But I saw it. Just for a second. That break in her voice when she asked if I was sure. That look in her eyes when the possibility became certainty.

Whatever that hair means to them, it's carved something raw into her—like something that was never allowed to heal.

The thought sits in my chest like a physical weight as I finally move to join the preparations. As I fall into the familiar rhythm of pre-battle planning, checking weapons and reviewing approaches.

But my eyes keep drifting back to her. To the way she holds herself now—taller, sharper, more dangerous than the girl I carried into my sanctuary.

She's becoming exactly what she needs to be.

And I wonder—if she ever forgives me—will I believe I deserve it?

Dawn can't come soon enough.