Page 49

Kaia

I wake from dreams that taste like blame.

Finn's words echo in the gray space between sleep and consciousness, each one cutting deeper than the last. The biggest gap?

That's me. And I'm still right fucking here.

My chest aches with the truth of it, with the realization that I've been so focused on holding myself together that I've let pieces of what matters most slip through my fingers.

I rise before dawn breaks, moving quietly through camp to avoid the others.

My shadows give me space—unnervingly so.

Even Bob maintains his distance, his usual protective hovering replaced by something that feels like cautious observation.

Patricia doesn’t even pretend to take notes.

Mouse, normally draped across my shoulders like a second heartbeat, lingers near my feet instead, his small form twitching with unease.

Like they're all waiting to see which version of me emerges from whatever reckoning is coming.

I throw myself into action instead of reflection.

Check weapon supplies. Scan the terrain ahead through Kieran's spyglass.

Adjust our defensive formation for the third time this morning.

Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind from spiraling back to the way Finn looked when he walked away from me.

The way he called me Trouble one last time, like he was saying goodbye.

"You're going to wear a path in that rock if you keep pacing."

Kieran's voice cuts through my spiral. I turn to find him approaching with his usual measured steps, but there's something different in his expression. Not the careful distance he's maintained since the bonds formed, but something that looks almost like... partnership.

"The terrain ahead narrows," he says without preamble, settling beside me on the ridge. "Three choke points in the next five miles. Perfect for ambush."

I study the landscape below us, noting the way the path funnels between rocky outcroppings. "We can handle it."

"Can we?" His golden eyes meet mine, steady and unreadable. "You're doing everything alone, Kaia. Planning, watching, carrying the weight of every decision. That's not leadership—that's martyrdom."

My jaw tightens. "I'm fine."

"You're managing." The correction is gentle but firm. "There's a difference."

The word hits me wrong, making something crack inside my chest. "Manageable," I repeat, and my voice breaks on the syllable like glass under pressure.

Kieran doesn't flinch at the sound. Just continues to watch me with those ancient eyes that see too much. "You're leading like you're trying to prove you should be followed. But no one here is questioning that except you. "

The observation stops me cold. I open my mouth to argue, to deflect, to do any of the things I've perfected over months of keeping him at arm's length. Instead, what comes out is the truth.

"If I don't lead them out of this," I whisper, staring at the twisted landscape below, "if I fail Seren too, it'll mean they were all right to doubt me from the start."

"Who?" Kieran's voice is soft, patient. "Who was right to doubt you?"

"Everyone." The word scrapes my throat raw. "The board at the academy. Lady Virath. Every person who looked at me and saw a threat instead of a student. Every voice that said I was too dangerous, too unpredictable, too unstable."

"Maybe they do doubt you," Kieran says quietly. "Maybe they’re afraid of what you could become. But fear and doubt aren’t the same thing, and neither means you’ve failed. They don’t know the weight you carry. I do. And I’d follow you anyway."

For the first time in days, I take a real breath. The kind that reaches all the way down to the places I've been holding too tight. My shadows respond to the shift, drifting closer with tentative relief.

"How do you know?" I ask.

"Because I've been where you are." His smile is small, sad. "Carrying the weight of everyone's expectations while forgetting that the people who matter most just want you to survive it."

Something loosens in my chest. Not fixed, not healed, but... eased. Like a knot that's been pulled too tight finally finding room to breathe.

That evening, I outline the plan to intercept the convoy.

Not from a place of desperate determination, but with the clarity that comes from actually thinking instead of just reacting.

I listen when Aspen suggests an alternate approach route.

Delegate reconnaissance to Torric and Malrik.

Let Kieran's tactical experience guide the timing.

Finn watches from the edge of our circle, silent but present. When our eyes meet across the firelight, I see something shift in his expression. Not forgiveness, that's too much to hope for, but maybe understanding. Maybe the beginning of it.

When Callum starts to object to the plan's timeline, I don't snap or argue. I just look at him with steady eyes and say, "Not tonight."

Even Callum knows better than to argue with that tone. The firelight flickers across faces that, for the first time in days, seem to believe we might actually make it.

The group makes camp in a defensive formation, everyone moving with the practiced efficiency of people who've learned to trust each other's strengths. Torric and Malrik take first watch, their easy coordination a reminder of how well we work when we're not fighting ourselves.

I move toward my usual watch position, but Aspen intercepts me with gentle firmness.

"You'll lead better in the morning if you sleep," he says, ice-blue eyes holding mine.

Every instinct screams against it. Against letting my guard down, against trusting that the world won't fall apart if I'm not vigilantly holding it together. But something in his expression—faith, maybe, or simple stubborn care—makes me hesitate.

Then nod.

I settle into my bedroll on the outskirts of camp, close enough to respond if needed but far enough away that my restless energy won't disturb the others. My shadows drift nearby, their movements finally relaxing into something that resembles peace.

For the first time in days, I let my eyes slip shut without fighting it. The sounds of the night hum around me like a heartbeat just out of rhythm—wind through corrupted trees, the soft murmur of voices on watch, the distant call of something that might once have been an owl.

I don't see the shadow that moves past the edge of camp.

Don't feel the breath on my cheek.

Don't hear the whisper that answers the darkness:

"Hello again, Little Shadow."