Page 15

TRAZ

T he tunnel stinks of rust and mold.

My boots hit the cracked concrete in a slow, deliberate rhythm, each step sending shockwaves through the wound stitched up under my jacket.

Hurts like hell.

Don’t matter.

I barely feel it.

All I feel is the bond thrumming under my skin, tighter and hotter with every step deeper into the dark.

Silpha moves ahead of me, silent but quick, slipping through broken doorways and crumbling halls like a ghost.

She stops at a bent metal door half-hidden behind a pile of scrap.

Turns.

Looks at me.

"This is it," she says, voice rough.

I don’t answer.

I can't.

My throat’s a knot too tight to breathe through.

She taps a coded knock—three soft, two sharp—and the door groans open a crack.

A narrow strip of light spills into the hallway.

I see a shadow move inside.

Small.

Cautious.

Then a voice—low, tight with fear.

"Silpha?"

Kelli.

My knees damn near give out right there.

Silpha steps aside without a word.

I move forward before I can think too hard about it.

Push the door wider.

Step inside.

The room’s barely bigger than a cargo cell.

Dim lights buzz overhead.

Old blankets, makeshift furniture, crates stacked like barricades against the walls.

And there she is.

Kelli.

Standing stiff, holding a broken piece of pipe like it’s a sword.

Her hair’s longer now, tangled around her shoulders, a shade darker than I remember.

Her body’s different too—sharper angles, leaner muscle under thin clothes worn from too many hard nights.

But her eyes, those damn eyes.

Stronger than I ever remembered.

Steel and fire.

She stares at me like I’m a dream she doesn’t trust.

I open my mouth to speak.

Nothing comes out.

Kelli’s fingers tighten around the pipe, knuckles white.

"You’re real," she whispers.

It's not a question.

Still, I nod once.

Rough.

Choked.

"Yeah, angel," I rasp. "It’s me."

The pipe clatters to the floor.

Before I can even move, she’s in front of me, fists pounding against my chest.

"You left!" she cries, voice breaking into jagged pieces. "You left me there to rot!"

Every hit is a gut punch I take without flinching.

"I know," I grind out.

"I thought you were dead, Traz!" she shouts, fury blazing out of her. "I thought—you didn’t come back—you didn’t even look!"

"I know," I say again, voice shredded.

I grab her wrists, gentle but firm, pulling her closer.

"I was a goddamn coward," I admit, each word cutting deeper than any blade.

"I thought leaving would keep you safe."

She stares up at me, trembling, eyes glossy with tears she refuses to shed.

"I didn’t need safe," she whispers. "I needed you."

Something breaks loose inside me.

I pull her against me, arms wrapping around her tight, so tight, like I could fuse us back together if I just held on hard enough.

She doesn't fight it.

Not this time.

She melts into my chest, shaking.

"I’m sorry," I murmur into her hair. "I’m so damn sorry."

We stand there for a long time, breathing each other in like lifelines.

A small noise pulls me back.

A tiny cough.

I look up.

Two figures stand behind a stack of crates, half-hidden.

Tiny.

Wide-eyed.

One little girl—wild silver curls, fierce little scowl.

One little boy—dark hair, bright green eyes exactly like mine.

They clutch each other’s hands, staring at me like I’m some ghost clawed up from the deep.

Kelli pulls back just enough to follow my gaze.

She wipes her face, straightens her spine.

"Aria," she says softly. "Joren."

Their names gut me more than any blade ever could.

She beckons them forward.

Slow.

Soft.

"It’s okay," she says. "Come meet someone."

They hesitate.

Aria narrows her eyes like she doesn’t trust a damn thing about me.

Smart girl.

Joren clutches his sister's hand tighter, but they shuffle forward together.

My chest’s a bomb ready to blow.

They stop a few feet away.

Close enough for me to see everything.

The Kaleidian markings faint along their necks.

The stubborn tilt of Aria’s chin.

The haunted, too-old-for-his-years look in Joren’s eyes.

My blood.

My kin.

I drop to one knee, ignoring the way my side screams in protest.

Try to make myself smaller.

Less dangerous.

They stare at me, silent, studying.

Sizing me up.

Smart.

Cautious.

Perfect.

"Hey there," I say rough. "Name’s Traz."

Joren edges a little closer, peering up at me.

"You got eyes like mine," he says solemnly.

My throat clamps shut.

I nod.

"Yeah, kid. Guess you got yours from me."

Aria crosses her arms, scowling harder.

"You left Mama," she accuses, fierce and unafraid.

I blink.

Then I laugh—raw, broken.

"Yeah," I say. "I did."

Her little chin wobbles, but she holds my stare like a damn warrior.

"You gonna leave again?"

I look at her.

At Joren.

At Kelli.

And something inside me locks into place.

Unbreakable.

Unshakeable.

"Never," I swear.

Their eyes flicker.

Hope, raw and dangerous, sparks between us.

Somehow, I don’t feel hollow anymore.

I feel full.

Full of rage.

Full of love.

Full of a purpose I thought I buried long ago.

My family.

And hell itself’s gonna bleed before I let anyone take them from me again.

I stay there, kneeling.

Not because I’m too hurt to stand.

Not because of the blood soaking my side.

But because looking up at them—at her—feels right.

Feels like the only damn thing I deserve.

Kelli steps closer, slow and wary, her hand brushing over Aria’s head, pulling the little girl against her side.

She looks down at me, her face a map of every battle she’s fought without me.

Every night she cried alone.

Every smile she forced for those kids when the world tried to crush her.

And I left her to it.

I left her to it.

I bow my head, fists planted in the dirt and scrap under me, teeth gritted so hard it’s a wonder they don’t shatter.

"I..." I choke, the words ripping up my throat raw.

"I don’t deserve you," I rasp.

Not her.

Not the kids.

Not any of it.

I hear a breath catch above me.

Maybe hers.

Maybe the kids’.

I don't lift my head.

Can't.

My heart pounds, a raw, aching thing inside my ribs, louder than the creaks of the broken shelter around us.

I feel a small hand—tiny, tentative—press against the side of my face.

Aria.

I risk looking up.

Her little brow is furrowed, mouth set in a serious line way too old for her size.

"You gonna be good now?" she asks, like she's laying down a damn law.

I huff a broken laugh, chest squeezing so tight it hurts worse than any wound.

"Yeah, little warrior," I say hoarsely. "I’m gonna be good."

Joren shuffles closer, clutching a battered toy ship in his free hand.

He stares at me with those green eyes that could've been mine at his age.

Silence settles between us—thick, but not as sharp now.

Not slicing me open at every breath.

Just heavy.

Real.

Kelli crouches too, knees creaking from too many years of hard living.

She reaches out, fingertips ghosting along my battered cheek.

"You’re late," she says, voice thick but teasing.

I grab her wrist—careful, reverent—and press a kiss against the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse hammer against my lips.

"I’m here now," I vow.

Whatever comes next.

Whatever hell we have to walk through.

I’m not letting go again.

Not of her.

Not of them.

Not of this blood and bone that finally feels like home.