*Trigger warnings* Teenage runaways, attempted euthanasia??? Big booms, Riven still doesnt have empathy, Lysander being a weapon, Ardere being suspicious
My hand closed around the vial before I even knew what I was doing.
It was cold.
Too cold.
Like it had never been warm. Like it couldn't be.
"Wait," I said, blinking at it. "Wait—what is this? What is this going to do?"
Ardere didn't answer right away.
She just stood there.
Frozen.
Wrecked.
"Ardere—what does destroying you even mean?"
My voice cracked, rough and rising too fast. The panic was coming up in my throat like bile, like smoke, like I'd swallowed fire and now it was burning its way out.
"Is this a poison?" I asked, already backing away. "Is it a sedative? Is it supposed to kill you or—what?"
"It won't kill me," she said softly.
"Then what will it do?!" I yelled, because I couldn't take the quiet. Not when she was talking about destroying herself like it was a chore she'd been putting off.
She looked at the floor, shadows curling under her eyes.
"It'll wipe me out," she said. "Temporarily. Like... putting a wall between me and the power. Between me and the voice. It'll make me hollow. And the hollowness is the only thing that keeps them from using me."
My stomach turned. "You want me to drug you into nothing?"
"I want you to keep me from becoming what they want me to be."
I stared at the vial again like it might change shape. Like I could shake it and the truth would fall out.
"But why me? Why would you put this on me?" My voice broke wide open. "I don't know what I'm doing, Ardere. I'm not a soldier. I'm not one of them. I'm not even your boyfriend. I'm just some stupid guy who followed you into a haunted house and never figured out how to walk back out."
Her breath hitched.
"Because you still see me as a person," she whispered.
The words sank into me like a blade.
"Everyone else looks at me and sees what I can do. You look at me and just... see me. That's why it has to be you. Because if it's anyone else, I won't come back."
The room spun.
I couldn't breathe.
I was holding her in one hand and a weapon in the other, and I didn't know how to let go of either without everything falling apart.
"Dorian," she said, stepping closer, voice shaking. "Please."
I swallowed hard, fighting the storm of panic and dread that had been building inside me since she pressed that vial into my hand.
"No," I said, voice shaking but steadying with determination. "There's gotta be another way. You don't have to do this."
She looked at me like I'd just grown a second head.
"I can come with you," I said quickly, words tumbling out. "I'll figure something out with my mom. I can find someone to look after her. I'll do whatever it takes—just don't do this."
She shook her head like I was talking nonsense.
"Dorian," she said softly, but the edges of her voice were sharp. "We don't have time."
"What do you mean? There's always time."
She took a step closer, eyes dark and hard.
"You don't understand. Not really."
"They're coming," she said. "They're already too close. Waiting for me to slip. To break. To become something worse."
I reached out, grabbing her hands.
"We'll find a way," I promised. "Together."
Her breath caught, and her eyes flickered with something raw—fear, anger, pain.
"You don't get to make promises for me."
Her voice cracked on the last word.
"We need to move before it's too late."
I wanted to argue.
To say that no matter what, I wouldn't let her face this alone.
But her words slammed into me like a wall. Her eyes locked on mine, steady and unblinking, like she was daring me to say no.
"Dorian," she said, voice low and sharp, "you have two choices."
I swallowed hard, heart hammering so loud I was sure she could hear it.
"Either you do this. Now."
She held up the vial like a judge holding a gavel.
"Or you get out."
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut.
"No second chances. No slow goodbyes."
I wanted to argue. To beg. To find some way out of this brutal crossroads.
But the raw truth hung heavy between us.
This wasn't about what I wanted.
It was about what she needed.
She was tired.
She was scared.
And she was done waiting.
I looked at her, every emotion tangled and raw.
Finally, I nodded.
"Okay."
My hands were trembling as I uncapped the syringe.
I'd never done anything like this before—not with a stranger, not with someone I cared about, not with her.
But she was watching me. Waiting.
Trusting.
My fingers hovered on the plunger.
The syringe was cold in my hand. Her skin, warm beneath it. Ardere wasn't flinching, wasn't begging—she was just waiting.
Waiting for me to destroy her.
I didn't want to.
But I didn't know how to save her either.
I drew in a breath.
Pressed the tip of the needle to her arm.
And then—
BOOM.
The floor convulsed beneath us like something had punched the foundation.
The window shattered behind me.
We didn't even have time to scream.
The second blast hit closer—violently.
A wall somewhere split in half. A cabinet flew off its hinges. The dresser toppled with a crash.
And both of us were thrown.
I slammed into the side of the bedframe, hard. My shoulder lit up in pain.
Ardere hit the floor beside me, coughing, dazed, the vial lost somewhere between us.
Dust and plaster rained from the ceiling like ash.
I couldn't hear anything except the ringing.
My thoughts scattered, pulse hammering like gunfire in my ears.
What just happened?
Where was Lysander?
Where was anyone?
I turned to Ardere—she was pushing herself up with shaking arms, smeared with soot and blood from a cut on her forehead.
Her lips were moving but I couldn't hear her.
Another crash shook the house.
The walls were groaning now—like the whole building was holding its breath.
And losing.
We didn't get far.
Just around the corner, half-crawling through cracked plaster and broken floorboards, when we found someone crouched by the blown-out hallway window.
Not someone.
Riven.
He turned toward us, absolutely beaming, his black sweater torn at the shoulder, soot smeared across his cheek like war paint. He looked like a kid in the middle of his favorite action movie—thrilled.
"Oh good," he said, grinning like Christmas came early. "You two didn't die."
I blinked, still dizzy from the smoke. "What the hell are you—"
"Do you hear that?" he cut in, practically vibrating. "That's a K-class sweep drone out there. Hybrid chassis, hunter mode. And guess who it's here for?"
He turned to Ardere, smiling like he was offering her a birthday cake.
"You."
Ardere didn't say a word.
But I felt it.
The spike.
That sudden, crushing gravity behind my ribs, like the air had turned to lead.
Grief—hers—rushed in so fast it nearly knocked me over.
I stumbled back, hand bracing against the wall. My lungs couldn't get enough air.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I wheezed, glaring at Riven.
"Oh, she knows," he said, gesturing casually toward her like she was the star of the show. "It's a pretty custom piece of work. A machine like that? They don't bring it out unless they've decided you're not worth recovering."
I stepped in front of her without even thinking.
"You're not helping," I snapped at Riven.
He blinked at me, tilting his head. "Oh, was I supposed to? My bad."
Riven leaned into the broken window frame, the wind whipping around him like the house itself was trying to spit him out. He tapped an invisible watch on his wrist and grinned. "Right about now," he said cheerfully, "is usually when Lysander starts taking on soldiers by himself."
I blinked. "I'm sorry—what?"
Riven clucked his tongue. "Mmhm. That's the fun part. See, they think she's the dangerous one—" he jerked a thumb toward Ardere, "—but he's the one they should've brought tanks for."
And then Ardere moved.
Fast.
I barely caught her arm before she slipped past me.
"No—Ardere—wait."
But she was already panicking, already pulling, trying to get to the window, to him.
"I have to stop him," she gasped. "He'll get himself killed—"
"You won't," I said, yanking her back, holding her tight. "You saw what they brought—if you go out there, they'll take you. Or worse."
Her grief was burning through me now, lashing like invisible claws, each heartbeat louder than the last.
"You don't understand—he doesn't hold back—he doesn't feel the way we do—"
Riven just laughed.
"Oh, please let him see," he said, turning to me with that sharp-edged smile that always looked more like a threat than a joke. "Come on, lover boy. This is your chance. See what your girlfriend's family really looks like."
Another blast hit somewhere nearby.
And then—
Silence.
A dangerous kind of silence.
Like something out there had just realized it was in danger.
And then I felt it.
The shift in the air.
Static.
Like the atmosphere itself had been rewired.
I stumbled to the edge of the shattered window.
The smoke was thick, curling black fingers across the yard. But through it—I saw him.
Lysander.
Moving slow.
Controlled.
And just behind him—a tank.
One of theirs.
I recognized the shape from the blueprints I'd seen back at school. Marked for "hostile suppression."
It was dead still.
Until it wasn't.
The turret twitched.
Then turned.
Not toward Lysander.
Toward the soldiers.
"What the hell is he doing?" I asked, barely able to breathe.
"He's talking to it," Riven murmured, weirdly reverent. "He always was a charmer."
Below us, a soldier screamed a warning and raised his gun.
The lights on the tank flickered—then flared red.
Too late.
The barrel spat flame.
At them.
Not one, not two—but three of their own men were thrown back in a spray of fire and shrapnel.
And Lysander?
Didn't even blink.
Another soldier tried to fall back—grabbed a handheld railgun from his hip and took aim.
And it jammed.
Not like normal.
The gun sparked.
Then melted.
Metal turned to slag in his hands, burning through the glove and the skin beneath.
The man hit the ground screaming.
Lysander raised one hand lazily, as if conducting an orchestra.
And all around him—their weapons began dying.
Trigger locks froze.
Scopes shattered.
Clips ejected themselves, emptying magazines into the dirt.
Even the tank, now fully under his control, revved to life like a beast waking from a long, angry nap.
I took a step back from the window, heart slamming against my ribs.
"What is he?" I asked, already afraid of the answer.
Riven, behind me, popped the last of a lozenge into his mouth and said, "Oh, he's half the reason they have an entire branch of the military dedicated to keeping people like us in cages."
I didn't respond.
Because I could feel Ardere behind me—shaking again.
But it wasn't panic this time.
It was something colder.
Something older.
Shame.
Grief bloomed from her in a slow, heavy wave.
Riven felt it too, but he didn't stop.
Did he ever?
"World's biggest war weapon siblings," he said, casually. "She's emotional devastation. He's tactical annihilation."
I turned toward her, just as she sank to her knees.
The last thing I expected after witnessing Lysander weaponize a tank was the sound of Ms. Marvos's voice, sharp and cutting through the smoke like a blade:
"Downstairs. Now."
I flinched.
So did Riven.
But Ardere didn't move.
She was still on her knees, back to the window, hands in her lap like she was trying not to exist.
"Ardere," I whispered, kneeling beside her. "We have to go."
Nothing.
She stared through me, eyes unfocused, like she was seeing something a thousand miles away—or a thousand memories deep.
And then Riven clicked his tongue.
"Well, this is sweet. But we don't have time for the full breakdown special."
I stood as he approached, already on edge.
"Don't," I warned.
He smirked. "Relax, Romeo. I'm not going to traumatize your girlfriend."
And then he crouched.
Wrapped both arms around Ardere and hauled her to her feet like she weighed nothing. Like she wasn't shaking, or human, or even awake.
She came alive instantly.
"Put me down," she snapped, kicking out, arms flailing. "Put me down, you soulless corpse!"
"Not until you stop vibrating like a broken piano string."
He threw her over his shoulder, completely unfazed by her thrashing, and started toward the stairwell.
I took a step forward. "You don't have to carry her like that—"
"Oh, I absolutely do," he said, barely looking back. "Unless you'd prefer to get flooded with seventeen years of pure, uncut trauma and emotional rot. Be my guest. I'll hold your hair back while you sob into the carpet."
My fists clenched.
Because he wasn't wrong.
But it didn't make it any less cruel.
Ardere's muffled voice carried from his shoulder. "I hate you, I hate you—"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm your favorite. Let's go."
The back door blew open before we even reached it—Araxie and Ms. Marvos moving fast, arms loaded with duffel bags, boxes, and a very old-looking lockbox that Araxie cursed under her breath about dropping.
Lysander's truck was already running, engine growling like it knew this wasn't going to be a casual drive.
"He's holding the north line," Ms. Marvos snapped at Araxie. "That gives us five minutes. Six if they're as stupid as they look."
"Guess we're about to find out," Araxie muttered, slamming the last box into the bed.
Riven reached the truck with Ardere still over his shoulder, her fists hammering his back. Without warning—without any ounce of care—he threw open the back door and tossed her in like she was just another piece of cargo.
"Hey!" I shouted, already moving. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Drive-time cuddle crisis isn't my problem," he said flatly, wiping his hands on his jeans. "I got her here. That was the job."
Ardere landed hard, scrambling upright like she was going to launch herself right back out, but I was already climbing in after her, slamming the door shut and locking it just in case she did try to bolt again.
Her eyes met mine. Bloodshot. Wide. Still laced with too much fear.
Outside, Ms. Marvos threw herself into the passenger seat.
Araxie slammed her side shut and yelled, "GO!"
And that's when Lysander appeared again.
Covered in soot. Coat torn. One side of his face bloodied.
He climbed into the driver's seat like a storm in human form, didn't even glance back before slamming the truck into gear.
The tires screamed as we tore down the gravel drive.
No one said anything for a long time.
Just the hum of the engine.
The weight of the air.
And Ardere, breathing shallow beside me—like she was waiting for the next hit.
****
"…No, I know it's sudden," I said, one hand pressed to my temple, the other gripping the phone like it could anchor me to something normal. "I wouldn't be asking if I had any other choice."
My aunt on the other end was already suspicious.
"Three days ago you said everything was fine. Now you're telling me you have to leave town for a while—what's going on, Dorian?"
I flinched as something crashed in the background.
Then came Ardere's voice: "I swear to God, if you touch my bag one more time, I'm going to shove it so far down your throat—"
"Oh, please, princess," Riven drawled. "Let's not pretend you even packed anything worth stealing. Unless you count your emotional baggage."
Crash.
Laughter. (His, obviously.)
I turned and glared over my shoulder. "Can you two not try to kill each other for ten minutes?!"
No one acknowledged me.
I pressed the phone harder to my ear. "Sorry. That was just—uh, TV."
Aunt Lina went quiet. I could feel her suspicion growing. "Dorian. Are you in trouble?"
"No," I lied quickly. "No, nothing like that. It's just… school stuff. A really competitive program came up. Off-campus."
"So competitive you can't call your mother?"
"I will. I just—" I rubbed the back of my neck, watching Ardere try to physically rip her bag from Riven's hands while Riven dramatically fake-sobbed into it. "I just need someone to check in on her, okay? Make sure she eats. Make sure the stove's off. You know how she gets when—"
My voice caught.
I didn't finish the sentence.
"You're scaring me, kiddo," she said softly. "This isn't like you."
"I know," I murmured, barely above a whisper. "But this isn't like anything."
I swallowed, forcing myself upright. "I'll call when I can. Just… please take care of her."
"Okay," she said, still clearly worried. "Okay. But I'm coming over tomorrow. And if I don't hear from you—"
"You will," I promised.
And I hung up.
Behind me, Ardere finally pried her bag from Riven's arms and hit him square in the chest with it.
"Touch it again and I'll sew your eyelids open," she hissed.
"You say that like it's a threat," Riven replied, grinning.
I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.
God help me.
I'd left normal three exits ago.
—
My eyes were locked on the cracked screen of my phone, watching footage that had no right to exist, let alone be shared half a million times in under an hour.
Someone had filmed it from a classroom window across the quad. Shaky. Blurry. But clear enough.
Ardere, sprinting across the field. Soldiers in black armor—four of them—gaining on her fast. She turned to look back, stumbled. One raised a weapon.
Then everything went white.
Sound dropped out for half a second in the video, like the phone's mic couldn't keep up. Then came the blast—wide and low, like a shockwave made of grief. That's the only word for it. Not just sound or heat or pressure—grief. Raw and too big to be contained.
Every window in the courtyard shattered outward. Trees bent like they were begging for mercy. Two soldiers went flying, one hit a wall so hard he left a dent. The others didn't get up.
Ardere dropped to her knees in the dirt.
She didn't look like a monster. She looked like someone who had just lost everything and didn't know what to do with it.
The clip ended there.
The next video started automatically—same blast, new angle. Someone had slowed it down and overlaid a dramatic score like it was some kind of action trailer.
I didn't hear her walk up behind me. But the second I felt it—that weight settle over me like a second skin—I knew Ardere was there.
The grief hit first.
Not mine. Hers.
It crashed through me like a brick wall at full speed. I sucked in a breath through my teeth and lowered the phone
"I told you not to look," I said, not turning around yet.
"I didn't," she said quietly. "You did."
She looked like hell. Pale, half-broken, wearing a hoodie that wasn't hers. Eyes still glassy with something that hadn't finished bleeding out.
"Is that what it looked like to them?" she asked. "That I just… snapped?"
I wanted to lie. Tell her people saw the fear. The pressure. The way she was cornered.
But that's not what they saw.
"They saw an explosion," I said. "They saw four trained soldiers down and a crater in the middle of the quad. They don't care why it happened."
She nodded slowly, like she'd already guessed.
"I didn't mean to," she whispered. "I wasn't even trying to fight. I just didn't want to feel it anymore. I wanted to get away."
"I know," I said. "I was there."
She didn't cry. That was the terrifying part. She just stood there, silent, like if she moved the wrong way, something worse might come out of her.
"Come here," I said, gesturing to the truck bench seat. "Sit down before you fall over."
I didn't know what to say. Not anything that would make it better.
So I didn't try. I just let my arm settle behind her shoulders, barely touching. Just a quiet offer. She leaned into it, slow like it hurt, like she didn't trust herself to do it all at once. But eventually, her head landed lightly against my shoulder. Her breath hitched once, then steadied.
We stayed like that for maybe twenty seconds.
Then came the voice.
"Wow," Riven drawled from outside the truck. "You really are the emotionally explosive type, huh?"
My jaw clenched.
Ardere stiffened instantly and started to pull away, but I tightened my arm just slightly. "Ignore him," I muttered. "He's just bored."
Too late.
The passenger-side door yanked open with a metallic groan, and Riven climbed in like he owned the damn truck. He smelled like gasoline and mint gum, and had that look on his face like he was just dying to get slapped.
"Dude, why didn't you show me the video?" he said, reaching between us. Before I could react, he snatched the phone clean out of my hand.
"Riven—"
"No, no, no—this is important journalism," he said, thumb already working the screen. "People are flipping over this. Like, 'black hole of sadness girl levels half a school' kind of flipping."
Ardere practically folded in on herself.
Riven hit play, and suddenly the truck was echoing with the distorted roar of her grief blast all over again. This time louder, clearer. He'd turned the volume up.
"Oh damn," he muttered, eyes wide. "This angle's even better. You can see the dude's helmet implode. Look—right there—pause it—holy shit—his spine just folds like a beach chair!"
I yanked the phone out of his hands and killed the video.
"Read the room, Riven."
He leaned back against the door, unbothered, arms spread out like a guy who hadn't just stomped on the last nerve I had left. "I am reading the room. And the room is full of denial and sad hormones and unresolved romantic tension, and I gotta say—y'all are terrible at hiding it."
Ardere stood abruptly. The truck door slammed shut behind her before either of us could stop her.
From the truck, I watched Ardere disappear into the gas station. Her shoulders were hunched, hands jammed into the pockets of her coat like she was trying to hold herself in.
I didn't follow her. Part of me thought maybe she needed space. The other part was afraid of what I'd say if I didn't give it.
"She's buying something weird," Riven muttered beside me. His boot was propped up on the dash like he lived here now.
I glanced over. "How do you know that?"
He tilted his head toward the wide front windows of the store. "Because I've spent enough time tailing runaways and sad kids to recognize the grab-and-go checklist. That's a flashlight. A lighter. Razor blades. Zip ties. A roll of duct tape. And... beef jerky? Okay, that part I respect."
My stomach turned.
"She could just be preparing for the next leg of the trip," I said, a little too fast.
Riven snorted. "Sure. That's why she skipped water, first aid, snacks that don't scream 'emergency bunker,' and instead went for items that say 'either I'm kidnapping someone or planning to disappear.'" He shot me a look. "You sure she's not gonna bolt?"
I didn't answer.
Because I wasn't sure. Not at all.
Ardere stood at the counter now, not even looking at the cashier as she shoved crumpled bills into their hand. I could barely see her face from this distance, but the tension in her body was loud enough to hear.
"Just go in and talk to her," Riven said. "Or don't. Either way, if she goes full feral again, I'm not cleaning up this time. My shoes still smell like psychic trauma."
I opened the door to get out—
—and stopped when Lysander and Ms Marvos walked back across the parking lot. Lysander trailed after her, looking significantly more ruffled. His jacket was half-buttoned, and his mouth was set in that tight, grim line that always meant bad news with a side of "we're probably screwed."
"Perfect," Riven said, sitting up straighter. "The adults are back. Time to pretend we've been behaving."
Marvos didn't look at us right away. Her eyes scanned the gas station windows first. She spotted Ardere.
Then she turned to me.
"Dorian," she said sharply. "Get everyone ready. We have the next steps."
Lysander, quieter, gave me a nod. His eyes lingered on the glovebox where I'd stashed my phone.
Something in my gut told me things were about to get worse.
And Ardere still hadn't looked back.
We regrouped behind the truck, circled in the yellowish spill of the parking lot lights like animals too restless to rest, too tired to run. Ardere had rejoined us, her shopping bag crinkling against her side like a warning. She didn't speak, didn't look at anyone—just stood, arms crossed, eyes pinned to the ground like she could will herself through the asphalt.
Ms. Marvos took center stage, spine straight, voice crisp like she was still standing at a podium instead of between a fuel pump and a flickering streetlamp.
"We're not going north anymore," she said. "Too many eyes on that route. Cameras have already flagged the truck's license in at least three states. We go west."
"West to what?" Riven asked, unimpressed. "The desert? I hate sand. It gets everywhere."
"You'll live," Lysander muttered. He stood behind Marvos like a shadow—his shadow, now—arms crossed, jaw locked so tight you could hear it creak.
"There's a former observatory in the Sierras," Marvos continued. "Built in the '80s. Decommissioned. No official records left. One of my old contacts used it for off-grid communication. We can get there in a day if we keep moving."
"Off-grid communication?" I echoed. "That's what this is about? You're calling in help?"
"No," she said. "I'm warning them not to come."
That shut us up.
"If we're lucky, he'll be able to throw enough static into the system to delay the response teams. But it won't buy us more than forty-eight hours."
"What happens after forty-eight hours?" Ardere asked quietly.
Marvos looked at her like she already knew the answer. "They'll escalate."
"Define escalate," I said, even though I already knew.
Lysander answered this time. "Drones. Private contractors. People that don't ask questions about what's in their sights."
Araxie swore under her breath.
"That's not even the worst part," Marvos added. "The footage from the school has gone viral. Every faction is talking about it—government, underground resistance, fringe believers. Half of them think you're the devil. The other half think you're salvation."
Her eyes flicked to Ardere.
She didn't flinch. But I saw her grip tighten on the bag in her hands.
I took a step forward. "So we hide for two days and hope everyone forgets about the psychic girl who leveled a building while glowing like a goddamn supernova?"
"Not forget," Marvos said. "Discredit. I've already started a disinformation campaign. Crisis actors, faulty surveillance, AI hallucinations. But it won't hold if we stay above ground."
"And if it doesn't?" I asked.
"Then we pray she can control it next time," Lysander said.
Silence.
Riven let out a low whistle. "So... we're basically depending on the unstable grief-bomb to not go nuclear in the next forty-eight hours while we shack up in a glorified space cave."
"Got a better idea?" I snapped.
Riven only grinned, like the tension sliding off everyone else was fuel for him. "Nope. I'm just enjoying the ride. Watching the world spiral into hell has never been this up-close and personal before."
Ardere finally looked up, and it hit like a shift in gravity. Not because she said anything—she didn't. But something in her expression, some locked-tight crack in her restraint, made the hairs on my arms lift. There was no glow, no flickering aura this time. Just… stillness. Heavy and wrong.
I glanced at the bag again. Still folded at her side. Whatever she'd bought in that gas station, it wasn't for comfort.
Ms. Marvos didn't seem to notice the shift—or maybe she did and chose to ignore it. "We leave now. We'll need to drive in intervals, switch routes twice, and ditch the truck once we get to Bishop. After that, it's hiking."
"Hiking?" Riven groaned. "My shoes are literally duct-taped together."
"Then you should've stolen better ones at the last stop," Lysander said flatly.
"We're talking ten, maybe twelve miles into the range," Marvos continued. "We'll go through an old fire trail—no drones, no satellites. Not unless they're already looking."
Araxie finally spoke, her voice a whisper under the weight of it all. "And if they are?"
"Then we won't make it to the observatory," Marvos said. No sugar-coating. Just steel.
Ardere shifted slightly, like she was resetting her spine against some unbearable weight. "If they're watching, I'll feel them," she said. Her voice didn't tremble, but it was distant. Like she'd already left a part of herself behind at that school.
I felt Riven about to open his mouth again—some sarcastic, probably unhelpful comment waiting to derail everything—so I stepped in first.
"Fine. We go west. But don't pretend this isn't already falling apart. That video didn't just show her powers—it showed what they did to her. Everyone who watches it will know she's scared, cornered, desperate. And you think the vultures won't come running for that?"
Marvos fixed her eyes on me. "Then don't let them reach her."
That simple.
That impossible.
A gust of wind kicked up dust from the edge of the lot. For a moment, no one moved. We just stood there—five ghosts in borrowed clothes, trying to outpace a world that wanted us dead or turned into something worse.
Ardere finally started walking toward the truck, her bag swinging loosely now. As she passed me, I lowered my voice. "What did you buy?"
She didn't look at me. "Stuff I might need."
The door creaked as she climbed into the passenger seat. That left me, Lysander, and Riven still outside.
"Define 'need,'" I muttered to myself.
Riven clapped a hand on my shoulder, his grin all teeth. "Isn't this fun? Just like camp. But instead of ghost stories, we get psychotic government ops and spontaneous emotional combustion."
I shrugged him off. "You think everything's a joke."
"It's either that or scream."
I walked away before I could say something I'd regret.
Because he was right. This wasn't going to hold. Not for two days. Not for one.
And whatever Ardere had stuffed in that crinkling little bag?
It felt more like a countdown than a plan.
The miles blurred under our tires like we were trying to outrun something that knew how to fly.
It was well past midnight, and the Sierra Nevadas loomed in the distance like sleeping giants, cloaked in shadows and mist. We hadn't stopped again since the gas station, unless you counted that jittery ten minutes Lysander took behind the wheel to swap out license plates with some poor bastard's camper van. Everyone else pretended to rest, scattered throughout the van with varying levels of exhaustion or denial.
But not me.
I stayed behind the wheel, eyes half on the road, half on the rearview mirror. Watching her.
Ardere sat in the back, tucked into the corner like she could fold herself into silence. Her forehead pressed to the glass, but she wasn't looking at the stars. Her gaze was miles deep—like she was seeing something the rest of us couldn't, or maybe didn't want to.
And that bag was still in her lap.
She hadn't let it go once since the gas station.
It wasn't just paranoia. I knew the weight of grief when it turned sharp, dangerous. The way she had gone inside alone, how fast her fingers had moved over the self-checkout screen like she wasn't just buying supplies—she was assembling a plan. A quiet one. One she didn't think she'd come back from.
Riven had laughed it off, of course. Said she was "probably just picking up period bombs or whatever girls do when they're mad." I almost threw him out of the moving van.
And even now, he was half-asleep with his feet kicked up on the console, mumbling something sarcastic in his dreams. Araxie had her hood pulled down low, earbud in one ear, eyes closed. Marvos and Lysander were whispering in the front seats—strategy talk, timelines, something about altitude changes and drone blind spots.
But me?
I was watching her.
Her fingers kept tracing the edge of the shopping bag. Not rummaging. Just… touching. Like she needed the reminder it was still there. Like it was her tether. Or her exit strategy.
I flicked on the heater, more for something to do than because I was cold. "You okay back there?" I asked, voice low so it didn't carry over the quiet snoring.
No answer.
She didn't even blink.
I glanced in the mirror again, and for the first time in hours, her eyes met mine. Just for a second. Just long enough for my gut to drop. Because whatever was in her head… it wasn't sleep, or fear, or even panic.
It was resolve.
I looked away first.
Something was coming. I could feel it. Maybe it would happen up at that abandoned observatory or maybe before. But I'd seen that look before—when she left the dinner table and went straight for The Drop. I waited until everyone was distracted. Lysander had wandered off to talk logistics with Ms. Marvos near the truck, Riven was off trying to convince Araxie that eating gas station hot dogs was basically survival training, and Ardere…
She was nearby. Close enough that I could still feel that low hum of grief vibrating through the air, but far enough that I could slip away unnoticed. Her duffel bag was tucked behind the back seat. I hesitated only for a second.
I'm not doing this to betray her. I'm doing this because I care.
The zipper was stiff—like the whole bag had been soaked and dried and dragged through hell. I eased it open slowly, my heart beating way too loud for the silence around me.
A pack of crumpled clothes. A half-used journal with the edges burnt. A shattered music player. A plastic bag that had definitely once held bandages. A switchblade. Two, actually.
No vial.
No syringe.
Not even a whisper of what she handed me back in her room.
"Looking for something?"
I froze.
Her voice was right behind me.
I turned too fast, caught mid-crouch. She was standing in the open doorway of the van, one hand gripping the frame, her eyes unreadable.
Stormy. Still. Like glass over a sinkhole.
"I…" I swallowed, guilt punching a hole through my chest. "I was worried. About that thing you gave me. The vial."
Her expression didn't shift. Not even a flinch.
"It's gone," she said. "You don't have to worry about it anymore."
"That's not exactly comforting."
"I didn't ask you to be comforted."
She stepped forward into the van, forcing me to stand and back up until I hit the opposite wall. Her presence filled the space, heavy and electric and laced with exhaustion.
"I trusted you," she said. Not accusing. Just… matter-of-fact. Like it was some kind of fact she had to carry around, even if it hurt.
"You still can," I said, quietly.
"Then stop trying to prove me wrong."
I opened my mouth—ready to say I was sorry, ready to say something that could fix it—but her gaze cut right through me. Not angry. Not even cold. Just tired. Deeply, soul-deep tired in a way that made me realize I'd crossed a line.
"I'll handle it," she said. "Whatever comes next… I'll deal with it. You don't have to play savior."
"I'm not trying to save you, Ardere. I'm trying to stop you from disappearing."
Something flickered in her expression at that—but it passed.
Without another word, she turned and climbed out of the van, letting the door slam shut behind her. The sound echoed, louder than it should have in the quiet lot.
I stared at her bag, still open.
Still empty.
Whatever she had planned…
She'd already moved on to the next step.