*Trigger warnings* near death experience, swearing, angst, traumatic back stories, sever bodily injury, fighting, descriptive scenes of blood and gore.
I wake up in a bed.
A real bed.
Not a cot. Not the floor. Not the cold metal of a van. Sheets. Cotton. A pillow that smells like detergent. There's sunlight bleeding through the cracks of the curtain, warm against my face.
No screaming.
No blood.
No weight pressing down on my chest like something trying to claw its way out.
My hands don't shake when I lift them. They don't burn. There's no echo in my bones. No pain.
I sit up slowly. The world stays still.
The room is… clean. Too clean. Cream-colored walls, lined with posters of constellations and deep space nebulas. There's a desk in the corner with a shut-off monitor. A telescope by the window. A stack of folded towels on a dresser I don't remember ever opening.
I swing my legs out of bed.
The floor is warm.
No one's yelling for me. No one's bleeding out on the floor. No one's laughing like the world is ending.
I check the mirror. My reflection looks—
Fine.
Not haunted.
Not dying.
"Okay," I whisper, voice hoarse. "What the hell is this?"
I open the door to the hallway.
Empty.
No footsteps. No voices. No Lysander raging. No Riven cracking jokes. No Marvos or Araxie. No Ardere.
For a long second, I wonder if I'm dead. Or maybe in some kind of... rehab coma. This place feels off—too soft, too neat, like a photograph that's been retouched until it's not real anymore.
But my heart's still beating.
The walls aren't melting.
And the air has that distinct, sharp chill you only find in the mountains.
Then I see the sign at the end of the hallway:
ASTROPHYSICS OBSERVATION WING – EAST BUILDING
And for the first time since I opened my eyes, I remember where we were going.
The observatory.
We're here.
I press my hand flat against the wall, just to feel something solid.
It's real.
This is real.
...Right?
I keep walking.
The floor doesn't creak under my feet, the light doesn't flicker overhead, and every corner I turn isn't hiding some new horror. It's quiet here—quiet in a way I forgot existed. No gunshots. No bone-snapping impacts. No screaming. Just the low hum of the building's heat and the soft hush of my breath.
I pass another door. Then another. Each one closed. Labeled. "Equipment Storage." "Lab 2B." "Data Archives."
It's too normal.
Too damn normal.
I press my knuckles to my mouth and let out a sharp breath. None of this feels right. It's like someone took the edges of reality and filed them down, smoothed them out so nothing could catch. There's no adrenaline here. No danger.
No Ardere.
My pulse jumps.
Where is she?
I pick up my pace, shoes soundless against the floor, and turn the next corner—and then I stop cold.
There's a door hanging slightly open.
Room 215. No nameplate. Just a sliver of muted light spilling out into the hall.
I don't know what I'm expecting when I step inside. Maybe some sterile hospital setup. Maybe a body hooked up to wires and IV bags. Maybe nothing at all.
But what I get is worse.
Ardere.
Lying in a bed just like mine—but not like mine at all. Because this bed is soaked in silence and dread and something thick sitting in my throat.
She's still.
Too still.
Her face is turned toward the window, slack and pale, freckles almost gray against her skin. The bandages wrapped around her ribs are stained—dark red, angry, like the wound underneath is still leaking out what little strength she has left. She looks half there. Like if I blink too long, she might disappear.
My stomach folds in on itself.
Because no dream feels this detailed. No hallucination gets the blood right.
I inch closer.
Her arm's draped over her stomach. Her fingers are curled slightly, nails dull. Her breathing is shallow—barely there—but it's there. She's alive. Barely.
I sit down beside the bed, careful not to jostle her, and press two fingers under her wrist.
A pulse.
God, I almost sob from relief.
It's faint. But it's real.
I stare at her—at the dark smudges under her eyes, at the gash barely hidden by her bandages, at the frayed edge of the gauze where it's soaked through—and everything in me sinks like stone. I remember the way she looked when she dragged me through the forest, bleeding and silent and still trying to keep me upright even though she was the one shot. Even though she should've collapsed. Even though I should've carried her.
My chest clenches, hard.
This isn't a dream.
This is real.
And I let her bleed to get me to safety.
I reach for her hand, then stop myself.
My fingers hover in the space between us. I don't dare touch her. Not again. Not when even her blood nearly broke me in half.
So I sit back, heart hammering, staring at her fragile, too-pale body in a real bed in a real room in a building we were never supposed to reach.
I sit there, frozen with guilt and fear, hands clenched into fists in my lap. My fingertips still remember the pain—searing, alive, like her blood had teeth—and I can't help but imagine what touching her now would do. To me. To her.
She looks like if I breathe too hard, she'll vanish.
So I stay still. Watch her chest rise and fall in shallow, aching rhythm. I let my eyes trace the soft curls stuck to her temple with sweat, the faint twitch in her jaw like she's trying to grit her teeth even in sleep.
And then—
Her fingers move.
Not much. Just a flicker. Like her hand is reaching toward me before she even knows I'm here.
I hold my breath.
Her lips part, a ghost of a sound curling in her throat—no words, just a low, broken hum. Her brow pinches. She shifts, just slightly, like her body is searching for something.
No.
Someone.
Me.
I stare, stunned, as she unconsciously leans the tiniest bit toward the side of the bed I'm sitting on. Her arm slides an inch. Her breath catches. And suddenly I remember—viscerally—what she told me in the woods, rasped between broken breaths and blood in her mouth:
"Don't let go... even if it hurts."
She needs touch.
Even if it kills us both.
My hand moves before I think.
It reaches across the space between us, trembling, reckless, stupid. I curl my fingers around hers gently—carefully—expecting the burn, the scream, the violent backlash of her power.
But it doesn't come.
Not like before.
There's a tingle—sharp, electric—but it's not pain. Not exactly. It's heat. Ache. Like something waking up inside me that I thought had long since died.
Her fingers twitch. Then curl around mine.
My throat closes.
She's still unconscious, but she clings to me like I'm the only thing anchoring her to the world. Her grip is weak, desperate, familiar. Like her body remembers what her mind can't say.
She wants this.
Needs it.
And now that I've touched her, I realize I do too.
So I don't let go.
Pain be damned.
My fingers are still laced with hers, and the weight of her hand in mine is grounding in a way I didn't expect. I thought I'd be fighting to breathe again, to think straight, to survive the pain—but all I can feel now is her.
Then the door opens.
I don't even need to look up to know who it is. The air shifts. Buzzes. That particular brand of chaotic energy seeps into the room like smoke under the door.
Riven.
"Touching," he says, his voice smooth and full of teeth. "Truly. Warms the heart."
I don't move.
His boots click slowly against the floorboards as he walks farther in, each step uninvited and smug. I don't have to see him to know he's already clocked everything—the way I'm sitting too close, the way my hand is wrapped around Ardere's, the subtle tension in my shoulders like I'm preparing to fight a ghost.
"I come bearing the kindest of intentions," he adds, practically singing the lie. "Thought you might need help."
I finally look up.
He's leaning against the doorway like he owns the place, arms crossed, that smug expression plastered across his face like he's dying to provoke me just for sport. The glint in his eyes isn't concern—it's curiosity, like he's watching a car crash unfold in real time and wondering just how far I'll snap before I break.
"We don't need your help," I say, flatly.
Riven tilts his head like he's hurt. "Oh, Dorian. I didn't say she did. I said you might."
I glare at him. My grip on Ardere's hand tightens, instinctive and stupid, but Riven sees it. Of course he does. His smirk sharpens like he's just won a round I didn't know we were playing.
"You're so predictable, it's adorable," he murmurs. "Boy meets girl. Girl bleeds on boy. Boy loses his damn mind and forgets she's toxic."
I don't respond. I just stare at him, forcing my breath to stay even.
"That protective streak," Riven hums, circling the room like a predator. "It's really something. But you know it's not going to save her, right? Not from what's coming. Not from herself."
I clench my jaw. "You done?"
He tilts his head, that awful glint still in his eyes. "Hardly. But I'll be good. Scout's honor."
"Don't think you were ever a scout."
"Fair," he admits, then leans down, far too close, eyes flicking between me and Ardere's pale, bloodied form. "But I am an expert in watching things fall apart. Thought I'd stop by before the show really kicks off."
I don't answer. I can't. Not without reaching for his throat.
Instead, I lower my head, focusing on Ardere again. Her grip on my hand hasn't loosened.
I don't let it.
Riven drifts closer, each step exaggerated like he's on some stage only he can see. "You should be thanking me, you know. I'm the reason she didn't bleed out in the dirt somewhere. Dragging you, of all people, back to camp nearly killed her."
I lift my eyes slowly. "What?"
"Oh," he says, drawing it out like honey. "She didn't tell you?"
He smiles, wicked and too white in the dark room. "Of course not. She was too busy being unconscious. You, on the other hand—well, you were dead weight. Moaning, clawing at your own skin, crying for her."
He leans against the wall, arms crossed again, head tilted like he's reminiscing something sweet.
"She had a bullet hole in her side, Dorian. Could barely stand. And she still chose to haul your sorry, screaming ass back here. Every step she took, she tore herself further open. But she didn't stop." He chuckles. "Even when you kicked her. Twice."
I feel something coil in my gut. Acid and guilt and something so hot I'm shaking.
"She should've left you there," Riven says casually. "Hell, I told her to. But you know her—always playing the tragic hero. Stupid girl."
I stand without thinking. Not fast, not aggressive. Just up. Because I can't sit through this anymore.
Riven grins like he's won something. "Touched a nerve, have I?"
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask. My voice is quiet. Too quiet.
He pushes off the wall and steps into my space, the air turning razor-sharp.
"Because I like watching you hate yourself. Because you think you're good for her—and I think you're the final nail in her coffin."
His smile fades, but the gleam in his eye doesn't. "And because deep down, you know it's true."
My fists clench at my sides, nails biting into my palms. I don't swing. I want to. God, I want to. But Ardere's still here—still tethering me to the ground with nothing more than her bruised fingers curled loosely around mine.
Riven glances down at her, then back at me.
"You're already breaking, Dorian. And she's already bleeding. Can't wait to see how the rest of this goes."
And with that, he turns and walks to the far side of the room, like he's planning to stay. Like this is a goddamn front row seat to a show only he understands.
I drop back to my knees beside Ardere and reach for her hand again.
Not for reassurance.
For anchor.
One breath.
One goddamn breath of air.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."
I turn just as he storms in—his presence a firestorm in motion, his hands clenched at his sides like it's taking everything in him not to punch straight through the wall.
Or me.
"You have some fucking nerve," he growls, eyes zeroing in on me like I'm the entire source of the rot in this place. "You think you can just walk in here like you didn't almost get her killed?"
"I didn't ask her to—"
"No, you didn't ask. You expected." He stalks closer. "You laid there, bleeding and broken, and she still chose to drag your ass back through the woods. With a bullet in her side. With blood running down her legs. Do you even know what that looked like? Do you even remember what she looked like when she collapsed at the edge of camp?!"
His voice cracks on the word collapsed. That shakes me more than the rage.
Behind him, Riven hasn't moved from his shadowed corner, watching like the smug little demon he is, drinking this all in like wine.
"She hasn't woken up in two days," Lysander continues. "Two. Days. And the only reason she even made it back is because she nearly killed herself hauling your dead weight around."
"I didn't ask her to," I repeat, though it sounds paper-thin now. "I didn't want her to."
"But she did anyway." Lysander spits the words like venom. "Because that's who she is. And what have you done for her? What do you ever do, besides fall apart and let her clean it up?"
That lands. Sharp. True.
I glance back toward the bed, where Ardere's body is still motionless, breath shallow, too pale. Her bandages are darker now. Wetter.
"Don't even think about touching her," Lysander snaps, reading my movement like a hawk. "You want to do something for her? Leave. Let her recover without your guilt poisoning the air around her."
The silence that follows feels too loud. Riven sighs from the corner, feigning boredom now that the shouting's done.
But Lysander's still staring at me. Waiting. Daring me.
I shouldn't still be standing here.
I should leave—let this storm rip through without catching fire again.
But I don't move.
Because I can't.
Lysander doesn't even look up from Ardere as he speaks next, voice low, cold, soaked in memory.
"You know what the worst part was?"
His fingers hover above her side, right where the blood-soaked gauze is taped over her ribs. The way he stares at it—like it's still fresh, like he's still there, still doing it—makes the back of my throat dry out.
"She didn't scream," he says softly. "Didn't cry. Didn't even flinch."
He finally lifts his gaze to mine. And what I see there isn't just anger. It's devastation. Fury wrapped around heartbreak so tight it's choking him.
"I had to dig a bullet out of my sister while she was barely conscious. While she bled all over my hands. And she just laid there and let it happen, like it didn't matter. Like she didn't matter."
His jaw flexes. He breathes hard through his nose.
"You weren't awake to see what was left of her after she got you back here. You didn't see her collapse mid-sentence. You didn't hear the gurgling in her chest because her lung was almost punctured. You didn't have to watch her body go limp while we were still trying to cut your shirt off."
I feel like I'm going to be sick. I don't deserve to look at her. I don't deserve to be here.
But Lysander isn't done.
"She was trembling so hard I couldn't even get the tweezers steady. I had to hold her down with one arm while I dug it out with the other. Every time I pulled, she bled more. Every second I hesitated, it felt like I was killing her."
He stands slowly, and for a second I think he might hit me. I wish he would. I wish he'd take a swing and make it easy, make it simple, because this—this is worse.
"She was the one who almost died. And you—" He scoffs, glaring down at me. "You're standing here like you're the victim."
"I'm not," I rasp. "I never said I was."
"Then act like it."
He turns back to her, voice barely a whisper now. "You're lucky she's not awake. Because I think this time, you'd finally see what it looks like when she gives up on you."
The words gut me.
I don't move. I don't breathe.
Because I think he might be right.
And the thought of that—of her giving up on me—is worse than any poison blood I'll ever take.
She shifts.
It's barely anything—just a twitch of her fingers, a flicker in her brow—but it might as well be a gunshot to the room.
Lysander notices instantly. His entire body goes rigid. Then, without a word, he grabs me by the arm and starts dragging me back from her bed.
"No—no, wait—Lysander—" My boots scrape the floor. I twist in his grip, trying to get back to her, but I'm still weak, half-falling with every step he forces me to take.
"She's waking up," I choke out. "Please, let me stay—"
"That's exactly why you're leaving," he snaps, shoving me harder now, more force than finesse. "God help me, Dorian, she is not waking up to your face."
"I need to be here—"
"You needed to be there when she was screaming in the dirt with a hole in her side!"
His hand is like iron around my arm, dragging me across the threshold. The doorframe slams into my shoulder as I resist, one last pathetic attempt to dig my heels in, to stay.
"I can explain," I plead, gasping as my vision blurs. "Just let me—please, Lysander, I can't let her think I left her—"
"You did," he growls, spinning and shoving me hard into the hallway. "And now she's going to wake up in peace, with people who actually give a shit about her standing by her side."
The door slams in my face before I can say anything else.
Before I can tell him I never left on purpose.
That I didn't even know I was gone.
That I woke up in hell only to find out she'd already dragged me back.
Now I'm out here, pressed against the door like a fucking ghost. Shaking. Cold.
Listening through the wood for a voice—any voice—to tell me she's okay.
To tell me she still wants me at all.
—
I don't leave.
I should. I know I should. But my legs won't carry me far even if I wanted them to. So I slide down the wall outside her door, back to the wood, legs drawn in, and I wait.
It's worse than silence.
Because now I can hear them.
The bedsheets rustling. The soft catch of her breath. Lysander's voice—low, trying to be gentle—but it doesn't hide the sharpness underneath.
"You need the dressing changed," he says.
"I can do it myself," Ardere replies. Her voice is so hoarse it hardly sounds like her. But it still guts me. "Just give me a minute."
"You can't even sit up straight."
"I said I can do it."
There's a pause. Something creaks—her bed? A chair?
"I already saw it, you know," Lysander mutters, his words heavier now. "I already dug the damn bullet out."
"I know." She sounds ashamed of it. "I didn't want you to see it."
"Yeah, well, I didn't want to either," he snaps, and I flinch. Then he sighs. "But I'm here. So just let me clean it before it gets worse."
Another pause.
More rustling. I imagine her trying to shift, flinching from the movement. I imagine her clutching the edge of the sheets to keep herself from groaning.
And then—
"You shouldn't touch me."
Lysander's quiet a moment. "What?"
"I'm still bleeding," she says. "If it's still in me—if any of it's left—then it might still hurt you. I don't know what it'll do to you, Lysander. You're not like Dorian. You can't—"
"You think I care about that?" he cuts in. "You think I'd let you get infected just to keep my own hands clean?"
"It's not about that!" she fires back, sharper now, more desperate. "I just—if it hurts you, if it gets in you—I don't know what it'll do. You've seen what it does."
The words sink like nails into my skin.
She means me.
She means the screaming, the blood, the hours I don't even remember.
She's still afraid of what she carries inside her.
And she's still more afraid of hurting the people around her than she is of bleeding out on her own bed.
Something in me twists, too tight to breathe around.
Inside the room, Lysander's voice softens.
"I'm not afraid of you, Ardere. Not your blood, not your power. Nothing." Another breath. "So just let me help."
She doesn't respond.
But I don't hear the sheets rustle again.
So I know she let him.
I press my palms flat to the floor on either side of me, head tipped back against the wall.
I'm not sure if I'm relieved.
Or if I've just never felt further away from her in my life.
"You're pathetic, you know that?"
The voice drips down from above like venom, and I don't even need to look up to know who it is.
Riven.
I don't answer. Just keep staring at the opposite wall, trying to pretend my chest isn't breaking in slow motion with every muffled word from behind the door.
But Riven doesn't take silence as a hint. He never has.
"Thought you were supposed to be the tough one," he muses as he slides down the wall beside me, mockingly mirroring my position. "Golden boy. Knight in bloody armor. But here you are, hiding in the hallway like a dog someone kicked too hard."
"Go away, Riven."
He lets out a soft laugh, the kind that always carries teeth.
"I could. But then I wouldn't get to hear all these sweet little moments. She really doesn't want your blood near hers, huh?" He hums, tapping the back of his head against the wall in rhythm. "That's gotta sting."
I clench my jaw. Don't answer. Don't give him the satisfaction.
But he keeps going, like a knife that never dulls. "And Lysander? Man, he hates you. You hear the way he talks about you? Makes me think maybe I should've backed his play instead."
I glare at him finally. "You're here just to get under my skin."
"No. I'm here because this is entertaining." He grins at me, all sharp edges and unapologetic cruelty. "I mean, it's like watching a slow-motion car crash. You trying to be useful while she bleeds, while her brother threatens to break your spine, while she still thinks you're the only one who can survive her—but she doesn't even want to look at you anymore."
"Shut up."
"Can't. Won't." He leans in slightly, dropping his voice. "You think you're gonna get forgiven? For passing out? For scaring the hell out of her? For making her drag you through the woods while she was full of holes?"
I lurch to my feet without thinking, chest heaving. But the minute I'm standing, my legs go weak and the hallway tilts. I slam a palm to the wall to steady myself.
Riven doesn't even flinch.
"Careful," he drawls. "Wouldn't want you collapsing again. Ardere might have to carry your broken ego twice."
My hands curl into fists, but I don't swing. I can't. Not with her ten feet away behind that door. Not when this would only wake her.
He knows that too.
So he smirks, like he's already won. "Anyway," he says, standing and brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves. "You stay here. Cry a little. Maybe write her a poem. I'll go see if Lysander left any whiskey in the kitchen."
Then he winks. "Let me know if she starts screaming again."
And just like that, he vanishes down the hall, whistling something soft and cruel as he goes.
Lysander's voice filters through first—sharp and frustrated. "Hold still—Ardere, stop moving."
"I am holding still," she snaps back, her voice tight with pain.
There's a pause. Then the kind of sound that makes my own skin crawl—a breath sucked in through teeth, the hiss of gauze against torn flesh. I squeeze my eyes shut.
"Don't let it drip on you," she says suddenly. Flat. Dead serious.
"That's not—Ardere, I'm not gonna drop dead from your blood."
"You don't know that," she answers too fast.
It's quiet for a beat, and all I can hear is the pounding in my chest.
"You dragged Dorian through the woods with your gut half torn open," Lysander says, lower now. "You blacked out standing up, and now you're scared of this?"
"You don't understand."
"Then help me."
Another silence. This one longer. He's letting her decide whether to speak. She doesn't, not for a while. Then:
"I couldn't risk you touching it. I couldn't risk anyone."
The ache that comes up my throat is sharp and bitter. I press the heels of my palms into my eyes like it'll make any of this easier to hear.
Lysander breathes out like he's aged ten years in the last two minutes. "I'm not scared of you, Ardere. Not the thing inside you, not what it does, not even what it might become."
"You should be."
God. The way she says it—too quiet. Too steady. Like a truth she's already made peace with, even if it kills her.
"I am," she adds.
And just like that, the floor drops out under me.
She's unraveling in there. Slowly. Quietly. In a way that looks a lot like being calm but feels a lot like drowning.
"It should've been me," Lysander says, voice cracking now.
"No."
She's sharper with him than I expected. Fierce. Protective, even now.
"You were ten, Ardie."
"I said no."
Then quieter: "You don't get to rewrite the story just because the ending hurts."
A lump forms hard in my throat. I can see her in my head—the way her shoulders hunch when she's trying not to cry, the way she folds into herself when she thinks no one's watching. I've seen that version of her too many times. On too many floors. With too many stitches.
"I was there. I chose this," she says. "And now I have to live with it."
I dig my fingers into my knees and try not to break something.
"I just want my sister back," Lysander whispers.
I brace for her silence.
But she says, "You don't."
"…What?"
"You want the girl you think I was. That girl died. I don't know what's left."
And I swear to god it knocks the wind out of me.
Because I don't know either.
I think I used to. I think I used to believe there was a version of her I could still reach, if I just stayed long enough. But this—this thing that's clawing its way out of her chest and bleeding out through her seams—it's too much. And she's still fighting. Still trying to make it easier for everyone else to survive her.
Even now.
The door creaks slightly under my back, but I don't move. I don't breathe. I just sit there, listening to the two of them fall apart behind a wall that may as well be miles thick.
There's a long stretch of silence, broken only by the soft rustle of bandages and the occasional wince I can hear in her breath.
Then Ardere asks, quietly—so quietly I almost miss it:
"Is he still here?"
My stomach twists. I don't breathe. I don't move.
Lysander hesitates. I can hear it. The pause, the weight of it. Like he's considering whether or not to give me up. Like he knows I'm out here.
And maybe he does.
"No," he lies.
Simple. Clean. No explanation offered.
A beat of silence. Then she says, "Good."
I don't know why that hurts. I shouldn't care. Of course she doesn't want me here. Not like this. Not when she's barely stitched together, not when every part of her is made of glass and loaded with traps. She's always been this way—guarded like her blood might bite. Like I'll catch something just by caring.
But something in her tone—flat, automatic, like she needed to say it before she meant it—it lodges somewhere behind my ribs.
"You really think he'd still be here after everything?" Lysander says.
It's too pointed. Too casual. Like a trap set just for her.
And sure enough, Ardere flinches.
"I didn't ask you to bring him into this," she mutters.
"You didn't have to," Lysander snaps, bandages crumpling in his fists. "He threw himself in the middle. I told you what would happen if you kept pretending it didn't matter."
I feel that like a slap. Maybe because I know he's not wrong.
But then Ardere says something so quiet I almost miss it:
"Better to leave him scorched than buried."
It silences Lysander completely. And me too, if I'm being honest.
I look down at my hands. At the skin I've bitten raw at the edge of my thumb. I don't even remember doing that.
When the door finally creaked open I looked up so fast my neck twinged. Lysander steps out, slow and deliberate, like he's got all the time in the world to shut it quietly behind him. Like he didn't just spend the last half hour slicing me open with lies I wasn't allowed to bleed from.
He doesn't even look at me.
Just keeps walking.
Until I'm on my feet.
I'm in front of him before I realize I moved. My hand slams into his chest, hard enough that his shoulder bumps the wall.
"The fuck was that?"
He finally looks at me. Calm. Detached. As if I'm just an annoying itch he thought he'd already scratched.
"You lied."
"And?"
"I heard her ask about me."
"So?"
I shove him again, this time with more heat behind it. "You don't get to decide that. You don't get to pretend I'm not here—she doesn't get to decide that either. I carried her through that hell too. I nearly died for her. I deserve—"
"What?" Lysander snaps, grabbing my wrists in a sudden, iron grip. "You deserve what, Dorian? A thank-you? A kiss on the forehead? You think that earns you a place at her bedside like some fucking reward?"
I grit my teeth, trying to tear my arms free. "I deserve to talk to her."
"She doesn't want you in there."
"You don't get to speak for her!"
"I do," he growls, yanking me closer. "Because when she can't speak for herself, when she's too far gone or bleeding out, or too fucking scared to say what she wants out loud—I do. And what she wants right now is not you."
I'm shaking. From rage. From something worse.
I want to punch him. I want to tear the smug, cold detachment from his face and remind him I am not some fragile piece of glass he can push around.
But I know if I take one more step—if I hit him—it'll be over. Not just with him. With her.
So I stand there, chest heaving, fists clenched, burning.
"I'm not leaving," I say, voice low and raw. "So you can drag me, knock me out, kill me if you want—but I am not leaving."
"You don't get to waltz back in just because you want to soothe your guilt," he snaps, stepping in close now, towering over me. "You passed out. She dragged you through the woods while bleeding out. I dug a bullet out of her ribs while you bled on the floor. So no, Dorian, you don't get to be the hero in this one."
My voice drops, jagged at the edges. "You think I don't care about her?"
"I think you don't know what it costs to care about her," he bites out. "And until you do, stay the hell out of her room."
He walks off, not giving me a chance to argue, shoulders tense and jaw tight like he's just barely keeping himself together.
I don't follow him.
I turn and press my back against the wall again. Slide down slow until I'm sitting on the cold floor.
I stay there. Because if she wakes up and asks for me—even once—I'll be here.
Even if she doesn't.
****
The sound tears through the silence like a rip in the world.
At first, I don't even register it. I'm half-asleep, the kind of sleep that isn't real, not when you're counting heartbeats and praying they're not hers.
Then I know it's her.
A muffled cry. Desperate. Broken. My name, maybe—maybe not. I don't care.
I'm out of the bed before my feet remember how to stand. I don't grab a shirt. I don't bother with shoes. I don't think. I just run.
The hallway blurs around me. I take the turn too fast and nearly skid past her door before slamming my shoulder into it. It's locked.
I don't stop.
The door gives under my weight on the second hit.
"Ardere?!"
She's thrashing on the bed, tangled in sheets and sweat, eyes wild, mouth moving in silent terror, and I'm across the room before the splinters even settle behind me.
"Hey—hey, hey, it's okay, it's okay, you're safe, I'm here—what happened? Is it your wound? Did it reopen? Are you in pain?"
I'm rambling like an idiot, hands hovering above her like I don't know where I'm allowed to touch.
Her eyes flicker open, sharp and unfocused. She stares at me like I'm made of smoke. "Dorian…?"
"Yeah." My breath catches. "Yeah, I'm here. I'm right here."
She blinks. Confused. "But… Lysander said you left."
I freeze for half a second.
Then: "He lied."
I don't even try to hide it. There's no point pretending now—not with her staring at me like she isn't sure if I'm real. Like I'm something her dream hasn't shaken off yet.
"I didn't leave," I whisper. "I couldn't."
She's sitting up now, pushing the sheets off slowly, the bandage at her side darkened but intact. Her breathing still too fast, her hands trembling, and every part of me is screaming to pull her into my arms.
But I wait.
She stares at me like she's trying to decide if I're going to shatter in her hands.
"I thought you were gone," she says softly. Like it cost her something to admit that.
I take one step closer. "I'll leave when you tell me to. Not before."
Her eyes flick down. She swallows hard. She's breathing slower now. Her eyes flicker less in the dark. Her hands are still. Not reaching. Not pushing me away either. It's not everything. But it's something.
"Are you okay?" I ask again, quieter this time.
Ardere nods once—small, hesitant. Like maybe she doesn't trust the moment yet. Like maybe it'll crack under the weight of her answer.
Then the door slams open.
CRACK—
A flash of light. My skull rattles. I stagger sideways as a fist collides with the side of my head, the sharp taste of metal already blooming on my tongue.
"What the hell are you doing!?"
Lysander. Red-faced, breathing like he just sprinted through hell, and furious.
I stumble, catch the edge of the dresser, and push myself back upright.
"She was screaming—"
"You think that gives you the right to barge into her room in the middle of the night!?" he yells, cutting me off, stalking closer again.
"I thought she was dying!" I yell back. "What the hell was I supposed to do, Lysander? Wait outside while she choked on her own fear?"
"You weren't supposed to be here at all!" His hand is back on me, shoving hard. "I told her you were gone!"
"Yeah," I growl, slamming him back with both hands. "And she knew you lied."
And then we're just on each other.
Fists. Shouts. Pain.
I land a punch square into his ribs—Lysander snarls and slams me backwards into the edge of the bed. I hear something crash. Ardere's voice rises somewhere behind us but I'm too far gone to pull back now.
He swings again. I duck low and tackle him at the waist. We hit the floor hard, limbs tangled, both of us punching like it'll solve something. Like anything we say would get heard better through fists.
"You think you can protect her?" Lysander spits, his hand catching my jaw. "You don't know anything—"
"Better than lying to her face and calling it safety!"
We're grappling now, too close to throw real punches, too stubborn to let go. I barely register the creak of the door until—
"OH MY GOD, this is better than I dreamed it would be."
Riven.
Leaning against the doorframe, grinning like Christmas came early.
"Should I get popcorn or a bucket of water?" he asks no one in particular. "Because I am not missing this."
"Riven—shut up!" Ardere snaps from behind me, but it's barely loud enough to cut through the chaos.
The door slams open again—this time harder, heavier.
"What in seven hells is going on in here?!"
Ms. Marvos.
Closely followed by Araxie, who takes one look at the tangle of limbs and blood and just sighs like this is a Tuesday.
I don't even see who grabs who first—but suddenly I'm yanked back by the collar, and Lysander's arm is caught in a vice grip by Araxie.
"Let go," he snarls, jerking against her.
"I will put you through the wall," she mutters flatly. "Try me."
Marvos is on me, checking my face for bruises like I'm five years old, like she didn't just witness the beginning of a war. "What is wrong with you two?"
"He hit me first," I mutter, spitting blood onto the floor.
"You tackled me!" Lysander yells, voice cracking from rage or something worse.
"Because you lied to her!"
They both go still.
Dead still.
Ms. Marvos looks between us. "Out." She points to the door like it's exile.
"I'm not leaving her," I say immediately.
"I will drag you," she says just as fast.
Araxie's still got Lysander by the elbow. He rips himself free but doesn't move. Just stares at Ardere.
She hasn't said anything since the start.
But her eyes are on me.
And for all the chaos and blood and screaming—it's that quiet, tired look that leaves me breathless.
God, if she yelled any louder, the ceiling might just crack open.
Marvos had both of us backed against the wall like we were schoolboys caught setting fire to the library. Not that I was innocent in this, but the blood still hadn't dried on my lip, and Lysander's knuckles were split open. We weren't in the mood to be parented. Too bad that didn't matter.
"Are you insane?" she snapped at Lysander, finger jammed against his chest like a dagger. "She's got a hole in her side and you two are treating this place like a barroom brawl! She woke up to the sound of your fists hitting flesh!"
"She woke up to him in her room!" Lysander snapped, voice sharp enough to cut bone. "That's worse."
"She wanted him there," Marvos bit back, turning on me without skipping a beat. "Did she not? Or were you hoping to swoop in and play hero again?"
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. No good words for what I felt. No clean explanations for the mess I was.
"She was dreaming about him," Riven chimed in from the corner, grinning like he'd found the best seat in the theatre. "Tossing and turning, whispering his name, sweating through the sheets. Very romantic. Shame about the part where you almost cracked his skull open."
"Shut it, Riven," Marvos barked, without even looking at him. Her eyes pinned back on me. "You want to help her, Dorian? Then stop acting like a fucking coward."
That landed hard. Worse than any hit Lysander had thrown. My jaw tensed. "I'm not—"
"Yes, you are. Hiding in hallways. Lurking around instead of facing her. Either go in there and be something real, or leave her the hell alone. Don't hover like some broken goddamn ghost."
Lysander was still panting beside me. I could feel the fury radiating off him.
"And you." Marvos turned again, eyes gleaming with fury. "You don't own her. I don't care if she's your sister, your twin, your soul-tethered whatever. You don't get to police every breath she takes. That's not love. That's control."
"She bled all over the forest because of him," Lysander growled. "He poisoned her. Her hands are blistered, her wound is infected, and he—"
"—is the only person she's reached for since she got back," she snapped. "Do you think she dragged him through the woods because she had nothing better to do? You think she suffered like that for someone she didn't give a damn about?"
Silence fell like a guillotine.
Lysander's fists slowly unclenched. My heart was still racing.
Ms. Marvos took a breath, softer now, like she hated the words but knew they needed to be said. "You don't get to gatekeep her pain, Lysander. She's not safe just because you're there. She's not healed just because you stitched her up."
"She's my sister," he said, voice hoarse.
"I know she is," she said, and something in her voice cracked. "But she's also something more than that now. And you need to let her be."
Silence stretched.
The walls suddenly felt too thin, the air too close.
From inside the room, Araxie's voice filtered through softly, comforting. Ardere must've stirred again.
"I don't want to hear another fight tonight," Marvos said, backing away from both of us. "You want to yell, go outside and yell at the stars. They're better at listening than either of you seem to be."
Then she turned on her heel and disappeared into the room.
Riven gave a low whistle and leaned closer to me with that same crooked grin. "Whew. Mommy Marvos really let you have it."
I didn't say anything. My blood was still roaring in my ears.
Because I didn't care that I got yelled at. I didn't care that Lysander hit me.
All I could think about was that—
"She wants to see you," Araxie said softly, but the command in her tone was unmistakable. Not a suggestion. Not a favor. A fact.
I blinked. "What?"
"You can go in."
Lysander shifted beside me, bristling like a pissed-off watchdog. But Araxie looked at him—looked, that was all—and whatever protest he'd been about to launch died on his tongue like it choked him on the way out. He stepped back, jaw clenched, but silent.
I didn't wait for him to change his mind.
My hand found the doorknob. The room was dim, the kind of darkness where the light from the hall cut across the floor like a quiet promise. She was curled in on herself, the blanket tangled at her knees, one hand clutching the edge of the mattress like she didn't trust it to stay real.
Her head turned at the sound of the door.
And then she saw me.
"Dorian," she whispered, like it knocked the breath out of her to say my name.
"Yeah," I said, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. "I'm here."
She pushed herself up, slower than I'd ever seen her move. Her face was pale. Exhausted. Worn so thin it made my chest ache. And then—
"Are you okay?" she asked, like that was the most important question in the world.
I blinked. "What?"
She didn't repeat it. Just looked at me, wide-eyed and fragile, like I was the one who might break.
"I should have warned you it would poison you," she said, voice catching on the words. "I thought you were going to die. Because of me."
My throat went dry. I crossed the room in three steps and sank onto the edge of the bed before my legs could lock up. She was looking at me like I was some kind of ghost.
"Hey," I said quietly, "no. Don't do that."
Her lip trembled, but she didn't look away.
"If anyone should be asking if anyone is okay, it should be me asking you," I said, my voice sharp with guilt I couldn't hide. "You've been through hell, Ardere. Your side's torn up, your hands won't stop shaking, you scream yourself awake—don't look at me like I'm the one who almost didn't make it."
"But you didn't almost make it," she said, eyes glassy. "You were the one person I thought I could protect. And I nearly—"
"You did protect me," I cut in. "You still do."
She went quiet. Swallowed hard. I reached out before I could stop myself and brushed my hand against hers. Just once. Just to prove we were both still here.
"I'm okay," I said, softer this time. "I promise."
She's doing it again.
I see it the second the light leaves her eyes. The moment that raw, terrifying honesty we just touched flickers and fades. Her gaze slips sideways, and her face folds back into itself—guarded, blank, safe.
Like it never happened. Like I imagined the whole thing.
No. No, no, no.
I shake my head and lean closer, refusing to let the distance stretch. "Don't do that."
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn't say anything. Just stares past me like she's already moved on, like she's already buried the version of herself that let me in for even half a breath.
"Ardere." My voice cracks. I don't even care. "Don't shut me out just to protect me."
She doesn't meet my eyes, but her fingers twitch in my hand.
"It's better this way," she says, so quiet it barely counts as speech. "You don't get it, Dorian. You can't. What happened out there—what I let happen—it changes everything."
"No. It doesn't." My grip on her hand tightens. "That's what I'm trying to tell you."
Her lip curls like she's about to argue, but I cut her off before she can lie to both of us.
"You're trying to carry this alone again. You're building your little walls and putting on your quiet, unbothered mask, and I know what that looks like now, Ardere. I've seen it too many times. But I was there. I saw you. I saw what it did to you, and you think what? That if you shut me out now, I'll walk away cleaner? That I'll be safer?"
She finally looks at me. And God, it hurts.
Because even though her face is locked down and emotionless, her eyes are shattering. Every second she holds back is a scream caught in her throat.
"You will be safer," she says, hollow. "You have no idea what I'm capable of, Dorian. What I could've done to you. What I might still do."
I shake my head. "No. You need to hear me say this. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not running. Not now. Not because of what happened, not because of anything."
Her lips part like she wants to argue. Like she wants to throw up a wall between us again. But before she can speak, I squeeze her hand, pulling her gaze back to mine.
"You will be safer," she says, hollow. "You have no idea what I'm capable of, Dorian. What I could've done to you. What I might still do."
I reach up with my free hand and place it gently against her cheek, forcing her to stay present. "I don't care. I don't care if you're a storm. I don't care if you lose control. I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be."
"Well, I'm not."
She flinches like I hit her. Not from the words, but from the weight of them. From the truth behind them.
"You think I'm saying this to protect myself?" I ask, almost laughing through the lump in my throat. "I'm saying it to protect you, Ardere. Because if you close me out again—if you convince yourself you don't deserve help or love or softness—it's going to kill you. And I can't—"
I have to stop.
I drag in a breath that burns.
"I can't watch you disappear again."
Something cracks in her. I see it—just barely—but I see it. Her eyes flicker, her chin trembles, and for a split second, she stops pretending. She looks at me like she wants to say she's sorry. Like she wants to scream that I'm wrong, that she's not worth it.
But I beat her to it.
"You're not saving me by walking away from me. You're hurting me."
The air between us is electric, painful.
I lower my voice, softer now. "So if you're gonna do it—if you're gonna shove me out—look me in the eye while you do it."
She can't. She doesn't. She closes her eyes for half a second. Just one beat. Then:
"Lysander will kill you."
She says it like she's already mourning me. Like I'm some name on a stone she's seen carved in advance.
It knocks the air right out of me.
Not because I don't believe her. I do. I've seen what Lysander is capable of. What he's willing to do.
But because she thinks that's all it takes to make me walk away.
I take a step closer. "He'd have to try."
"Don't." Her voice shakes. "You don't understand. He—he doesn't get tired. He doesn't let go. If he thinks you matter to me, he'll come for you just to prove he can."
"I already matter to you."
She flinches. Just slightly. But I feel it like a scream.
"If he's going to come for me," I add, softer now, "then it's already set in motion."
Her mouth opens. Then shuts. Her whole body trembling like she wants to argue but doesn't know how.
Her walls falter again. And this time… she doesn't rebuild them.
She steps into me, pressing her forehead to my shoulder, voice small and wrecked.
"I'm scared."
"I know," I murmur, wrapping my arms around her like I'm allowed to. Like she won't vanish if I hold too tightly. "Me too."
She clings to me like I'm the only stable thing left.
****
I slipped out of Ardere's room like I was sneaking out of a crime scene. Every step was calculated, quiet, careful. The door clicked shut behind me with the softest snap, but even that made my heart jump. Lysander's room was just down the hall. If he caught me, I'd be screwed six ways to hell—and that was if I was lucky.
I crept down the stairs like a ghost, socks whispering against the hardwood. My head was still throbbing from where he'd clocked me last night, but I didn't care. I found Ms. Marvos in the kitchen, back to me, wearing a worn oversized cardigan and frying something that smelled vaguely like eggs. Her hair was tied up in a frizzy, haphazard bun, and she moved with the kind of exhausted grace of someone who had seen too much but still refused to sit down.
She didn't even turn around when she said, "You look like a boy with too many questions and not enough sense."
I froze halfway into the room. "...Is it that obvious?"
She glanced over her shoulder, raising one thick brow. "You've got that haunted look about you. Same one Lysander wore. Sit down, Dorian. I'm not going to poison your eggs."
I pulled out a chair and sat. The kitchen felt warmer than it should've, sun filtering in through gauzy curtains, catching the dust in the air like a spell suspended in motion.
"I was just making small talk," I said after a minute, voice low. "But… I need to ask. I need to understand."
She didn't reply. Just plated the eggs and slid them in front of me with a muttered, "Eat." I poked at them, unsure where to start. Finally, I just said it.
"What happened to Ardere?" I asked. "Why is her touch like… grief? Why does her blood hurt people?"
Marvos didn't move for a long time. The only sound was the hum of the fridge and the quiet sizzle of the empty pan still on the stove. When she finally turned to look at me fully, her face was unreadable.
"That's not my story to tell," she said carefully. "But since I know damn well you're going to keep asking until someone breaks, I'll give you this much."
I sat up straighter.
"She wasn't born like this," she said. "It's a consequence. A side effect. Of something done to her. Something meant to make her into a weapon."
"A weapon?" I echoed.
Ms. Marvos nodded, folding her arms. "Her blood carries something—something old, something angry. And her touch… that's the backlash. The price. Pain clings to her, like it's trying to get back in."
I swallowed hard. "And Lysander?"
"He's trying to undo it. Always has been." Her gaze sharpened. "But you? You're the variable none of us planned for. And I suggest you tread very carefully, Dorian. Because if you break her, I will not stop Lysander from breaking you in return."
I didn't touch the eggs.
My stomach was too twisted.
"Something done to her," I repeated slowly. The grief? Her touch?"
Marvos tilted her head, as if weighing how much truth I could stomach. "That's not yours you're feeling, Dorian."
I looked at her.
"That's hers," she said. "All of it. What you feel for a moment is what she feels every second of her life. That ache in your chest? That drowning, suffocating sorrow? That's what it's like to wake up in her skin."
It hit me like a fist to the ribs. All the breath left my lungs.
"She doesn't siphon it," Marvos continued. "She carries it. Stores it. Every trauma, every nightmare, every time someone screamed in her direction—she absorbed it and kept it. She never lets it go."
I couldn't speak.
"She lets you feel it so you understand," she added, voice quieter now. "So someone knows. She never means to hurt you. She just doesn't know how to shut the door anymore."
My hand trembled where it gripped the edge of the table.
"I thought…" I whispered. "I thought she was making me feel mine. I thought that was the point. Some lesson."
Marvos shook her head. "You couldn't handle your own for five seconds. Can you imagine living inside hers?"
I couldn't. Not really. But I remembered the weight. The way it pressed in behind my eyes like they were about to bleed. How it made me feel like I was dying slowly from the inside out. And she lived like that—functioned like that?
"She thinks she's poison," I said hoarsely.
"She thinks she deserves it," Marvos said.
I looked down at my hands. I could still feel the echo of her pain in my bones. Like an afterimage that wouldn't let go.
"I just want her to be okay."
Marvos didn't smile. But something in her expression softened.
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Then, finally—quietly—I said, "There's something else."
Marvos tilted her head.
"When I pressed her hand over her wound to try and stop the bleeding…"
Her expression didn't change.
"I saw something." I swallowed hard. "It wasn't just emotion. It was a—vision, maybe. A memory. She was strapped down. Screaming. Thrashing against restraints so tight they cut into her. Someone was—doing something to her. I couldn't see who. I couldn't move. Couldn't help. I just… watched."
I waited for her to tell me it was a hallucination. A trick of adrenaline. Shock. Stress.
But she didn't.
Instead, Marvos turned her eyes back to the cold cup of tea in her hands. She didn't lift it. Didn't sip. Just watched the seamless surface like it might hold the truth.
"Her blood remembers," she said.
I stared.
"Grief isn't the only thing she absorbs, Dorian. Her body… her mind… they don't work like they should. Or maybe they work too well. Sometimes when she bleeds, what's inside her leaks out with it. Not just pain. But images. Echoes. Memories that were never supposed to survive."
"You mean—what I saw—"
"I believe you," she said, quiet and certain. "And I believe that was real. Not metaphor. Not illusion. You glimpsed something she never meant to share."
"But how?"
"She's always been a broken mirror," she murmured. "Everything that happens to her, it reflects outward. She doesn't get to choose the cracks."
That vision—I could still feel it. Still see the way her throat strained as she screamed, the blinding light above her, the hands I couldn't stop. The helplessness. The terror.
"She doesn't even know I saw it," I said.
"Then don't tell her," Marvos warned. "Not yet. She carries enough shame without knowing what slipped out."
"She's not ready," Marvos said again. "But she might be, someday. And when that day comes, if you're still here—if she still trusts you—then you stand with her while the memories come."
I open the door to her room slowly, the way you might lift the corner of a bandage to peek at the wound underneath. She's sitting up now, legs tucked beneath her, her back against the headboard. Her eyes catch mine immediately—sharp, unreadable, too awake.
"I was starting to think you got smart and ran," she says, voice quiet, but dry.
I force a smile, shutting the door behind me. "You wish."
But the air's different now. Or maybe I am.
Because even with her sitting there in soft lamplight, her hair tangled from sleep and her hoodie swallowing her whole, I can still see the image branded behind my eyes. The screaming. The straps. The look of betrayal and terror carved into her face like it had been made to last.
I don't know how I'm supposed to sit here and pretend I didn't see it. Pretend I didn't feel it. Pretend I didn't listen to Ms. Marvos tell me that this—this crushing despair, this pain heavy enough to fold someone in half—is what Ardere lives with every single day. Every hour. Every second. That it never ends for her. That her body doesn't just carry it—it radiates it.
"You look weird," she says, narrowing her eyes.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, just far enough not to spook her, but not far enough that I'm out of reach. "I didn't sleep great."
Lie.
"You were with Marvos." Her voice isn't accusing. Not quite. "What'd she say to you?"
My throat tightens. "Nothing important."
Another lie.
She squints at me, skeptical. "You're a shit liar."
I give a laugh that doesn't sound like me. "You're just too good at reading people."
Ardere stares at me a second longer, and I can feel her trying to decide whether to push. Whether to ask the real question. Whether to risk my answer.
But she doesn't.
She leans back instead, letting the tension fall off her shoulders like an old coat.
"Well," she mutters, pulling the blanket back around her, "whatever it was, don't let her get in your head."
Too late.
Because I did ask. And she did answer. And now, no matter how hard I try, I can't unsee the truth of what's inside her.
But what kills me—what really kills me—is that I think she knows I know. I think she can feel it on me. That I'm trying so hard not to look at her differently.
—
I stood in front of her door for a long time, hands in my pockets, listening to the faint scratch of pen on paper from the other side. It made me feel like an intruder. Like I was already pushing too far into something I didn't have permission to touch.
I almost turned around. Almost.
But then I knocked. Once. Twice.
"What?" came the flat reply. No surprise in her voice—just that same low, watchful boredom she wore like armor.
I eased the door open. "Can I talk to you?"
Araxie didn't even look up. She was cross-legged on her cot, wrapped in a blanket that looked more like it had been borrowed from a corpse than a closet. Her notebook was sprawled open on her knees, its pages covered in scribbles and constellations.
"About what?" she asked.
"Ardere."
That got her attention. Barely. Her eyes flicked up to mine—sharp, unreadable, and very much saying: tread carefully.
"If you're here for a diagnosis," she said, "go find Ms. Marvos. I'm not your translator for trauma."
"That's not why I'm here," I said, stepping just far enough inside to be annoying, but not enough to be threatening. "I just… I want to do something for her. Something small. Good. Without screwing it up."
She blinked at me like I'd spoken a foreign language.
"You want to do something nice for her," she said slowly, tasting the word like it was poison. "In the middle of nowhere. While we're all running from god-knows-what."
"Yeah." I rubbed the back of my neck. "I know it's stupid. But she's… softer right now. Not okay, but… open. A little. And I want to meet her there without making her feel broken again."
She went back to her notebook. "Then don't do anything."
"I already lied to her this morning."
The scratching stopped.
"What did you lie about?" she asked.
I swallowed. "The vision. When her blood got on me. I told her I didn't see anything."
That hung there between us, heavy and awkward.
"She was tied down," I went on, before I could stop myself. "Screaming. And I couldn't—" I clenched my fists. "It felt like being trapped inside a nightmare that wasn't mine."
Araxie was quiet for a moment. Then she said, almost gently, "You're not the first one it's happened to."
"I know." I lowered my voice. "But I don't want it to change the way I look at her. I'm scared that it already has. I don't want to see her the way the world does. I want to see her. Just her."
Araxie sighed like I was the most exhausting man alive.
"If you're waiting for her to tell you what she needs," she said, "you'll be waiting forever. But don't go thinking some grand gesture is going to fix her."
"I'm not trying to fix her. I just want her to feel… human. For five minutes. Like someone gives a shit."
Araxie looked at me for a long time. Then, finally, she groaned, shoved her notebook aside, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "fucking idiot."
"There's a supply closet on the third floor," she said. "Used to be part of the observatory's educational wing or whatever. There might still be some projection gear. Star charts. Maybe a busted telescope if it hasn't rusted to hell."
I blinked. "You're serious?"
"Don't make me regret it." She jabbed a finger at me. "She used to talk about stars like they were the only things that ever made sense. You wanna do something nice? Give her back something she used to love before everything went to shit."
I nodded. "Thank you."
"If you fuck this up," she said, already flipping back to her notes, "I'm throwing you off the roof myself."
"Fair enough."
I was halfway out the door when she called after me.
"Dorian."
I turned.
"She doesn't trust easily. But she wants to. That counts for something."
I nodded again—this time slower. "Yeah. It does."
The door to the old supply closet creaked like it was warning me off before I even stepped inside. Dust danced in the sunlight spilling through cracked windows, coating everything in a fine, gray haze.
Stacks of boxes leaned against the walls, and broken pieces of machinery were strewn everywhere—cables, busted lenses, tangled wires. It looked like a graveyard for science.
I crouched down and started digging.
At the bottom of a rickety shelf, I found a pile of star charts, edges curled and yellowed with age. I unfolded one carefully—it showed the familiar constellations, Orion's belt sharp and clear, Cassiopeia's W faint but recognizable. I smirked. I still remembered some of those from high school astronomy class—more than I thought I would.
Then I spotted it.
A telescope.
Rust coated the metal tube like a second skin, and cobwebs stretched over the tripod legs. One of the adjustment knobs was missing, and the lenses were clouded with grime.
I lifted it carefully, wincing at the weight. It was like holding a fossil, something ancient that had seen better days—better nights.
But I knew enough to tinker.
I set it on a nearby table, wiped the worst of the dust away with my sleeve, and started inspecting the gears.
The tripod wobbled, but a few firm twists and some pressure here and there made it stand steady. The eyepiece was scratched, but not cracked—maybe a little polishing could clear it up.
I remembered the formulas from class, the way you had to adjust the focus and aim it carefully to match the coordinates from a star chart. I still had the basics lodged in my brain somewhere beneath all the stress and fear.
Maybe I could make it work.
Dragging the rusted telescope up the narrow, creaking stairs felt like carrying a dead animal. Every step groaned beneath me, and I had to balance the bulky tripod with one arm while clutching the battered star charts in the other. My arms burned, but I refused to give up. Ardere deserved better than the cracked walls and stale air of this place.
I pushed open the rooftop door. The sky stretched wide above me—an endless canvas of soft blue that would soon turn ink-black, perfect for stars.
I scanned for a clear patch, avoiding piles of broken glass and scattered debris. Finally, I found a flat spot near the edge, shielded by a low stone wall but open enough to get an unhindered view of the horizon.
Just as I was setting down the telescope, a familiar voice cut through the silence.
"Well, well, if it isn't the amateur astronomer hauling ancient junk up here like it's the Holy Grail," Riven said, stepping out from the shadows with that usual smirk plastered across his face.
I rolled my eyes but didn't bother hiding the blush creeping up my neck.
"What are you doing?" he asked, pretending to sound curious but clearly amused.
"Trying to get this thing working. For Ardere."
Riven raised an eyebrow. "Aww, is Dorian gonna swoon her with some dusty star-gazing? That's… actually kinda pathetic. But you know what? I won't rat you out to Lysander."
I narrowed my eyes. "Why not?"
He shrugged, grinning like a kid who just found the biggest secret.
"Because it's the first time you've done something that wasn't completely idiotic. Plus, I'm curious how this little romance of yours ends."
Riven didn't stick around. Said something about not wanting to "choke on the sap," then disappeared back into the stairwell with a crooked grin and a half-hearted warning not to drop the telescope on Ardere's head.
Once I was sure he was gone, I looked over the rooftop again. The rusted telescope stood a little off-kilter, but steady. The sky above was softening into twilight, that gentle hush settling over the trees. Crickets were starting up their chorus. The charts fluttered a little in the breeze.
It wasn't much—but it was quiet. Open. Honest. And it felt like something I made.
I headed back inside.
The stairs creaked louder on the way down, my heart thudding in rhythm with every step. Not from the climb—just nerves. When I pushed open Ardere's door, she was still in bed, curled toward the wall, blanket tangled around her legs. Awake, but quiet. Eyes open and distant.
She looked over when I stepped in. The flicker of guardedness returned so fast I almost missed it.
"Hey," I said gently.
"Hey," she echoed, voice low. "Where've you been?"
I hesitated, then offered her a crooked smile. "Fixing something. You up for a surprise?"
That earned a suspicious look.
"I'm not gonna blindfold you or anything," I added quickly. "You'll hate it less if I just let you walk into it."
She snorted—barely. But it was something.
I stepped closer, holding out a hand. "You trust me?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Loaded question."
I nodded. "Still. Do you?"
She stared at my hand like it was a live wire. Then, with a quiet breath, she pushed the blankets away and let me help her up.
She was still hurting. I felt it in the way her weight leaned into me without meaning to, the way her breath caught halfway up the stairs. But she didn't complain. Not once. And I didn't rush her. I just held her steady—an arm wrapped gently around her waist, her hand gripping my shoulder a little tighter every step we took.
The last step creaked as we stepped onto the roof, Ardere holding onto my arm tighter now that there wasn't a railing. The sky had opened up fully above us—deep navy melting into a swirl of indigo and violet, stars slowly punching through.
I guided her toward the edge, where I'd set up the telescope on a half-stable tripod I'd patched together with duct tape and desperate hope. It wasn't much, but it looked intentional.
Ardere gave it a long, silent look. "Is this…?"
"A telescope," I said, unnecessarily. "I found it in the old gear room. It's practically falling apart, but I managed to get it working. Sort of."
Her brow lifted, skeptical.
I shrugged. "I took astronomy in high school. Once. Figured I'd try to remember something useful for once in my life."
A smile tugged at her mouth. She didn't say anything, just stepped closer, moving slowly with one hand on my arm for balance. I adjusted the lens, then offered it to her like it was something sacred.
"It's focused on Sirius right now. One of the brightest stars out tonight. You always know which one it is because Orion's Belt always points to it."
She glanced at me, then bent to look through the scope.
It was quiet for a long moment.
Then: "Okay… that's actually kind of impressive."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and grinned. "Yeah?"
"You aligned it without star tracking, and you didn't blind me." She leaned back from the scope, eyes flicking toward the sky itself now. "Points for that."
The night air curled around us, cooler now. She looked up again, hands tucked into the sleeves of her oversized jacket, hair a little wild from the wind. The shadows on her face were soft—her shoulders not as tight. For once, she wasn't braced for impact.
And that's when I saw it.
The sparkle in her eyes—not guarded or wary or laced with survival. Just… quiet wonder. The kind that slips out before someone remembers to hide it. It caught in her lashes like starlight.
I almost missed it.
Almost.
But once I saw it, I couldn't unsee it. The weight in my chest did something weird. Something warm.
She turned to me then, slower than she needed to. Like she didn't mind taking the time.
Our eyes met.
And for a second, I thought—
This is it.
This is the moment where everything starts to change. Where she lets me all the way in.
But just as I stepped closer, just as she tilted her chin up like she might say something—or not say something at all—
A distant, rhythmic sound broke the stillness.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
We both turned, instinct kicking in.
Over the tops of the trees, maybe half a mile off, lanterns glowed low between the trunks. Wheels creaked. Hooves struck uneven earth. Three carts—old, wooden, slow-moving—were headed directly toward the observatory.
Horse-drawn.
Ardere stiffened beside me.
Ardere turned so fast I barely caught her before she lost her footing on the uneven shingles. One of her boots slipped, and for a terrifying second, she pitched sideways toward the edge.
"Whoa—hey, I got you." I lunged, catching her around the waist and pulling her back against me, the both of us breathing hard.
She didn't say thank you. She didn't say anything for a beat. Her eyes were locked on the flickering lights moving closer through the trees, wide and dark, her body stiff like every nerve inside her had been wired for this.
I steadied her gently. "Who are they?"
She didn't look at me.
Didn't blink.
Just kept staring, her voice low and strangely hollow when she finally answered.
"I only know one group of people who dress like that."
I waited, but she didn't elaborate.
She didn't have to.
The way her knuckles had gone white on my jacket said enough.
Whatever she'd seen—whoever they were—they weren't just a threat.
They were history.
And they had come walking out of the dark.