Marron pressed deeper into the corridor, each step feeling like betrayal. The bone shard at her hip pulsed erratically—warm approval one moment, cold reproach the next, as if it couldn't decide whether her choice was wisdom or cowardice. She couldn't decide either.
The stealth broth still cloaked her movements, but guilt moved heavier than any armor. Elena's face burned in her memory: recognition, hope, then the terrible understanding that Marron was walking away.
I have to get the cart, she told herself. That's the mission. Get the cart, get out, get help. But the justifications felt thin as paper, and she knew it. The truth was simpler and uglier: she was choosing her own freedom over Elena's life, and no amount of tactical reasoning could wash that clean.
