Gael moved through the alleys of Jesarin with quiet precision, but the air carried something different—something watchful. The usual scents of salt and oil clung to the streets, but beneath them lurked the faint bite of burning incense, the kind used in noble houses and ceremonial halls. Out of place. Wrong.
He passed another alleyway, and there it was again—a G, slashed through with a jagged line.
The fourth one this week.
It was painted low on a crumbling brick wall, small enough that most would miss it, but Gael had seen at least three others just like it over the past few days. At first, he’d dismissed it as another gang marking its territory, but something about it unsettled him. The placement was too precise. Too deliberate. And more concerningly—it was always in places he and his crew passed through frequently.
Still, there was no time to dwell on it. Not tonight. And yet Gael covered it up anyway.
Adjusting the strap of the satchel slung across his chest, he pulled his hood lower and quickened his pace, cutting through a narrow backstreet toward the hideout. His pulse settled as the familiar cloth-draped entrance came into view, the heavy scent of wax and burned wood lingering in the air. He slipped inside, pushing aside the fabric just enough to step through without making a sound.
The room was buzzing with low voices. For once, the entire crew was present—Lukas, Vess, Soren, and Lander. The sight of them all in one place was rare these days, and it sent a strange thrill through him. This was it. The final preparations before everything changed.
Lukas was hunched over the rough wooden table, fingers idly tapping against a carved-out groove in the surface. Vess sat cross-legged on a crate, arms folded, her sharp gaze flicking toward Gael as he entered. Soren, still recovering, leaned against the far wall, looking better than he had in weeks but still pale beneath the dim lantern light. The others murmured among themselves, the energy in the room a mix of excitement and barely contained tension.
Gael pulled the satchel over his head and tossed it onto the table. The leather thudded against the wood, drawing everyone’s attention.
"Everything we need is in here," he said, rolling his shoulders. "Updated maps of the estate, the auction ledger, and a few extra tricks in case things go sideways."
"When don’t they?" Lukas muttered.
Gael let out a breath that was half a laugh. "Fair point."
Vess leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Let’s go through the plan again. One last time."
Gael nodded and pulled up a rough blueprint of the Warlord’s personal estate. His finger traced the outer perimeter as he began, voice steady despite the weight pressing against his chest. "We go in as nobles—sons and daughters of trade families, dressed to blend in. The auction’s invitation rule requires each guest to bring an offering, so we’re bringing Ambrose’s fragment of the Sealing Stone. It’s valuable enough to warrant interest but not enough to raise alarms."
Soren exhaled through his nose. "And once inside?"
Gael met his gaze. "That’s where things get tricky."
A heavy sigh interrupted them.
"Martyr's breath, I’m too damn old for this."
The voice came from the doorway, and when Gael turned, Lurras was there—his broad shoulders slumped like a man who had been dragged out of the one place he wanted to be. He rubbed a hand over his grizzled jaw, eyes scanning the room like he was already regretting stepping inside. His coat smelled faintly of spirits, but the scent was old, as if he'd forced himself to sober up for this.
Without asking, he trudged over and dropped into a chair at the table, flipping it backward so he could lean on the backrest. He took in the blueprints sprawled across the table with a tired look before gesturing vaguely at them. "You won’t just be finding the Sealing Stone," he muttered. "You’ll be following it."
A hush fell over the room. Gael exchanged a glance with Lukas, then Vess.
"What do you mean?" Vess asked, narrowing her eyes.
Lurras pinched the bridge of his nose before finally sitting up, his reluctance fading into something sharper. "The Sealing Stone reacts to itself. A fragment, when brought near a larger piece, will resonate. You won’t need to search blindly—the stone will lead you to where the rest of it is kept."
Gael’s breath caught. This changed everything. Their plan had been structured around slipping away unnoticed, finding the vault through careful maneuvering. Now? Now they’d have to improvise on the spot, reacting to whatever the Sealing Stone revealed.
Vess exhaled sharply and pressed her lips together, eyes dark with frustration. "And you just now thought to tell us this?"
Lurras scoffed, shaking his head. "Trust me, kid, I was more than happy to let you all run in blind. But someone seems to think I should make sure you don’t die on my watch."
Lukas shot Gael a look, his expression caught between disbelief and amusement. "So we’re running in blind, and the rock decides where we go? That’s reassuring."
Lurras snorted. "Welcome to real fieldwork."
The night stretched ahead of them, heavy with the weight of what was to come. One final step before the heist, before they put everything on the line. There was no turning back now.
"Lurras won’t be allowed inside," Gael said, cutting through the lingering quiet. "His ties to Ores are too strong. Once we’re in there, it’s just us."
Lukas nodded, but his expression was distant. "Yeah, but you heard him. They want that stone way more than we want Ores’ coin. He won’t be leaving anything to chance." He hesitated for a beat, then muttered, "I know I wouldn’t."
Gael glanced at the others. "Agreed. We’ll take all the help we can get."
A murmur of assent rippled through the crew as Soren pushed himself up, exhaustion settling into his movements. "I’m calling it a night."
Lander stretched and yawned dramatically. "Same here. I’ve got important, mysterious things to do."
"That means drinking," Lukas said flatly.
Lander grinned. "And winning at dice."
Gael rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He unsheathed his knife, raising it like a knight's sword. "The job is in two days. Enjoy tonight, then we regroup at the Crooked Boot tomorrow night before we move. All in agreement?"
Soren chuckled as he followed suit, each of them drawing their blades and pointing them skyward, crossing the tips over Gael’s. Even Vess, after a pause, added hers to the mix.
The steel glinted under the lantern light, sharp, unwavering.
"Gael let the moment hang, looking at each of them in turn before offering a small, knowing grin. "Steel is sworn, luck is borrowed. Let’s make sure we return it."
Now," Gael said, lowering his knife. "Let’s go see what Ores needs."
The moment Lukas stepped into the training hall, his muscles tensed, unbidden. Memory and reality blurred—the scent of sweat, the cold weight of stone, the ghost of bruises that had long since healed. He had woken up here once, dazed and bleeding, stripped of pride after his last run-in with Lurras. The walls were the same—dark stone, racks of training weapons standing like sentinels in the dim light.
But this time, he wasn’t here to survive. He was here to learn.
Lurras stood near the center of the room, arms crossed, his presence grounding the space like an immovable force.
"Listen up," he said, voice edged with something heavier than usual. "You all need to understand something before we go any further. This job? It isn’t just another heist. It isn’t a backroom brawl or a street duel." His gaze swept over them. "You’ll be walking into a room filled with killers."
Lukas shifted, glancing at Gael and Vess, but neither spoke. Lurras continued.
"Full magi-knights. Not the enforcers playing tin soldier on the city streets—real knights. The kind that cut down trained men in seconds. Magi who don’t need to lift a finger to kill you." He let the words sink in, giving them a moment to process before adding, "If things go wrong, there won’t be time to react."
A beat of silence stretched between them. Lukas’ fingers curled at his sides. He wasn’t afraid of a fight—but this wasn’t a fight. It was survival.
Lurras finally exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "I can’t turn you into masters in two days. Hell, I can’t even make you good. But I can make sure you don’t die in the first ten seconds. So shut up, listen, and learn."
Lukas swallowed hard, feeling the weight of those words settle over him. Whatever training they were about to go through—it wouldn’t be enough.
But it would have to be.
Lurras let the silence settle before turning to Vess. "This one’s not for you," he said, gesturing toward the training floor. "I work best with them." He rolled his shoulders, then lifted both hands—one filling with a dense, compacted ball of air, the other curling with a wisp of flickering shadow. He held them for only a moment before dispersing them with a flick of his wrists.
Vess’s lips curled, half amusement, half annoyance. "What? cant deal with a bit of fire?"
Lurras exhaled through his nose, not rising to the bait. "Ores requested you."
That made her stiffen, if only for a second. She covered it fast, scoffing under her breath before turning away. "Of course she did."
Lukas watched her leave, catching the faint tension in her shoulders. Whatever was between Ores and Vess, it ran deep. He had the urge to say something, but the moment passed, and Lurras was already focusing back on them.
"You two, on the floor. Now. We’ve got hours, not weeks. Let’s see if I can keep you alive."
Lurras didn’t waste time.
He stalked past Lukas and Gael, eyes sharp, appraising. “Before I waste my breath—show me what you know.”
Lukas exchanged a glance with Gael before stepping forward, rolling his shoulders loose. He reached inward, pulling at the charged air around him, and called. A flicker of deep violet essence crackled in his palm—storm magic, raw and unstable. He clenched his fist, forcing the energy into a controlled arc, sending a brief surge of lightning snapping toward the stone floor. At the same time, a thin ripple of darkness curled around his feet, shifting with his movement like living smoke.
Gael followed, exhaling sharply before throwing his weight forward, using the air to propel himself faster than a normal step could carry him. The wind burst around him, a sudden force that kicked up dust and sent an empty training rack clattering to the ground. Without slowing, he pivoted and released another concentrated blast outward, aiming to shove Lurras back with raw force.
Lurras grunted. “Predictable.”
Before either of them could react, he moved.
A pulse of shadow lashed out at Lukas, muting his storm magic for half a second—just long enough for Lurras to slam him backward with a condensed air burst. Lukas stumbled, barely catching himself before he hit the wall. Gael, trusting his speed, tried to ride the wind away, but Lurras cut through it, bending the air in an unnatural shift that made Gael’s momentum collapse. He hit the ground hard.
Lurras exhaled, shaking his head. “Solid instincts. Terrible control.”
Lukas pushed himself up, jaw tight. “We don’t exactly have academy training.”
“And it shows.” Lurras’ tone was flat, unimpressed. “That’s the problem. You’re used to fighting desperation battles. Survival. Improvisation. That’s not going to cut it in a room full of trained Magi.”
He stepped back into the center of the room, arms crossed. “We don’t have time to build proper discipline, so we’re skipping the foundations. You need three things to stay alive in that auction.” He held up a finger. “Efficiency. Spellwork without wasted movement.” A second. “Layering. You cast like simple street brawlers—one spell at a time, hoping it lands. That’s not enough.” A third. “Momentum. Stop thinking of your magic as individual moves. Make it a rhythm. If you stall, you die.”
Lukas frowned, flexing his fingers. He had relied on instinct for years, but layering? That wasn’t something he’d ever thought about consciously. His affinity had always been fast—storm affinity crackled to life before he even finished a thought. But shadow affinity? That was different. Slower. Controlled.
Gael, standing beside him, rolled his shoulders. “I get it.”
“Good.” Lurras rolled his neck. “Now, try again. Lukas—your storm casting is all raw power. Shape it. Control it. And stop letting your shadow essence just cling to you—use it. Gael—your wind spells should be an extension of you, not something you throw around like a hammer. You don’t need more force—you need more intent.”
Gael exhaled sharply, frustration flashing in his eyes. But he nodded. This time, instead of forcing the air forward, he let it build around him, feeding into his movement rather than reacting to it. Lukas, meanwhile, kept his storm and shadow casting together, not as separate attacks, but as part of the same flow, just barely.
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Lurras smirked. “Better.”
Then, without warning, he attacked again.
This time, they were ready.
Lurras didn’t let them catch their breath.
The moment they adjusted, the moment they started thinking they were improving—he tore through them again.
A wave of force sent Gael skidding backward, nearly knocking the air from his lungs. Before he could recover, Lurras shifted the wind, making Gael’s momentum work against him, twisting him into the ground with a forceful slam.
Lukas lunged, storm essence crackling at his fists, trying to catch Lurras off guard. He drove forward, knuckles wreathed in flickering sparks, aiming for a solid hit—but he hit nothing.
Lurras was already behind him.
A heavy strike to the ribs—not enough to break anything, but enough to send Lukas stumbling. He caught himself, gritting his teeth. He forced his essence outward, calling on his storm magic instinctively, sending a quick, arcing bolt of electricity toward Lurras.
Lurras barely moved. A shift of his wrist, and the lightning scattered, harmless against the air.
Lukas’ frustration burned, but Gael was already moving again.
He roared, kicking off the ground with a violent burst of wind, launching himself forward with all the force his affinity could give him. It wasn’t graceful—it was sheer, raw power, a human cannonball of speed and impact.
Lurras let him come.
And at the last second, he simply tilted the air.
Gael's own acceleration betrayed him. His body lurched violently sideways, completely losing control. His shoulder slammed into the training mat, momentum still tearing him forward. He tumbled, hitting the ground again, again, again before finally skidding to a stop.
Damn it!
He coughed, struggling to stand.
Lukas was already back on his feet, fists still sparking with unstable storm essence. He moved carefully this time, but he was still reacting, still on the back foot.
Lurras stepped forward, gaze unreadable. "Not good enough."
Then, Lurras stopped holding back.
For a moment, there was only stillness. No warning. No words.
Then, he exhaled. And spoke.
"Vacumus Tenebrae Nihil."
The air collapsed inward.
A crushing void swallowed the room, stealing not just sound but presence itself. Gael gasped, but the air refused him. Lukas reached for his essence, but the storm inside him flickered and died, like a candle snuffed out in a hurricane.
No spell. No breath. No escape.
Gael tried to push back, tried to force the wind to carry him, but it was gone. The air had betrayed him.
Lukas fell to one knee, body trembling. His sparks were gone. His shadow refused to move. He had never felt more powerless.
Then, Lurras stepped forward—his boots barely making a sound against the floor as he stepped toward them, hands clasped behind his back. His shadow barely flickered, held in perfect control beneath the air’s absolute grip.
"Silencer," he murmured, his voice the only thing that existed inside the cage.
Gael couldn’t move. He had never felt this helpless before.
"In team-based combat, Silencers are worth their weight in gold. You don’t take out the mage—you erase them before they can even act." Lurras exhaled. "Most powerful spells are audible. Spoken words, whispered incantations, chanted phrases. Doesn’t matter how strong you are—if you can’t say it, you can’t cast it."
He turned slightly, regarding them both, still trapped, still utterly powerless.
"Shadow can suppress, but air denies."
Gael’s vision blurred at the edges, his body screaming for breath. Lukas had fallen to one knee, hands clawing at the empty space that refused to let his essence breathe.
Lurras let them suffer for a few more seconds—long enough to make the lesson stick.
Then, he flicked his wrist.
Lurras released the spell, and the weight vanished.
Gael and Lukas sucked in desperate breaths, their essence snapping back like a floodgate had burst. Their limbs felt weak, their bodies still struggling to process the strain.
Lurras watched them impassively, arms crossed. Then, he spoke.
"That’s the power of combining affinities." His tone wasn’t boasting—it was simply fact. "Air suppresses. Shadow consumes. Together, they erase."
Lukas, still kneeling, clenched his fists, his storm essence only now flickering back to life.
Lurras turned his gaze to him. "You’re treating your affinities like separate tools. They’re not. Storm is fast, violent, overwhelming—but fragile. Shadow is slow, creeping, inescapable—but weak alone. Fuse them right, and you don’t just hit faster—you strike where they can’t see. You build power where they don’t expect it. You don’t throw spells." He nodded at Lukas’ still-crackling fists. "You set traps."
Lukas exhaled sharply, something clicking behind his tired eyes.
Then, Lurras turned to Gael.
"And you." His voice took on a sharper edge. "You’re trying to make air hit like earth. That’s why you keep losing control. You’re forcing it to be something it isn’t."
Gael wiped sweat from his brow, scowling.
"Air isn’t brute force, Gael. It’s movement. It’s inevitability. You have twice the essence of most magi, and you’re wasting it on sledgehammer swings when you should be the storm. You should be where the enemy isn’t. You should be untouchable.
You don’t overpower your enemies. You outlast them. You move. You strike before they even realize they need to block."
Lurras stepped back, folding his arms.
"You both have the tools to be dangerous. But you’re fighting against your affinities instead of with them. Until you stop thinking like brawlers and start thinking like magi—" His smirk returned, sharp and knowing. "You’ll keep getting your asses handed to you."
Lurras exhaled, rolling his shoulders like the whole thing had been an exercise drill.
"That," he said, voice calm, "is the difference between cantrips and mastery."
Gael wiped sweat from his forehead, glaring. "You could have killed us."
Lurras smirked. "Yeah. And that's what you’re walking into at that auction."
Lukas swallowed, his body still catching up to the shock of it all.
Lurras cracked his neck. "Again."
Vess didn’t knock.
She pushed open the heavy doors to Ores’ chambers without waiting for permission, stepping inside before she could second-guess herself.
Ores was already seated in her gilded chair, watching her like she had been expecting this exact moment for years. The room was warm—not in the cozy way, but in the subtle, oppressive way that made sweat gather at the back of the neck.
"Ah," Ores murmured, setting down a delicate golden quill. "The firebrand arrives."
Vess folded her arms, keeping her stance firm. "If this is just another attempt at mind games, I’ll leave right now."
Ores smiled. "Oh, little ember. It’s always a mind game."
That damn name. That damn voice.
Vess clenched her jaw. Don’t react. That’s what she wants.
Ores gestured toward the open floor before her. The marble was pristine, almost too perfect, considering how often Ores spoke of testing limits. "Sit. We have work to do."
Vess hesitated, then dropped into a crouch instead. Not comfortable. Not submissive. Just there.
Ores didn’t seem to care. She lifted a single hand, and suddenly, fire filled the air.
Not a raging inferno. Not a battle-born explosion.
A single, controlled flame, twisting and curling in the space between them.
"Burning is easy," Ores said, voice smooth, detached. "Setting things aflame? Child’s play. You know that."
Vess exhaled sharply. "Then why am I here?"
The flame snapped in half, splitting into two thin streams that coiled around each other, never touching.
"Because destruction is not mastery."
Vess hated the way her stomach twisted at that.
Ores extended a hand toward her. "Control it."
Vess furrowed her brows, reaching out with her essence. The moment she did, the flames fought her.
Not physically. Not through resistance.
Through expectation.
She knew how to wield fire in combat. How to throw it, shape it into force. But this was different—this wasn’t about force. It was about holding the fire without letting it consume.
She narrowed her focus, trying to compress her essence, feeding it into the flames in a careful drip rather than a flood. The fire wavered. Not from weakness, but because it was responding too much.
Too much essence. Too much instinct.
Vess scowled, withdrawing her grip.
The flames unraveled, dissipating into the air.
Ores hummed. "Fascinating."
Vess' fingers curled into fists. "You knew I’d fail."
Ores tilted her head. "I knew you’d try the same methods you always use."
The words burned more than Vess wanted to admit.
Ores gestured again, and a new flame emerged, floating effortlessly between them. "Again. This time, don’t fight to hold it. Persuade it to stay."
Vess exhaled, ignoring the irritation crawling up her spine.
Vess focused inward instead of outward, not letting the flame overtake her—but not crushing it, either.
For just a moment, it obeyed.
It burned with her, not against her.
Then—it collapsed. The flame flickered once, twice—gone.
Vess scowled, shaking out her hands. "This is useless."
Ores sighed, tilting her head. "It’s not the flame that’s failing. It’s you."
Vess narrowed her eyes. "Explain."
Ores' fingers traced idle patterns in the air, and for a moment, Vess thought she might ignore the question altogether. But then she spoke, and her voice carried that too-knowing edge Vess hated.
"Your essence isn’t a tool. It’s an emotion. And you don’t wield it—you let it control you."
Vess tensed.
Ores smiled, slow and sharp. "Haven’t you ever noticed?" She gestured to the space between them, where the flame had vanished. "Your fire only feels strong when you’re burning with it. The moment you stop pushing outward, stop feeding it with your anger, it falters."
The words struck something deep. Too deep.
Ores kept pressing. "That’s why you can fight, but you can’t refine. Why you’re dangerous in battle, but useless in discipline. You let your magic take from you. It feeds on you."
Vess clenched her fists. "That’s how fire works."
Ores laughed. Not cruel, but knowing.
"No, little ember. That’s how you work."
The truth settled in Vess' chest like a slow-growing spark, smoldering deep.
She reached out again—slower, more deliberate.
And this time, when the fire curled against her grip, she didn’t force it.
She guided it.
It didn’t last long. A handful of seconds, maybe. But this time, it didn’t break apart immediately.
Ores smiled. "There it is."
A smile crept on Vess face for a moment before it was gone, replaced by her usual grimace.
"What the hell does this even accomplish?"
Ores sighed, almost exasperated. "You’ve spent your whole life making your fire work for you through dominance. That only gets you so far. Real mastery? Fire that listens."
She leaned forward, gaze pressing into Vess like a blade.
"And if you want to be something more than an angry girl with a torch—you’d better start listening, too."
Vess' breath hitched.
Not from fear. Not from awe.
From anger.
Ores leaned back, satisfied.
Then, almost lazily, almost absentmindedly, she added:
"Your magic reminds me so much of your Jericho's."
The air in the room shrank. How dare she mention her father.
Vess' pulse hammered in her ears.
She hadn’t thought about him—not really—not since she read that letter, not since she stuffed it away and buried the burning, tangled mess of emotions it unearthed.
But now? Now Ores had dug her fingers into it, ripped it open without hesitation, like it was nothing.
"The fire in her palm flared dangerously, essence unraveling at the edges—too much, too fast—before collapsing in on itself, dissolving back into raw heat and embered wisps."
Ores watched, unbothered. "Ah. There it is again."
Vess shot to her feet, heart pounding, jaw clenched so tight it ached. "Don’t."
Ores tilted her head, feigning curiosity. "Don’t what?"
Vess' fists burned. Her breath came sharp. The room suddenly felt suffocating.
"Don’t you dare talk about him."
Silence.
Ores folded her hands in her lap, observing her like she was an experiment unfolding perfectly before her eyes.
"Still burning outward," she murmured. "Still letting it take from you."
Then, she smiled. Slow. Knowing. Inevitable.
"I take it your little search through my study ended fruitfully?"
The words slammed into Vess, her pulse roaring in her ears.
Of course Ores knew. She always knew.
Vess felt the heat crawl up her throat, her hands shaking with the force of holding back.
Ores studied her, the fire reflecting in those sharp, unreadable eyes. "Ah. That’s what I thought."
Vess stepped forward, the fire in her palm flaring, twisting—raw, barely contained emotion.
"You—" Her voice cracked.
Ores simply watched.
"Say it," she murmured, as if coaxing the flame itself. "Go on, little ember. Say what you want to say. Take all your hatred out on someone."
Vess wanted to scream. To demand answers.
To burn something down just so she didn’t have to feel this anymore.
Yet, Lurras' voice echoed in her head.
"Don’t look for what you don’t want to find."
The fire in her palm flickered.
Her stomach twisted, a sharp, sick feeling sinking into her ribs.
Instead, she turned sharply on her heel, storming toward the door.
Ores' voice followed her.
"Your fire obeys you as much as you obey it." A pause. A dagger between the ribs. "And right now? It’s running."
Vess slammed the door behind her before she let the flames take control.
_____________________________________________
The estate was still.
Jesarin never truly slept, but from up here, the city felt distant—just a sprawl of golden embers flickering against the dark. The usual bustle had softened into something quieter, a low murmur of late-night voices, the occasional clang of metal on stone, the restless churn of the distant docks.
Vess perched on the rooftop’s edge, legs dangling over the drop, the warm night air wrapping around her like a second skin.
She didn’t remember climbing up here. Not really.
One moment, she’d been pacing the halls. The next, she was here—too high up, too alone, too full of things she couldn’t name.
She exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. The wind was cooler this high, cutting through the heat that had been crawling under her skin since Ores spoke those words.
"Your magic reminds me so much of Jericho's."
Vess shut her eyes. But it didn’t help.
Because the moment she let herself sit in silence, she wasn’t here anymore.
She was ten years old, running barefoot through the burning halls of Emberlin Manor.
The scent of ash.
The sound of screams.
The way the fire wasn’t hers, but felt like it should be.
She squeezed her hands into fists, pressing them against her knees, trying to force the memory back into the dark corners where it belonged.
The creak of wood. The shift of air.
A voice, soft and familiar.
"Didn’t take you for a rooftop type."
Vess didn’t turn. She didn’t have to.
She could recognize his voice anywhere.
Gael lowered himself beside her, his presence solid, grounding. She could feel the tension in him, even as he sat—the exhaustion, the weight of training pressing against his shoulders.
"You alright?"
A stupid question, but she let is slide.
"You ever feel like the past is hunting you?" she murmured, voice quiet, barely there.
Gael didn’t answer right away. She felt, rather than saw, his shift in focus—the exhaustion momentarily lifting.
She hated that she’d said it aloud. Hated that it sounded like admission.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Jesarin stretched out before them, lanterns twinkling like dying stars, but Vess wasn’t looking at them.
She was staring at her hands.
Like they belonged to someone else.
Her voice was unsteady when she finally spoke.
"I can’t even remember their faces anymore."
She wasn’t sure why she said it.
Gael frowned. "Whose faces?"
Her fingers tightened against her knees.
"My family."
Silence.
Gael’s breath caught.
Vess never talked about them. Never.
And yet, here she was, the words slipping free like cracks in stone.
She shifted, her expression a mess of frustration, confusion—something raw and unraveling.
"I remember the fire. I remember running. I remember the way everything smelled like—" She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "But their faces? Their voices?"
She looked at him then, and Gael almost flinched.
Because she looked utterly lost.
Gael could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen Vess like this.
And clearly he had no idea what to say, because the silence stretched between them. Not the uncomfortable kind, but the one she could wear like a blanket.
Vess wasn’t looking for words, anyway.
So when he reached out—slow, careful, deliberate—and let his fingers close around hers, she didn’t stop him.
Warm. Calloused. Steady.
Vess let out a slow, shaky breath. She didn’t pull away.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
For a long moment, they just sat there, their hands resting between them, the silence stretching, unspoken but understood.
The wind pressed against them, cool and constant.
Vess blinked slowly, her body too heavy, her thoughts unraveling at the seams.
She didn’t mean to lean into him.
Didn’t mean to let her forehead rest against his shoulder, let her breath slow, let herself slip further into something dangerously close to comfort.
She told herself it was exhaustion. Not weakness.
And yet—
The moment her eyes drifted shut, she was ten years old again, fire at her heels, smoke in her throat, searching desperately for faces she could no longer remember.