The dawn was cool and crisp, the air laced with the scent of damp earth and morning frost. As the group stirred, gathering their gear and readying themselves for the journey ahead, there was an unspoken tension in the air—something shifting, something unsettled.

  This journey wasn’t just about reforging a weapon. It was about finding something lost—in steel, in history, in themselves.

  Riya watched the camp come to life with a careful, quiet intensity.

  Alric and Rylan moved through the motions of morning routine—packing gear, adjusting straps, checking weapons—but there was something off about the way Rylan carried himself.

  She had seen him in battle before, seen his fluid grace, the way he fought like a man who understood his own body, his own instincts, down to the breath.

  But now?

  He was too controlled.

  Not relaxed, not casual—rigid. Like he was holding something back.

  The scars on his wrists, the ones he tried to hide, the ones that matched hers, told her enough.

  But there was more to it than that.

  He was watching himself.

  Every step. Every motion. As if afraid of what he might do if he wasn’t careful.

  Riya knew that feeling.

  She looked away, forcing herself to focus on something—anything—else.

  A flicker of movement caught her eye.

  Elara and Alric, speaking in hushed tones, standing close—too close—the kind of close that wasn’t just familiarity, but something becoming.

  Alric’s brow furrowed as Elara spoke, her hands moving in delicate gestures, explaining something about elemental magic. He nodded, absorbing it, his eyes lingering on hers just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

  Riya felt something twist in her chest—something sharp, something unspoken.

  She hadn’t thought about it before. Hadn’t let herself.

  But now, watching Alric and Elara, seeing the way he looked at her with that quiet attentiveness, Riya realized something unpleasant.

  It used to be her.

  And now it wasn’t.

  She tore her gaze away before she could feel it any deeper than that.

  She fell into step beside Elara as they set out, needing something else to focus on.

  “I saw what you did last night with the fire and ice,” Riya said, keeping her tone light. “That was incredible.”

  Elara blinked in surprise before giving a small, pleased smile. “Thank you. I’ve been studying elemental magic for years, but I’ve never had to use it like that before.”

  There was an energy in her voice, excitement, the kind that came from someone realizing they were more capable than they ever thought.

  Riya couldn’t help but admire that.

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  “The library in Dornach,” Elara continued, her voice tinged with eager curiosity, “it’s supposed to have some of the oldest manuscripts on magical forging. Maybe we’ll find something useful there.”

  Riya nodded, forcing herself to focus on the mission, but her eyes kept drifting back to Rylan.

  He was too quiet.

  Even for him.

  Riya had spent eight months in captivity with him, had learned the way he moved, the way he spoke, the way he hid things.

  Right now?

  He was hiding something.

  The set of his shoulders, the sharpness in his jaw—something was wrong.

  But she didn’t ask.

  Not yet.

  The attack came as the sun dipped low, shadows stretching long across the trees.

  Bandits.

  Ragged, desperate, but dangerous.

  The fight was over quickly—too quickly.

  Alric and the others fought with practiced precision, their movements calculated and efficient. But Rylan—

  Rylan fought like a man possessed.

  His blade cut through them too fast, too sharp, too final.

  One of the bandits—a younger one, barely more than a boy—dropped his weapon and stumbled back, hands raised.

  Surrendering.

  Rylan’s sword cut him down anyway.

  The camp went silent.

  Elara flinched. Caden, for once, had nothing to say. Taran stepped forward, voice low and furious.

  “Rylan, enough. They’re beaten.”

  But Rylan didn’t lower his blade.

  His breaths came hard and fast, his grip still tight, knuckles white against the hilt.

  His eyes—

  Riya had seen that look before.

  Not in bandits.

  Not in enemies.

  In prisoners.

  In survivors.

  Something inside of her cracked.

  “Rylan,” she said softly. Not commanding. Not accusing. Just saying his name.

  He blinked.

  And then, like a switch had flipped, he let go.

  Not just of his sword, but of the moment, of whatever had possessed him, whatever had taken over.

  The body of the fallen bandit lay at his feet. A senseless kill.

  Rylan staggered back, his breath ragged, like he had just woken from a nightmare.

  “I…” His voice was hoarse, barely audible. “I lost control. I don’t know why.”

  Nobody spoke.

  Dinner was quiet.

  Not silent.

  Voices murmured in low tones—an effort to understand, to make sense of what had happened.

  Rylan said nothing.

  Neither did Riya.

  Until later, when the others had gone to sleep, and she found him sitting by the dying embers of the fire, staring into the dark.

  She sat beside him without a word.

  For a long time, neither of them spoke.

  Then, at last, he did.

  “Why am I like this?”

  His voice was raw, as if the words had been torn from him.

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  Riya’s throat tightened.

  She could still feel the weight of his arm against hers, the way they had held each other up in the darkest moments of captivity, the way he had kept her alive, and she had kept him human.

  She knew what he needed her to say.

  What he wanted.

  But she didn’t say it.

  Because she didn’t know if it was true.

  Instead, she just reached out, fingers barely brushing his.

  A reminder.

  A promise.

  He didn’t pull away.

  But he didn’t look at her either.

  And as the fire burned low, the only answer she could give him was silence.