The thought came holy‑bright, without permission, and lodged behind her ribs like broken glass. I loved him, and I never said it.
She blinked, once—hard enough that tears stung the corners of her eyes but didn't fall. Her knuckles ached. She forced her grasp to loosen, fingers sliding from the railing as if each one weighed a ton.
Down there she told herself. Down there he dies, and up here you stand frozen.
A small figure shifted two rows below—Faye. The younger girl pressed both palms flat to her chest, feathered Ikona dim at her shoulder, eyes huge behind smudges of grit. Faye's lips moved silently, repeating a litany Elara could guess: He pushed us. He believed in us. He made us more than we were.
Elara's own pulse hammered at the words. Two different versions of Elias lived inside the stands tonight: hers, from a life before shards and systems, and theirs, forged in these iron months of training and blood. Both versions lay dying the same death.
