The first thing Tarrin was aware of was a strand of gold.
It swam in his vision, a bright filament against a canvas of grey rock and hazy sky.
He focused on it, the world tilting and swaying around this single, stable point.
It was Celith's hair, come loose from its tie and fallen across her face as she leaned over him, her expression tight with a pain that mirrored his own.
"...alive?" Her voice sounded distant, muffled, as if he were hearing it from underwater.
He tried to answer, but his body was a distant, throbbing country he had no passport to.
He managed a grunt, a flicker of movement in his fingers.
The strand of blonde hair trembled with her shallow, pained breaths. It was the most real thing he'd ever seen.
Then, the world snapped back into brutal, high-definition focus.
Agony lanced through his side, a white-hot brand against his ribs.
The memory of the fall, the shrieking monsters, the concussive blast of Celith's kinetic leap—it all crashed down on him at once. He gasped, his back arching off the ground.
"Hold still," Lena's voice, firm and focused, cut through the panic.
Her hands were already on him, a soothing, golden warmth spreading from her palms and sinking deep into the torn muscle and cracked bone.
The relief was so immediate and profound it felt like a different kind of pain.
As the sharpest edges dulled to a deep, manageable ache, the sounds of the Basin returned: the faint, skittering echoes in the distance, and the ragged breathing of his squad.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows. Celith had slumped back against a rock, her face pale, her wounded leg stretched out.
Lena was already moving to her, the healing glow transferring from his side to the blackened wound on Celith's calf.
The rest of the squad gathered around, their faces etched with a new, raw respect.
Nick stood slightly apart, his usual bravado absent, replaced by a quiet, assessing look.
When his eyes met Tarrin's, he gave a single, sharp nod. It was all that needed to be said.
Once Lena had stabilized the worst of their injuries, she sat back, her own energy visibly depleted. "We stop here," she said, her voice soft but unwavering.
"Tarrin's ribs are still cracked. Celith's ligaments are torn. Noah's arm is a hair's breadth from re-breaking. If we push on now, we will break. We need rest. A few hours, at least."
The logic was impeccable. Tarrin felt the truth of it in the deep, grinding ache of his own body. They were hanging on by a thread.
Slowly, wincing, he got to his feet. Every eye was on him. He looked at their exhausted, battered faces, then down at his own palm, at the blistered words burned into his flesh.
CONTINUE WEST.
He saw Nicolas's grim, expectant face in his mind's eye. He heard the unspoken command.
"No," Tarrin said, his voice hoarse but absolute. The word hung in the air, a stone dropped in a still pond. Lena flinched.
"We rest when we're safe, or we don't rest at all," he continued, his gaze sweeping over them, leaving no room for argument.
"Every second we spend here is a second something else finds us. Nicolas didn't burn this into my hand for us to find a comfortable place to die."
He curled his fingers into a fist, hiding the brand, but its imperative pulsed through him. "We move. Now."
A grim silence was their only agreement.
The cost of the order was paid instantly.
When Noah pushed himself up, a sharp, choked hiss escaped his lips. His face went grey as he cradled his shattered arm, the heavy shield now an impossible burden.
Celith tried to stand on her own and her leg buckled. Without a word, Olivia moved to her side, slipping under her arm to take the weight.
Celith's pride was a visible casualty, her jaw clenched tight against the humiliation and pain.
And Tarrin, who had given the command, took a single step and the world tilted.
A wave of dizziness washed over him, his vision swimming at the edges, the cracked landscape blurring into a nauseating smear.
He swayed, catching himself against a rock, his knuckles white.
The pain in his side, merely muted before, now throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a deep, ominous drum counting down their endurance.
They began to move.
Not as a squad, but as a collection of wounded, a ragged procession of limps and stifled groans stumbling west into the unknown, each step a testament to the brutal price of survival.
Tarrin's gaze drifted toward Lena. Most people wouldn't notice, but he knew exactly what was going on behind her quiet eyes.
This kind of battle hit her harder than anyone. She hadn't fought—not once. Not a single swing, not a single spark of essence spent in offense.
And yet, her role had been the one holding them together. Without her healing, he'd have bled out before they'd even settle in their little cave. Celith would've lost her leg. Maybe worse.
Still, Lena's expression told another story. Her eyes lingered on Celith's wounded leg, guilt tightening her features, the kind that came from believing she hadn't done enough.
'What a fool,' Tarrin thought, a faint, wry smile tugging at his mouth. 'What I'd give to sit on the sidelines and feel useless.'
He shifted his attention to Noah next. The man's arm hung stiff, the broken shield nowhere to be seen. Tarrin doubted he'd see Noah back on the front line anytime soon.
Which meant—for now—the squad was running without its tank. They'd have to adapt. Somehow.
His eyes slid to Celith. She was already watching him, gaze sharp and unreadable.
'Shit.' Tarrin forced a casual look, even as his stomach tightened. 'This whole spying act would be a hell of a lot easier if she didn't look at me like that.'
Before Tarrin could sweep his gaze over anyone else—something that was starting to border on creepy—a voice cut through the lingering silence beside him.
"So," Klein said, tone casual but edged with something heavier, "you think we actually have a shot at this?"
Tarrin turned to look at him. Klein—ever the picture of cautious genius. The guy's self-preservation instinct could probably rival his own.
After Tarrin had shown him that little trick with Olivia's arrows, Klein hadn't so much as swung his sword again. Smart bastard.
Tarrin's lips curved in a faint grin. "It's a big if. But after what we just survived… maybe."
Klein nodded, mulling over the words like he was tasting them. "A big if, huh." He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away.
"Well, if you need anything, don't hesitate to reach out. I'm feeling kind of useless here—everyone's bleeding and fighting while I don't even have a single scratch."
He laughed under his breath, but Tarrin caught it—the flicker behind his eyes. That restless glint.
'This guy's hungry.' Tarrin studied him for a moment longer. 'He wants power. Recognition. To matter. And what's the fastest way to climb? Befriend the new squad leader.'
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. 'Smart move, Klein. You've got potential. I'll definitely keep you in mind.'
He gave Klein a non-committal grunt, saving his breath for the act of walking.
Each footfall was a negotiation with the pain in his side, a careful calculation to avoid jostling his still-knitting ribs.
The brand on his palm seemed to pulse with every heartbeat, a relentless metronome counting out their progress in inches.
They moved in a shambling, uneven rhythm.
The only sounds were the scuff of boots on scorched earth, the sharp hiss of someone biting back a cry of pain, and the ragged symphony of their breathing.
There were no complaints now. The argument had been bled out of them, replaced by a raw, animal instinct to put one foot in front of the other.
He risked a glance over his shoulder, back the way they'd come. There was no sign of pursuit, no echo of the shrieking fight.
Just the endless, blackened plain and the oppressive, heat-shimmered sky. The silence was almost worse.
It felt like the Basin was holding its breath, waiting for them to stumble just one more time.