*Trigger warnings* fighting, guns, major bodily injury, angst, swearing, mentions of suicide,
I wasn't exactly sure when the trail stopped being a trail, but I was pretty confident we passed that point three twisted roots and an Araxie meltdown ago.
"Remind me again why we couldn't just steal another car," Riven groaned from somewhere behind me, every branch snapping beneath his boots like a deliberate protest. "This is why I avoid nature. It's all dirt, ticks, and zero good lighting."
"Because the roads are being watched," Lysander called over his shoulder, clearing the path ahead with the blade of his machete. "And because not everything can be solved with a stolen Honda."
Ms. Marvos trudged beside him, her backpack making her shoulders look twice as broad as usual. "Keep complaining and I'll throw your boots into the ravine. See how much you like nature barefoot."
"Bold of you to assume I wouldn't prefer death by exposure to another mile of this cryptid-infested hellhole," Riven huffed, swatting at a bug with all the grace of a dying starlet.
Behind them, Araxie wobbled over a rock and caught herself with a sharp inhale. "Okay but—genuine question—are we being punished? Did we do something in a past life? Like steal from a church or deface an ancient grave?"
"Shut up and keep moving," Marvos snapped, not even looking back. "We're close."
Which was a lie.
We weren't close.
Not in the way that mattered.
My eyes drifted forward again, toward the one person who hadn't said a word since we left the last rest stop.
Ardere.
She moved like a shadow: low to the ground, careful, always a few steps ahead but never really with us. Her hood was up again, and even from here, I could tell she was gripping the straps of her pack hard enough to turn her knuckles white.
I'd been trailing a few feet behind her ever since we entered the tree line. Close, but not too close. Not after the last time we talked.
Not after she caught me going through her stuff.
She hadn't brought up the vial since. Hadn't asked me if I still had it. Hadn't said another word about destruction or trust or becoming something she couldn't come back from.
But I knew.
I knew she still had a plan.
And whatever it was, it was going to break me.
"You gonna keep staring at her back like a sad puppy," Riven muttered under his breath beside me, "or are you finally gonna admit she's got some secret death mission and tell the rest of us so we can actually do something about it?"
Ms. Marvos had finally relented as the last bit of daylight drained from the sky like spilled oil. Araxie practically collapsed where she stood, curling into her jacket the moment her boots hit solid ground. Riven threw himself down with a dramatic groan and declared he was going to die here and haunt the rest of us. Lysander said something about shifts and watch order, but no one really listened—except me.
And Ardere.
She sat with us by the fire, legs drawn up, face bathed in the flickering orange glow like it was the only warmth she trusted. For a while, it almost looked like she was just… there. Present.
I watched her across the flames.
She barely touched her food, just turned it over in her fingers and stared into the dark like something was out there calling her name.
When Riven started telling a story about stealing wine from a governor's mansion—completely fabricated, I was sure—Ardere offered the barest smirk, then stood and brushed her hands on her pants.
"Bathroom," she muttered. "Don't follow me."
That felt like over an hour ago.
Now, the fire's dimmed down to coals, Araxie's snoring softly, and Lysander's pacing along the edge of the tree line with his arms crossed and jaw tight.
"She should've been back by now," he says under his breath.
Ms. Marvos checks her watch like it might hold a better answer. "Give it a few more minutes."
But I'm already standing. Already grabbing my jacket.
Because I knew better.
Ardere didn't go to pee.
—
She wasn't far.
Which probably should've scared me more than it did.
Ardere never made herself easy to find. If she didn't want to be seen, you wouldn't see her. That was one of the first things I learned about her—right after realizing how fast she could disappear without making a sound.
So yeah. Finding her this quickly meant she wanted to be found.
Or she didn't care if I did.
She was sitting on the edge of a cliff, her silhouette small and sharp against the wash of starlight, like a smudge of ink that refused to fade. Her knees were tucked up to her chest, arms looped around them. Her coat was caught in the wind, whipping around her like it couldn't decide whether to shield her or let her go.
She didn't turn around when I stepped closer.
Didn't flinch. Didn't speak.
Just kept looking up at the sky like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to this world.
I sat down next to her, not too close. Just enough. Enough to remind her I was there. That I wasn't going anywhere.
"You followed me," she said finally. Her voice was quiet. Flat.
"You left," I said. "I was worried."
"I said not to follow."
"You also said not to let them turn you into something you can't come back from."
That made her go still.
Her breath caught—barely. But I saw it. Felt it.
She shook her head once, sharp and tired. "You always have to be so earnest."
"Yeah," I said, trying not to smile. "It's a disease."
Silence stretched between us, long and open. She didn't tell me to leave, and I didn't push.
"You think I'm being dramatic," she said after a while.
"No," I said, because I didn't. "I think you're scared. And trying really hard not to be."
I felt it before she even looked at me—this low, quiet static humming off of her like the charge before a storm. And it wasn't anger. It wasn't even fear.
It was the kind of sadness that sat too still. The kind that waited.
My stomach turned. I found myself looking at the edge of the cliff, then back at her.
And suddenly, I hated how close she was to it.
"You okay?" I asked softly.
It was a stupid question. She didn't answer.
The wind carried her silence to me like a slap.
I tried again. "You're scaring me a little."
She laughed. A bitter, short sound. "I'm just sitting."
"I know."
But that wasn't really what I meant.
She didn't move, didn't turn. "If you're gonna ask if I'm about to jump, don't. That's not why I'm here."
I stayed quiet. Not agreeing. Not disagreeing.
She finally turned her head, just slightly, enough to glance at me from the corner of her eye.
Her voice cracked then—low, raw. "Do you ever get tired of having front row seats to all my breakdowns?"
My throat tightened. "That's not how I see it."
"No?" she asked. "Because that's what it feels like. Like I'm constantly bleeding out in front of people who just keep watching. Waiting for the next performance."
Her voice wasn't angry, not really. It was… exhausted. Resentful. Like she was tired of being so visible all the time. Tired of being known only through her worst moments.
I didn't know what to say.
So I said the truth.
"I don't care about the show," I said. "I care about you."
She scoffed. "Yeah, well. I'm not sure I'm separate from it anymore."
"Ardere."
"What?"
"You're allowed to feel like shit."
She laughed again—not bitter this time. Just empty.
"That's the problem, Dorian. I do feel like shit. All the time. And every time I think I've buried it deep enough, someone comes along and notices. And suddenly I'm exposed again. Like I can't even fall apart in peace."
Her voice broke at the end. Not loud. Just barely.
I moved closer, but didn't touch her.
"Would it help," I said carefully, "if I looked away?"
She blinked.
I saw her shoulders twitch like she wasn't sure whether to be angry or grateful.
But then she said, barely above a whisper, "No. It's worse when no one's looking."
The silence between us didn't shatter—it just thinned. Stretched into something fragile and pulsing, like breath against a frozen window.
I sat with her a while longer. Long enough to notice the way her hands kept drifting toward her arms, rubbing faintly through her sleeves. Long enough to realize she hadn't even brought her gloves.
The wind was biting now, cutting through the trees in long, sharp gusts. It tugged at her coat again and this time, she didn't fight it. She just… let it. Like her body was too tired to care whether it kept her warm or flayed her open.
"You cold?" I asked.
She didn't answer.
Which, in Ardere terms, was basically a yes.
I slipped off my jacket and held it out. "Here."
She turned her head slightly, just enough for me to catch the look she shot me.
"I'm fine."
"You're shaking."
"No, I'm not."
"You are," I said quietly. "You're just too stubborn to admit it."
Her jaw clenched. "I don't need—"
"I didn't say you did."
I didn't force the jacket on her. Just let it rest across my knees. The offer stood, open and patient.
A minute passed.
Then two.
Finally, without looking at me, she reached over and took it.
I exhaled through my nose and pulled out the half-squashed granola bar from my pocket. "Also," I said, "this is technically from our breakfast stash, so if you yell at me, it'll be retroactive theft."
She didn't move.
I held it out anyway.
"Eat something, Ardere."
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten since this morning."
She was still for a moment. Then: "I said I'm not hungry."
"Liar," I said, not unkindly.
She didn't argue with that.
Her hands—now hidden under my sleeves—twitched in her lap. Her body still coiled in on itself like it didn't quite trust the air around her.
I broke the bar in half and gently placed one piece beside her boot. No pressure. No push.
"I'll just leave it here. For the raccoons. Or you. Or the ghost of whoever you were in a past life who didn't deface a sacred crypt."
That earned me the faintest huff of air. Almost a laugh. But not quite.
And then, so softly I almost missed it:
"I don't need you to take care of me."
"I know."
Another pause. Then:
"I don't want to need you."
My heart stuttered, but I kept my voice even. "That's okay. You don't have to."
We sat there in silence again. Only this time, it didn't ache so sharp.
She took the granola bar. Bit off a corner like it had personally offended her.
Then, finally—finally—she leaned the smallest bit closer. Just enough for our shoulders to touch. For her head to drop slightly toward mine.
"Don't make it a thing," she muttered.
I smiled, quiet and real. "Wouldn't dream of it."
By the time we made it back to the fire, the others were already out.
Araxie was curled up like a cat against Ms. Marvos's side, their shared blanket rising and falling with each breath. Riven and Lysander had somehow ended up sleeping back to back, arms crossed like it was a ceasefire neither of them had agreed to. Even in sleep, they looked ready to bolt in opposite directions.
The fire had burned down to a glowing cradle of coals. The cold hung in the air like a second skin, thin and sharp.
Ardere didn't say anything as she sat down again, pulling her knees to her chest. My jacket still hung off her shoulders, far too big, sleeves nearly covering her hands. She looked smaller in it. Not weak. Just… not so impenetrable.
I hesitated.
Then sat down beside her. Close. Not touching.
Just… close.
She didn't move away.
The silence stretched again—not tense, but not quite comfortable either. It pulsed with something nervous underneath. Something that had teeth.
I glanced across the fire at the others. All of them knocked out, half-splayed across packs and logs. No one watching. No one listening.
Which made what I was about to say feel that much more dangerous.
I cleared my throat, too loud in the quiet.
She didn't look at me, but I felt her attention shift.
My voice came out lower than I meant it to. "So, uh. You looked cold earlier. Still cold?"
She blinked. "You literally gave me your jacket."
"Right. Yeah. No—I know. I just meant…" I rubbed the back of my neck. Looked anywhere but at her. "I was gonna say, if you're still freezing, we could, like. I don't know. Share warmth?"
That hung in the air like a spark that wasn't sure if it wanted to burn.
She turned toward me, slow, expression unreadable in the dim firelight. "Are you asking me to cuddle?"
I immediately wanted to disappear.
"Not cuddle," I said, too fast. "I mean—technically, yes. But not in, like, a weird way. Just in a 'don't freeze to death' kind of way. A survival thing. Very practical. Not weird. Not a—"
"Dorian."
"Yeah?"
"You're rambling."
"Right."
A beat passed. My ears were on fire.
She exhaled slowly, and for a second I thought she was going to laugh. Or punch me. Or both.
Instead, she shifted. Turned so her side was angled toward mine. "Fine," she muttered. She leaned in, settling carefully beside me. Her head came to rest against my shoulder, and her body was warm—so much warmer than I expected. She let out a breath that shivered through her ribs.
I stayed still. Afraid to move. Afraid to breathe too loud and ruin it.
Then, so quiet I almost missed it:
"…You're shaking too, you know."
I smiled, small and crooked. "Guess that makes it practical for both of us."
Her fingers twitched slightly against my arm.
Ardere shifted beside me, just barely. I felt the tremor in her body before I heard it—small, involuntary. She was trying not to let it show, the way she always did. But her shoulders had begun to hunch tighter. Her arms pulled closer to her chest, like she was trying to vanish inside herself.
"Still not cold?" I murmured, voice low enough not to stir the others.
She didn't answer right away.
Then, grudgingly: "A little."
I tilted my head. "I've got an idea. You're not gonna like it."
She glanced at me with narrowed eyes. "Why does that sound like the beginning of every bad decision we've ever made?"
"Because it is," I said, pulling the emergency blanket from my bag. "But it might keep us alive."
She gave the thinnest huff of reluctant approval. I unfolded the thin, reflective material and wrapped it around both of us as best I could. It crackled faintly in the quiet, settling over our shoulders like a shared secret.
But it wasn't enough.
We were still trembling.
I hesitated, then shifted—just slightly closer. She didn't pull away.
After a breath, she leaned into me again, her head resting more firmly this time. The weight of her against me was heavier than before. Not in mass, but in feeling. Like everything she'd been holding back all day, all week, all life, was starting to leak through the cracks.
And I felt it.
I felt it in my bones.
Her grief sank into me like frostbite—slow and aching. Not sharp, not dramatic. Just present. A deep, marrow-soaking kind of sorrow that didn't scream or thrash, but sat there inside her, cold and quiet and endless.
I tightened my arm around her without thinking.
She didn't speak. Didn't react. But her hand—half-buried in my jacket sleeve—curled lightly into the fabric near my chest.
And then we were fully tangled together.
No pretense anymore. No awkward gaps. Just skin and breath and shared heat.
She pressed her forehead to the crook of my neck, and I felt the softness of it. The way her breath hitched when she let it out. Like she was fighting not to cry, not because she didn't want to—but because she didn't think she was allowed to.
I didn't say anything. Didn't try to fix it.
I just held her tighter.
Her grief wasn't something I could pull her out of. But I could be there. I could stay.
And even as that ache buried itself deeper into my chest—dulling my breath, slowing my heart—I realized I didn't want to move. I didn't want the moment to end.
Because this—her—even with everything she carried…
Felt like something I hadn't let myself want in a long time.
Warmth radiated between us, slow and reluctant, but real. Her body curved into mine like she was finally, finally letting herself rest. And I hated that I liked it. That some selfish part of me wanted to stay curled up in this awful, beautiful stillness forever. At some point, she stopped trembling. It wasn't sudden. Just a gradual stilling, like a storm passing in slow motion. Her breathing evened out, slow and deep against my collarbone. Her fingers, still curled lightly into the edge of my jacket, went slack but didn't let go.
She'd fallen asleep.
I didn't move.
Not because I was afraid to wake her—but because something about the way she'd folded into me felt… fragile. Sacred, almost. Like if I shifted wrong, the spell would break and she'd remember who she was supposed to be. Who she thought she had to be.
But now?
Now she was just herself.
Soft in the firelight. Small in my arms. Still wrapped in grief, yes—but not fighting it anymore. Letting it rest for once. Letting me carry some of it, even if only in sleep.
And gods, she was so touch starved.
I could feel it in the way her body kept unconsciously curling closer to mine—seeking warmth, seeking safety, seeking something she probably didn't even know she needed. Her leg brushed mine, and she didn't pull back. Her hand shifted, knuckles grazing my chest like she was trying to hold on to something even in her dreams.
She sighed once in her sleep, almost soundless. It caught in my throat like a knife.
No one should sound that sad while unconscious.
It hit me then—how often she must do this. How often she probably laid awake pretending not to need anything from anyone. How many nights she'd wrapped her own arms around herself and called it enough.
But now… she'd let me hold her.
And even though she'd hate herself for it later, I didn't.
I wouldn't.
Because the truth was—I didn't want to let go.
Not of her.
Not of this.
Not even of the ache that came with it.
I glanced at the others, still sprawled in their separate corners of sleep, none the wiser to the way the world had shifted quietly between the shadows. No one else saw her like this.
No one else got to.
My hand found hers under the emergency blanket. I didn't squeeze. Didn't do anything that might wake her.
I just held it.
Because right now, it felt like the most honest thing I could do.
Her breath was warm against my throat, each exhale brushing soft across my skin like it belonged there.
Like she belonged there.
And I could lie to myself—say I was just cold, just tired, just caught in the gravity of the moment—but my body had already betrayed me. Every nerve was on edge. Hyper-aware of her weight against me. Of the way her thigh rested across mine. Of the line of her spine tucked into the curve of my side, and the soft rise and fall of her chest under my arm.
I hadn't meant for it to happen like this.
I hadn't meant to notice everything.
But I did.
The way she smelled like pine and smoke and something vaguely electric. The way she fit against me like she'd done it before in another life. The way her entire being seemed to fold into me, like she was trusting me with something no one else had ever been allowed to hold.
And maybe I didn't deserve it.
But she gave it anyway.
I told myself not to make it a thing.
But gods, it was already a thing.
It was in the way my heartbeat kept stuttering every time she shifted in her sleep. The way I found myself breathing in sync with her, like if I just matched her rhythm, I could keep her steady. The way my hand stayed locked around hers—not just to keep her warm, but because I wanted to. Needed to.
And worse—far worse than the rest—
Was the fact that even knowing everything, even with the grief rolling off her in waves, even with the weight of whatever plan she was still hiding from me…
I didn't want to let go.
Not for a second.
This wasn't just that protective, punch-an-asshole-for-you kind of affection.
This wasn't just loyalty.
It wasn't just care.
It was her.
Her.
The way she laughed with her mouth closed and her eyes open. The way she hid every part of herself and still managed to shine. The way she carried her pain like a weapon she couldn't quite put down. The way she pushed me away with one hand and reached for me with the other, like she didn't know how not to contradict herself.
I was stupidly, helplessly, probably-disastrously—
Falling for her.
And not in a light, floaty, poetic kind of way.
It was heavier than that. Messier. A slow descent with no safety net. I was in it, already too far gone, and tonight—feeling her curled into me, letting herself rest, trusting me like this—
It just sealed it.
Gods, I was so screwed.
She murmured something in her sleep then—barely audible, nothing I could make out. But the way her face twitched, the way her body tensed briefly before softening again, made my chest ache all over again.
I wanted to ask her what she dreamed about.
I wanted to promise her she didn't have to face it alone.
I wanted to tell her I'd stay. That I'd keep staying. Even if she hated me for it later.
Instead, I adjusted the blanket just slightly and pulled her closer.
And this time when I closed my eyes, I let myself want it.
Even if only for the night.
Even if everything shattered come morning.
****
Morning came in pieces.
First was the light—soft, pale, and cold as it filtered through the canopy. Then the birds, too loud, too cheerful. Then the stiffness in my spine, the soreness in my legs, the awareness that I hadn't moved all night because—
Because she was still in my arms.
Ardere.
Still curled into me, still asleep, her face tucked into my collar like she'd been made for it.
My brain tried to catch up with my body. I hadn't meant to fall asleep. Not like that. Not with my arms wrapped fully around her, her hand still tangled with mine, her knee draped over my thigh like she'd anchored herself there.
And I didn't want to move.
Not yet.
It felt… sacred. Private. One of those rare, fragile moments when everything was still and safe and real.
Then, from across the firepit, a voice sliced through the morning like a scalpel:
"Oh my God," Riven said, loud and horribly awake. "Did you two finally screw, or did someone just die from terminal emotional repression?"
Ardere bolted upright so fast she nearly headbutted me.
She yanked my jacket off like it was on fire, eyes wide and furious and panicked all at once. Her face was flushed with heat, jaw already locked in that familiar defensive way.
"I—shut up, Riven," she snapped, already backing away, like distance could erase what just happened.
"Oh, don't stop on my account," Riven said, grinning around a protein bar. "It's cute. Real bonding-the-night-before-the-world-ends energy. You want me to fetch flowers next time? Maybe get a bard to write a ballad?"
"Riven." My voice came out hoarse, sharp. I sat up, but not fast enough to stop the damage. "Seriously. Not now."
He arched a brow like I'd personally offended him. "What? I'm celebrating. Ardere's finally acting like a human being instead of a haunted house in combat boots."
Araxie stirred behind him, blinking herself awake. Lysander grunted something unintelligible but didn't open his eyes. Ms. Marvos was already sitting up, watching the scene with the quiet disappointment of someone too exhausted to be surprised.
But Ardere was already gone.
She didn't say anything—just turned and walked away, fast and silent, disappearing into the trees like the night never happened.
Like she hadn't just fallen asleep in my arms.
Like it hadn't meant anything.
My stomach turned.
"You're a real piece of work," I muttered to Riven, pushing to my feet.
"Relax," he said with a shrug. "If she actually liked you, she'd have stayed."
I stopped walking.
Turned.
He was smirking. Always smirking. Like nothing stuck to him. Like none of this ever touched him in any way that mattered.
I wanted to hit him.
More than that—I wanted him to understand.
"She did stay," I said, voice low. "All night. She stayed."
His smirk faltered for a second—just a second—but that was enough. My heart beating somewhere between fury and heartbreak.
Because Riven hadn't just embarrassed her.
He'd reminded her of why she never let herself be soft in the first place.
And just like that—
All the progress we'd made had been stomped out.
I just stood there, staring at the gap in the trees where she'd disappeared, fists clenched, chest tight with everything I didn't know how to say.
"She'll come back," Araxie said softly behind me.
I turned halfway, not sure if I was ready for company—but Araxie wasn't like the others. She was already sitting cross-legged near the fire, tucking her sleeves over her hands, voice careful and kind in the way only she could manage without sounding patronizing.
"She just gets embarrassed," she said, giving me a small smile. "Especially when someone sees her soft. It doesn't mean she didn't want it. Just… that it's scary."
I swallowed hard, not trusting my voice yet.
"She didn't push you away," Araxie added gently. "That means something."
I wanted to believe that.
But then I felt it—him.
A shadow shifting near the edge of the campsite. The air got heavier. Colder. Like some predator had just entered the room.
Lysander.
He didn't say a word. He just stood there, looming near the tree line, arms crossed, jaw tense. The kind of angry where stillness was more dangerous than shouting. His eyes were locked on me, unwavering.
I turned to face him fully, trying to stay neutral, non-confrontational, but I already knew that look.
It was the touch-my-sister-and-die look. Classic.
"You got something to say?" I asked, my voice lower than I meant it to be.
He didn't blink.
"I've got a lot to say," he said quietly. "But I'm trying to decide which version gets you to back the hell off without me breaking your jaw."
Araxie flinched. I didn't move.
"Nothing happened," I said.
"Doesn't matter," Lysander snapped. "You think I didn't see the way she looked when she walked back in here? Red-faced, shoulders locked up like she'd just been stripped in front of a crowd. You let Riven say that shit to her. You sat there and—"
"I didn't let it happen," I snapped back. "You think I don't know how much that screwed her up? I was trying to fix it. But she ran—"
"Yeah," he said, stepping closer. "She ran. Because she trusted you. You. And you let someone humiliate her while she was still half-asleep from trusting you with whatever that was last night."
His voice was too calm. That was the worst part.
"This isn't about your feelings," he said, all steel now. "I don't care if you like her. I don't care if you think you're good for her. What I do care about is that she came back with her walls down for the first time in months, and now she's in the woods alone, humiliated, and hating herself."
I said nothing.
What was there to say? He was right. Even if I hadn't meant for it to happen, I'd let it.
Lysander leaned in just enough to make sure I heard him:
"If she cries, I'll break your ribs."
Then he turned and walked.
Not after her—but away.
Because he knew she wouldn't want him to follow.
I figured I'd give her time. Let her cool off. Come back on her own terms—because pushing her would just make it worse.
At least, that was the plan.
Until Marvos's shrill voice cracked through the air like a whip.
"Dorian."
I looked up. She was standing near the tree she slept under, sunglasses perched high like she was above it all even though the sun wasn't even fully out yet.
"We're leaving in ten," she said. "Find the girl."
"I think she needs space," I said, not moving.
She raised one eyebrow like I was some underperforming intern.
"She can have space once she's walking. Go."
I grit my teeth and stood up, brushing ash from my hands.
It took longer than it should've to find her. She wasn't at the cliffs, or the trailhead, or the usual spots she drifted off to.
When I finally spotted her, she was crouched by the creek, washing her hands in the freezing water like she was trying to scrub something off. My jacket was zipped to her chin, hood up, sleeves tugged down so tight her knuckles were pale.
She didn't look up.
"Hey," I said softly.
Nothing.
"We're leaving," I tried again. "Marvos is on a warpath."
Still nothing.
I came closer—slowly, carefully—and knelt a few feet away.
"Look, I'm sorry. I should've shut Riven down before he said anything. I didn't know it was gonna get—"
"I don't care," she said. Cold. Flat. Dismissive.
The way she didn't even look at me stung worse than anything she could've yelled.
"Ardere—"
"Don't," she cut in. "Seriously. Don't."
I sat back on my heels. "Last night—"
"There was no last night."
That hit harder than it should've.
She finally looked up at me then, but it wasn't the same girl who'd fallen asleep next to me, who'd let herself soften in my arms and breathe easy for a few stolen hours.
This Ardere had steel in her spine and frost in her eyes. The kind of expression people wear when they've already decided they're not going to let you back in.
"Whatever you thought that was, it wasn't," she said. "I was exhausted. I let my guard down. It won't happen again."
"No," I said, "you need someone to stop you from blowing everything up the second you get scared."
She froze.
And then turned, a mocking little smirk on her face. "Scared?" she echoed. "Is that what this is? Wow. Maybe I should've cried more last night. Really sold it."
"Okay," I said, walking up to her. "You're deflecting. That's fine. Brat mode activated. I can roll with that."
"Oh, don't act like you know me."
"I do know you."
She tried to brush past me, but I stepped directly in front of her. She went to sidestep—so I mirrored. Left. Right. Left again.
"Move," she said sharply.
"No."
Her nostrils flared. "Dorian."
"I said no."
She tried to push me.
I caught her wrist—not hard, just enough to stop her. She could've broken the hold if she really wanted to.
But she didn't.
"You don't get to pretend last night didn't happen," I said. "You don't get to shut me out because someone made you feel small for needing something."
Her eyes flicked away. Her jaw clenched. "It was a mistake."
"No," I said. "It was real. You were warm. You were human. And for the first time since I met you, you actually let yourself breathe."
She shook her head. "That's not me."
"Yes, it is," I said, stepping closer. "That's you when the fight isn't eating you alive."
She opened her mouth like she was going to hit back with something clever or cutting—but nothing came out.
So I softened. Just a little.
"I don't want last night to be the only time you let someone be there for you," I said. "And I don't think you do either."
Her lip trembled. Almost imperceptibly.
Then she yanked her wrist free and muttered, "You're annoying."
"Yeah," I said. "But you're still not walking away."
We stood there for a long beat.
She looked like she hated how much she needed this. Like wanting someone was some kind of failure.
We didn't hear it so much as feel it.
A sharp crack cut through the air, echoing through the trees like the forest itself had snapped in half. It was distant—but not distant enough. Every bird within earshot exploded into flight.
Ardere froze mid-step, her smirk vanishing in an instant. She glanced back at me, eyes suddenly alert. Wide. No more teasing.
"Was that a—?" she started.
"Gunshot," I finished, already moving forward to close the space between us. "That was a gunshot."
Her posture had shifted—shoulders stiff, feet planted, like she was bracing for impact. "Could be a hunter."
I nodded slowly. "Yeah. Could be."
But neither of us believed that. Not really. We hadn't seen a single deer, rabbit, or anything all morning. Just quiet trails and a cold wind and trees too still for comfort.
Her hand went for her coat pocket—where I knew she kept the knife Lysander had given her. My heart stuttered a little at that. Not because she had a weapon, but because she looked like she knew how to use it. Like this wasn't new. Like she'd been here before.
I took a breath, keeping my voice low. "We need to move. Now."
She didn't argue.
We turned off the trail without speaking, ducking low under a bent pine branch as we veered deeper into the trees. The cold didn't matter anymore. Neither did the fact that I hadn't eaten or that my legs ached from sleeping in one position all night just to keep her warm.
Another shot rang out—closer this time.
My body reacted before my brain did. I grabbed her arm and pulled her behind the thickest trunk I could find. We dropped low. I could feel her breath fast and shallow beside me. She didn't shake. She didn't panic. She waited.
"What do you think?" she whispered, her lips barely moving. "Random hunter with bad aim?"
I scanned the treeline, heartbeat slamming in my ears. "If they're hunting, it's not animals."
"Okay," Ardere said quietly, rising from behind the trunk. "If someone's out there, I need to find them before they find the group."
I caught her arm. "Ardere. No. We don't know who that was. Could be a hunter, could be something worse. Either way, we need to go back. Now."
But she shook me off like it was nothing. "You go back if you want."
"I'm not letting you walk straight into a gun," I snapped.
She raised an eyebrow, cool and defiant. "Then keep up."
And just like that, she turned and slipped into the trees, silent as a shadow.
"Ardere—Goddammit—"
I barely managed to swallow down the frustration clawing up my throat. For someone so quick to pull away from people, she sure as hell loved throwing herself in front of danger for them.
I should've gone back. Found Lysander, warned the others. I should've.
But my feet were already moving.
Because she wasn't just some reckless brat with a savior complex.
She was the girl who leaned into my touch last night like it was oxygen. Who clung to the edge of connection like she wanted to believe in it—but didn't trust herself to hold on. Who could barely look me in the eye this morning without folding in on herself.
And if anything happened to her out here—if I let her vanish into the woods alone, chasing ghosts or armed psychopaths or whatever the hell was out there—I'd never forgive myself.
The trees swallowed me up as I followed her trail, keeping low, moving fast.
"Ardere," I hissed under my breath. "You are unbelievably exhausting."
A branch whipped across my face.
"Also possibly feral."
Another crack echoed through the trees—closer.
My stomach turned to lead.
"Ardere!"
No answer.
Of course not.
I moved faster, ducking under branches and pushing through thick brush, but there was no sign of her. No flash of her dark hoodie. No sound of footsteps. No snapped twigs. Nothing but stillness and shadows.
"Ardere!" I called out, low and sharp. "This isn't the time to play Houdini!"
Silence.
I turned a slow, tightening circle, heart pounding harder with every breath. The woods had gone quiet in that eerie way that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I kept moving, frustration sparking like flint. "You stubborn little—"
My foot caught on something soft.
I looked down.
There, tangled beneath a cluster of fern and fallen leaves, was my jacket.
The one I'd wrapped around her shoulders last night.
I dropped to my knees, yanking it out of the dirt like it burned. The sleeves were damp from the ground. The collar still smelled like her—like cedar and fire smoke and whatever perfume she pretended not to wear. One side of it was darkened, stained. I wasn't sure if it was mud or—
No. I didn't want to think about what else it could be.
"Shit," I breathed.
She wouldn't have left it behind. Not unless something was very wrong.
I scanned the clearing, brain firing in overdrive. No drag marks. No blood. No sign of a struggle. Just the jacket. Just the silence.
And then—
Crack.
Another gunshot. Closer this time. Too close.
I clutched the jacket in both hands, heart punching my ribs.
She was out here. Somewhere. Alone. And I had no idea who just fired that shot or who it was meant for.
It's not just fear in my throat anymore. It's something heavier. Wilder. Like every cell in my body is screaming her name and none of them can agree on where the hell to go.
"Ardere!" I yell again, louder this time. My voice bounces off the trees and comes back warped, like the forest itself is mocking me.
Still no answer.
I start moving without a plan, crashing through underbrush and snapping branches like a goddamn bull. I try to stay sharp, stay tactical, eyes scanning the ground for prints, for signs of movement, but my brain won't shut the fuck up. Every heartbeat is a countdown. Every second she's not in front of me is a second she could be—
No.
No. No, I can't go there. I won't.
But I already am.
I think of her face, blank and closed off, that wall she threw back up so fast it gave me whiplash. I should've fought harder to break through it. I should've—
My foot hits a dip in the ground and I stumble forward, catching myself against a tree with a sharp bark-scrape across my palm. I look down and realize I'm still clutching my jacket in my other hand like it's a goddamn lifeline. It smells like cold and forest and her, and it hurts more than I can stand.
"Damn it, Ardere," I mutter, half a prayer, half a plea. "You don't get to do this. Not now."
Not when last night she let herself be held. Not when I felt her letting go. Not when I saw, for just one fucking second, that she needs someone. That maybe she needs me.
I try again—
"Ardere!"
It comes out more like a roar.
No answer.
Branches whip at my face. Mud sucks at my boots. I don't even know which direction I came from anymore. I'm just moving. Forward. Always forward. Because standing still feels too much like giving up and I can't—
A shape in the trees.
I freeze.
Just a squirrel.
Keep moving.
I start to run. Faster. Faster. I'm not even dodging anything anymore, just letting the woods claw at me, trying to tear through this panic boiling in my chest like lava.
She's not built for this. She's strong—God, is she strong—but she's still hurting. Still healing. If someone out there has a weapon—
I stop again, heart hammering so hard I think it might punch straight through my ribs. The edges of my vision are going soft. Tight. Tunneling.
I can't breathe.
I can't—
I slam my hand into a tree trunk. Just to feel something. Just to stay grounded.
The pain helps. For half a second. Then the spiral comes back.
What if I find more than just her jacket next time?
What if I find blood?
What if I don't find anything at all?
The jacket slips from my hands and I drop to my knees.
"Come on," I whisper, voice cracking. "Come on, Red. Just—give me something. A sign. A footprint. A broken branch. Anything."
But the forest just breathes around me. Deep and ancient. And quiet.
Too quiet.
My lungs burn. My fingers shake. And I swear I feel it—somewhere deep in my gut—the moment where hope starts to tilt toward terror.
I'm losing her.
Not just in the where the hell did she go sense, but in the something's wrong, something's breaking way that makes my bones feel like they're vibrating under my skin.
I've searched everywhere. Double-backed. Screamed her name till my throat's raw. Every part of me is unraveling, one fraying thread at a time, and the worst part is—I can feel it. Like she's slipping further and further away with every step I take.
Then it hits me.
A wave.
No, a shockwave.
Not physical—not like something I could dodge or brace for. It hits through me. Buries itself in my chest like a scream I didn't know I was holding in. It's raw, and ugly, and so goddamn sad it makes me stagger where I stand.
It's her.
I don't know how I know, but I do. It's Ardere. That's her grief. That's her pain clawing its way through the woods like it's hunting for someone who'll feel it. And it found me.
Jesus.
My knees almost buckle. My vision blurs. For one terrifying second, I feel like I'm about to go under completely. Like the grief could swallow me whole just from proximity alone.
And then—
A direction.
It's not words. Not coordinates. It's not even rational. But my body moves anyway. Because whatever she just released—it came from the east.
I take off sprinting.
Branches tear at my face, my arms, my legs. My lungs are already shredded, but I don't slow down. I can't. That burst of agony she let loose—it's fading fast. Like she slammed the door shut behind it.
I hear the struggle before I see it.
Branches whip against my face, thorns scraping my arms as I sprint blind through the underbrush. Somewhere ahead, metal hits the dirt. A shout. Not hers. His.
And then—
"GET OFF ME—"
Ardere.
I crash through the last of the trees and the world slams into focus.
She's on top of him, fists swinging like war drums, fury wrapped around her like armor. The guy's twice her size and still losing. She knocks the gun from his grip like it's nothing, a roar building in her throat but never quite spilling out.
I've never seen her like this. I've never seen anyone like this.
But he's still scrambling. One hand shoots out.
Reaches.
Fingers brush the gun.
And then the sound explodes.
BANG.
Ardere jerks.
I see the blood bloom across her side even before I hear her cry out. It's not a killing shot—but it's close enough.
She stumbles—but doesn't fall.
Instead, she slams her elbow into his temple, and the man drops like a sack of meat.
Motionless.
Breathing, maybe. I don't care.
I'm already running.
"Ardere—"
She sways.
Blood is pouring down her side, She blinks hard, trying to stay upright, but her knees buckle and I catch her before she hits the ground.
"Shit—fuck, no, no, no—" I drop with her, one arm around her back, the other reaching for the source of the bleeding. "You're okay, you're fine—just hold still, I need to stop the—"
"Dorian—don't—"
She tries to push me back. Too slow.
I don't listen.
I press my hand to the wound.
The second I make contact—
It's like someone rips my soul in half.
I feel it.
Her pain.
Not just physical. No, this is deeper. Rotting.
It's agony so thick it eats the edges of my vision. I'm choking on it, my lungs shriveling around something hot and wrong. My ears ring. My heart stutters. I see flashes that don't belong to me—screaming, blood on tile, someone holding her down, begging her to stop breathing, don't scream, don't scream, don't scream—
And then nothing.
Just her grief. Hollow. Raw. Bottomless.
A cavern with no exit.
And I realize—
It's not just her touch that's toxic.
It's her blood.
And this? This is so much worse.
I rip my hand away like I've been burned—but the echo of her torment clings to me, crawling down my spine and burrowing somewhere behind my eyes.
Ardere's already pulling away, breath ragged, pupils wide with terror and fury.
"I told you not to—" she chokes, trying to shove me off again. "God, Dorian, I—don't touch it!"
But I can't hear her. Not properly.
Because that despair? That thing inside her?
It's still screaming.
And now it's screaming in me.
I curl in on myself, shaking.
My vision won't stay still.
Every blink brings another flash—her pain, her memories maybe, or something worse. Loneliness, helplessness, torment. I feel all of it. Like I lived it.
And then I feel her grab me.
"Don't—" I choke out. "You can't—"
"I have to," she snaps.
I try to flinch away from her touch but I can't move fast enough. Her arm wraps around my chest and she hauls. She's still bleeding. Still limping. Still hurting. And she's dragging me like I'm the one who got shot.
Every step is a fresh wave of agony. Not just mine. Hers. Amplified. Mutating. My body can't tell where my pain ends and hers begins. Every place she touches feels like it's being carved open.
I want to scream. I want to beg her to leave me and get help. I want to rip the skin off my palm just to make it stop.
But I can't say a word.
I just let her carry me.
Her blood still warm on my hand.
And it won't wash off.
****
Everything's coming apart.
My skin is blistering with agony, nerves pulled taut like piano wire. I fade in and out, catching fragments of movement—the drag of my boots through dirt, Ardere's staggering breath. Her blood is on me. Inside me. Screaming through every vein.
Camp.
I hear it before I see it. Voices. The shuffle of panic.
"Ardere!" Lysander's voice cracks through the clearing like a whip. "What the fuck—?"
He's running.
I try to lift my head. My neck doesn't respond. The world tilts violently.
"Lysander, don't—" Ardere's voice shudders. "Don't touch me! Not like this—your hands—please."
But he doesn't even look at me. Not a glance.
He's on his knees beside her, hands already moving toward the wound like he doesn't care if it kills him.
She throws out an arm, shoving him back with what little strength she has. "You have to cover your hands!" she gasps. "My blood—my blood is—"
"I don't give a shit about your blood!" he snaps. "You've been shot!"
"I do!" she screams back. "Just—wrap something first! I can't lose you too!"
He stops. Just for a second. Looks at her like he's seeing the tremble in her voice, not the wound in her side.
Then he rips the jacket off his back, winding the sleeves around his hands like makeshift gloves, hissing under his breath the whole time. "This is insane," he mutters. "All of this is—fucking insane."
I'm still crumpled beside her, body twitching. Fire in my blood, static in my skull. No one looks at me. Not even him.
I hear more running.
Ms. Marvos. Araxie. Riven's laughter.
Everything spins again.
But I stay focused on her voice—still anchored to this reality by her voice.
Ardere's bleeding, shaking, barely upright—but she's the one who dragged me back.
And I'm the one breaking apart.
I'm not sure if I scream or just think I do. My head lolls. I catch a flash of her face—pale, blood-slicked, hollowed out by pain and exhaustion. I don't think she knows I'm looking.
More footsteps. Quicker now.
Ms. Marvos.
"Oh, Dorian, no, no, no—" Her hands hover over me, unsure. Her breath shakes like she's holding back panic.
Araxie's next, practically sliding down beside me. "He's burning up—his pulse is all over the place!"
I want to ask what that means. I want to ask if Ardere's okay. But my mouth won't move.
And then there's laughter.
Not kind.
Not concerned.
Hysterical.
Unhinged.
Riven.
He's somewhere off to the side, doubled over, laughing like someone just told the funniest joke in the world.
"Goddamn, I knew you were attached," he cackles. "But this? This is romantic as shit!"
Someone yells at him to shut up. I think it's Araxie. Or maybe Ms. Marvos. The ringing in my ears is getting worse.
I fade again.
Just for a second.
"You shouldn't be standing," Lysander murmurs, trying to support her weight now too. "You're bleeding out."
She ignores him.
Lysander's got the sleeves wrapped tight around his hands, muttering curses under his breath as he presses down on the wound.
Ardere chokes on a sound that's not quite a scream—but I feel it.
It hits me like I've been shot.
The pain doesn't just stab. It detonates.
A violent, searing current tunnels through my skull, down my spine, blooming through every organ like shrapnel. My heart skips once. Then again. My vision whites out.
"Fuck—sorry, sorry—" Lysander's saying as he adjusts pressure, trying to keep her steady. "I didn't mean to—"
But she's gasping, head falling forward, blood soaking the ground beneath her like it's trying to take her with it.
"Lys…" Her voice is paper-thin. "Stop pressing so hard—he can't take it."
"He?" Lysander glances at me for the first time. Just once. Like a bug on the ground. "Dorian's the one screaming?"
I am. I didn't even notice.
My voice feels like it belongs to someone else, something else—howling, raw. I can't breathe. Can't blink.
It's not just the pain anymore—it's my body folding under it. It's my heart failing. I can feel my veins thickening with it, feel my lungs burning like they've been dipped in acid. Her blood is killing me.
I curl forward, vomit bile and fire. My vision splinters at the edges.
Marvos grabs me then—finally—and Araxie's hands are somewhere on my face, trying to make me focus, trying to hold me together with touch alone. But there's no oxygen in this place, no floor, no skin that isn't screaming.
"I can't—I can't—" I don't even know who I'm talking to. "Make it stop—"
And Riven's somewhere nearby, laughing like he's watching art.
"Holy shit," he cackles. "That is so much worse than I thought it'd be."
Ardere makes another sound—pure agony—and I see her flinch from Lysander's touch again.
Another pulse of pain hits me, and this time I black out for half a second. Maybe longer. My mind is fracturing.
Her wound's bleeding. And every drop is suffocating me.
I'm on my side now. Or maybe my back. I can't tell. Everything hurts. Everything burns. I can feel her blood eating through me like acid and grief had a baby and decided I was its first victim.
Araxie's saying something—soft, frantic—but the words don't make it through the static in my skull.
Then I hear it.
Not a whisper. Not a plea.
A scream.
"GET IT OFF HIM!"
It's Ardere.
Her voice carves straight through the haze. Shatters it.
"My blood! My blood is still on him!" she screams, and her voice is sharp enough to bleed. "You have to wash it off, or he's going to die!"
She tries to stand, to crawl toward me, but Lysander holds her back with both arms, cursing as he struggles to keep her upright.
"I told you not to touch him without protection!" she snarls, even as her own blood paints her skin and his clothes. "He doesn't need pressure—he needs help!"
I feel her power like a scream under my skin. Not hers—not now—but the thing in her, the thing that makes her blood lethal and her touch unbearable. It's inside me now. Screaming like it wants to claw its way out through my ribcage.
Marvos finally understands. I see it in her face.
"Araxie—water," she says. "NOW."
"There isn't any—"
"Then spit, use your mouth, your shirt, your hands, I don't care! Just—get it off him!"
Riven's doubled over, wheezing with laughter like he's watching a comedy show written in blood.
"God," he chuckles, "this is better than I imagined. Her blood's killing him? That's fucked up in such a fun way."
"Shut the fuck up, Riven!" Ardere screams again, and the sound makes even him flinch.
Her voice is shaking. She's losing strength fast. But she still sounds like fire when she says:
"Help him, or we both die right here."