Evelyn had always believed herself strong.
She had carried shadows, chains, and burdens without complaint. But tonight, sitting between Damien's suspicion, Zeke's cold pragmatism, and Clara's trembling form, she felt her strength buckling like a beam beneath too much stone.
Her hand rested on Clara's shoulder, grounding her, though the truth was the reverse. Clara's fragility grounded her. The girl was shaking, and Evelyn could feel every tremor travel up her arm. She couldn't let go—not because Clara needed her, but because if she let go, Evelyn wasn't sure she could still stand.
Damien's words still burned in her ears. Liability. Break. Prepare. He said it like sharpening a blade, as though cutting Clara down was a practical measure, a precaution. And Zeke—his detachment had been worse. His voice wasn't cruel, but empty. Analytical. Like Clara was already data in an equation, waiting for an outcome.
Evelyn wanted to scream at them both, but her anger was only a mask for something darker.
Fear.
Not fear of them. Fear of herself. Because part of her—small but venomous—wondered if they were right. Clara had collapsed under Yurin's touch before, her eyes hollow, her body barely her own. And Evelyn had seen enough tethering magic in her life to know it wasn't something that just faded. A tether was a scar. A door. And doors could always be opened.
Her chain brushed against her hip as she shifted, and the sound felt louder than the fire crackling in front of them. She imagined wrapping it around Damien's throat for speaking so carelessly. She imagined binding Zeke's calculating hands until they bled. But she knew that would solve nothing.
They were afraid too. Fear wore many faces—steel, silence, fury.
Evelyn's fingers curled tighter on Clara's shoulder, and she forced her voice steady. "She's not a liability. She's our ally. If you can't trust that, then trust me. I'll bear the weight she carries. I'll keep her from breaking."
Damien's eyes flickered, but he said nothing. Zeke only arched a brow, like he was cataloging her words. Neither gave her the reassurance she needed.
When the fire dimmed and the camp fell to uneasy quiet, Evelyn kept watch. Clara leaned into her side, finally drifting into sleep, but Evelyn stayed awake. Her chains rattled faintly as she shifted, and each sound reminded her of her vow.
She stared at the fire's last embers and whispered to herself, so softly no one could hear:
"Even if she falls, I'll fall with her."
The words came with conviction—but Evelyn's stomach knotted all the same. Because beneath that vow was a darker truth she couldn't admit aloud.
She didn't know if she was protecting Clara from Yurin… or if she was protecting herself from facing how much she needed Clara to survive her own doubts.
And when she closed her eyes, just for a moment, she swore she felt something tug back at her chains. As though another will, far away, had brushed against them—testing.