The forest path narrowed as dusk crept in, the golden afternoon light giving way to long purple shadows that stretched across the mossy ground like spilled ink.
Ed and Tia had been walking for hours—steady, unhurried—following the first red-ink line Mara had drawn on the map.
The trail was old but clear: packed earth worn smooth by decades of boots, occasional blazes cut into tree trunks, faint traces of old campfires long gone cold.
Neither spoke much. There was no need.
The rhythm of their footsteps had synced almost immediately—her lighter tread beside his heavier one, the soft creak of leather packs, the occasional rustle of leaves overhead.
Every so often, their shoulders brushed—a small, wordless reassurance.
As the sky darkened to indigo, Ed slowed.
"We should camp soon," he said. "Light's failing. Better to stop while we can still see the ground."
Tia nodded. "There's a clearing ahead—about half a mile. I used to gather herbs there years ago. Flat, sheltered by a low ridge. Good sight lines."
They pressed on.
The clearing appeared exactly as she remembered: a roughly oval space ringed by ancient oaks, a small brook cutting through one corner, grass soft underfoot.
No signs of recent passage—no fresh boot prints, no broken branches, no lingering campfire smell.
Just quiet, watchful stillness.
Ed dropped his pack near the brook and began gathering dry wood.
Tia cleared a small circle for the fire.
They moved around each other with the easy familiarity of people who had once shared every chore on the road.
He stacked kindling in a neat pyramid. She arranged stones into a low ring. Together they coaxed a small flame to life with flint and tinder.
When the fire was steady—small, smokeless, banked low—Tia sat cross-legged on her bedroll and pulled a thin wool blanket around her shoulders.
Ed settled opposite her, elbows on his knees, watching the flames dance between them.
For a long moment, the only sounds were the crackle of burning wood and the soft gurgle of the brook.
Tia broke the quiet first.
"Do you ever miss it?" she asked softly. "The hero's party. The way things were before everything… changed."
Ed stared into the fire. Flames reflected in his eyes like distant stars.
"Parts of it," he admitted. "The nights around campfires like this one. The stupid jokes Jyn would make when everyone was exhausted. The way Mira would hum old ballads when she thought no one was listening. The feeling that—for a few hours—we were doing something that mattered."
He looked up at her across the flames.
"But I don't miss the pretending," he continued.
"I don't miss carrying everything alone while smiling like it didn't hurt. I don't miss knowing the door was waiting the moment they turned their backs."
Tia pulled the blanket tighter.
"I miss the mornings," she said. "Waking up and knowing exactly who would be there when I opened my eyes. Alexis sharpening his sword at dawn. Okasa brewing that awful root tea he swore cured everything. You… always the first one up, already packing supplies or starting breakfast so quietly no one would wake grumpy."
Her voice cracked on the last word.
"I miss knowing I wasn't the only one carrying the weight."
Ed reached across the fire—careful not to disturb the flames—and took her hand.
"You're not alone anymore," he said.
"Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever again if I can help it."
Tia turned her palm up and laced her fingers through his.
"Even if Varkis's scouts find us?" she asked. "Even if the Free Companies turn out to be a trap? Even if the whole frontier burns down around us?"
"Especially then."
She studied his face in the firelight—searching for doubt, for hesitation. Found none.
"Then tell me," she said quietly. "What's the worst world you ever walked away from? The one that still wakes you up at night."
Ed exhaled slowly. Sparks rose from the fire like tiny fireflies.
"World eighty-nine," he said after a long pause.
"A coastal city-state ruled by a council of merchant-princes. The hero there was a boy—fourteen, maybe fifteen—chosen because he could speak to the tides. Gentle kid. Never wanted the sword they forced into his hand. I stayed longer than usual—almost three years. Taught him how to read currents instead of just ride them, how to spot riptides before they pulled ships under. He started calling me 'big brother' without thinking."
Tia's grip tightened.
"He drowned," Ed continued, voice low.
"Not in battle. In a storm the council refused to evacuate for because it would cost them trade days. I got him to the harbor wall. Told him to hold on. A wave came—bigger than anything I'd ever seen. I reached for him. Missed by inches. Watched the sea take him while the merchant-princes stood on their balconies and counted lost cargo instead of lost lives."
He looked into the flames again.
"I walked out of that world the moment his heart stopped. Didn't even look back. The door opened before the wave even finished breaking."
Tia lifted his hand to her lips and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Ed turned his hand so he could cup her cheek instead.
"Don't be," he said.
"Just… stay with me. That's all I want now. No more doors opening behind me. No more walking away alone."
Tia leaned into his touch.
"I'm not going anywhere," she promised.
They sat like that until the fire burned low—hands linked across the flames, breathing in the same quiet rhythm.
Eventually Ed added another log. Sparks rose in a brief, bright fountain.
"First watch is mine," he said.
Tia shook her head. "We share it. Like we used to."
He smiled—small, real.
"Like we used to."
She curled up on her bedroll near the fire, head pillowed on her pack, eyes already heavy.
Ed stayed sitting, back against a fallen log, knife resting across his knees.
The night deepened around them—stars appearing one by one overhead, the brook murmuring its endless lullaby, the forest breathing slow and steady.
For the first time in a decade, Tia fell asleep knowing someone was watching over her.
And for the first time in a century, Ed kept watch knowing he wasn't waiting for a door to open.
He was waiting for morning.
Waiting for tomorrow.
Waiting—with her.