The world was quiet in a way Kael wasn't used to trusting.

Not the fragile silence of the void, or the tense hush before battle—but a living quiet. Wind moving through grass. Distant water flowing over stone. The kind of peace that didn't feel borrowed.

They had made camp on a ridge overlooking the valley where the land had finally begun to heal. Below them, green spread in uneven patches like a scar learning how to close. Cracked earth softened. Rivers found their old paths again.

Kael sat on a fallen log, elbows braced on his knees, staring out at it all as if it might vanish if he blinked.

Eira watched him from a short distance away.

He'd been like this for days now—present, but not entirely here. No longer sharp with grief, no longer braced for pain. Just… uncertain. As though the absence of danger had stripped away the shape of him.

Jorah noticed too. He always did.

"Careful," Jorah muttered, handing Eira a cup of heated broth. "That's the look of a man about to overthink himself into another cosmic disaster."

Eira accepted the cup but didn't look away from Kael. "He's not scheming."

"That's worse," Jorah said. "Scheming, I understand. This?" He gestured vaguely. "This is existential."

Kael exhaled slowly, as if he could hear them without turning. "You know I can still hear you, right?"

Jorah smiled sweetly. "We're counting on it."

Kael huffed a quiet laugh—but it faded quickly. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon.

Eira approached then, sitting beside him on the log. Close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, but not quite. They had been circling this space for weeks now—too aware, too careful.

"You're thinking again," she said softly.

"Always am," Kael replied. "Just… different things now."

"Like?"

He hesitated. For once, the silence wasn't something he could cut through easily.

"I don't know who I am when I'm not running," he admitted.

That made her look at him.

He continued, voice low. "My entire existence has been reaction. Survive. Fix. Undo. Kill. Repeat." His fingers curled slightly against his knee. "Every version of me that existed before… they all died moving forward. Toward something."

"And now?" she asked.

"Now I'm here." He gestured vaguely to the valley. "Alive. Remembered. No blade at my throat. No clock counting down."

Eira studied his profile—the way the tension in his jaw softened when he spoke honestly, the way his eyes reflected the world like they were afraid to claim it.

"That's not nothing," she said.

"I know. But it's terrifying."

She smiled faintly. "Good."

He finally turned to her, brow lifting. "Good?"

"Yes." Her voice was calm, grounded. "Fear means you care. It means this life isn't disposable to you anymore."

Kael absorbed that slowly.

Jorah cleared his throat loudly from across the camp. "Just for the record, if you two are about to have a life-altering emotional breakthrough, I would appreciate a warning so I can dramatically look away."

Eira rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."

"And yet," Jorah said cheerfully, "alive. You're welcome."

Night crept in gradually. The fire crackled low. Stars blinked awake overhead—correct ones this time.

Later, when Jorah had wandered off to "check the perimeter" (which suspiciously sounded like snoring within five minutes), Eira remained by the fire, sharpening a blade she didn't really need to sharpen.

Kael stood across from her, arms crossed loosely.

"You always do that when you're nervous," he said.

She glanced up. "Do what?"

"Sharpen weapons that are already sharp."

A corner of her mouth lifted. "Habit."

He stepped closer, the firelight dancing across his face. "You're worried."

"About you?" she asked.

"Yes."

She didn't deny it. "You don't look like someone who knows where he's going anymore."

Kael nodded slowly. "I don't."

Eira sheathed the blade and stood, closing the distance between them until the air felt charged again.

"Then don't go anywhere yet," she said. "Stay."

He searched her face, something vulnerable flickering behind his eyes. "Stay… how?"

"With us. With me." She swallowed. "Not as a weapon. Not as a correction."

He let out a quiet breath. "And if the world breaks again?"

"It will," she said honestly. "But next time, you won't be alone."

For a moment—just a moment—he looked like he might say something dangerous. Something that would shift everything.

Instead, he nodded.

"Alright," he said softly. "I'll stay."

And for the first time since Chapter One, Kael wasn't running.

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