Fear had never been one of Jorah's problems.

Pain? Sure. Loss? Plenty. Near-death experiences stacked so high he'd lost count? Absolutely. But fear—the kind that rooted you in place, that whispered don't instead of run—that had always belonged to other people.

Jorah ran toward danger. Mocked it. Lied to it until it got confused and tripped over its own feet.

So when fear finally found him, it didn't come as a scream or a blade or a collapsing sky.

It came as possibility.

They were three days out from the village when it happened.

The road had narrowed into a canyon of red stone and thorned vines, the air heavy with heat and the faint metallic tang of old magic. Kael walked ahead, quiet and watchful. Eira followed close, her presence steadying him in ways Jorah didn't pretend not to notice anymore.

Lira walked beside Jorah.

That was the problem.

Not that she was there—but that she felt… right there. Too easy. Too natural. The banter had softened into something quieter. Shared glances. Half-smiles. Comfortable silences that didn't itch.

That was dangerous.

"You're thinking too loudly," Lira said suddenly.

Jorah blinked. "I didn't know that was possible."

She glanced at him. "You get this look. Like you're planning three escape routes at once."

He scoffed. "Only three?"

She smiled faintly. "There it is."

They walked a few steps in silence. Then she asked, too casually, "So what happens after the crossing?"

Jorah hesitated.

Truth nudged at the back of his throat—sharp and unwelcome.

"We… keep moving," he said. "That's kind of our thing."

"And after that?"

"More moving."

She stopped walking.

He took two more steps before noticing.

Turning back, he found her standing very still, expression unreadable—not angry, not hurt. Just… thoughtful.

"You don't stay anywhere, do you?" she asked.

Jorah scratched the back of his neck. "Staying implies roots. I'm more of a… tumbleweed."

"Tumbleweeds die alone," she said mildly.

Ouch.

Kael glanced back from ahead. "Everything alright?"

"Fine!" Jorah called too quickly.

Lira resumed walking. So did he.

But something had shifted.

That night, they camped in the canyon's widening mouth. Wind hissed through the stones, carrying whispers that weren't quite sound. Kael traced sigils in the dirt, reinforcing the perimeter. Eira sat nearby, quietly talking him through the grounding exercise she'd learned since his erasure.

Jorah watched them.

Not with jealousy. With awe.

They had something. Fragile, hard-won, terrifyingly real.

Lira followed his gaze. "You envy them."

He snorted. "I envy the part where they don't pretend this is temporary."

She looked back at the fire. "Temporary keeps you safe."

Jorah's mouth twisted. "Safe is overrated."

She studied him sidelong. "You don't believe that."

The truth landed between them, heavy and undeniable.

"I'm afraid," Jorah admitted quietly.

She didn't push. Just waited.

"I'm afraid," he continued, voice rougher now, "that if I stop running… I won't know who I am anymore."

Her eyes softened—not pity. Understanding.

"And that scares you more than dying," she said.

"Yes," he said immediately.

The word surprised him with how easily it came.

They sat in silence after that, fire crackling low. The canyon seemed to lean inward, listening.

Later—much later—when the others slept, Jorah remained awake.

That was when the fear sharpened.

A sound echoed through the canyon. Soft. Wrong. Like stone scraping against bone.

Jorah was on his feet instantly, blades in hand.

Shapes emerged from the shadows—warped, half-formed things stitched from broken time. Echo-creatures. The kind that existed only where reality was thin.

"Kael," Jorah hissed.

Kael was awake before the second syllable left Jorah's mouth.

The fight was fast. Brutal. Silent.

Kael moved like a storm barely contained, Chrono Blade flashing in controlled arcs. Eira guarded his flank, precise and lethal. Jorah darted through the chaos, cutting down creatures that lunged too close—

One broke through.

Straight toward Lira.

Fear hit him like a fist.

Not the clean kind. Not the useful kind.

This was white-hot, clawing, absolute.

"No—!" Jorah shouted.

He didn't think. Didn't plan. He moved.

The creature struck—jagged limb tearing through space—

Jorah took it full in the shoulder.

Pain exploded. He barely registered it.

He drove his blade through the thing's core, shredding it into nothingness, then turned—

Lira was standing behind him, eyes wide.

"You idiot," she breathed.

He swayed.

She caught him.

The world tilted. Sounds blurred. The canyon dimmed at the edges.

Kael was there suddenly. "He's bleeding."

"I know," Lira snapped. "Sit. Now."

Jorah tried to joke. Failed. "I had it… handled."

She pressed a glowing hand to his shoulder, magic flaring as she sealed the worst of the wound. Her hands shook—just a little.

"Why did you do that?" she demanded.

He looked at her.

Really looked.

And the answer was there, terrifying and undeniable.

"Because," he said hoarsely, "the idea of losing you scared me more than getting hurt."

Silence crashed down.

Even the wind seemed to pause.

Lira swallowed. "Jorah—"

"I know," he said quickly. "I know what that sounds like. I'm not asking for anything. I just—needed you to know."

She searched his face, reading the truth written all over it.

"This," she said quietly, "is what you're afraid of."

"Yes."

She exhaled slowly. Then she did something reckless.

She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his.

"Good," she said softly. "Because it means you're alive."

Jorah closed his eyes.

For the first time in his life, fear didn't tell him to run.

It told him to stay.

And he did.

Above them, unseen, the Source observed the shift.

Jorah's thread—once erratic, untethered—had anchored.

Not to fate.

Not to destiny.

To choice.

And that, the Source realized too late, was how the world truly changed.

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