What did you show them?

I lean against the cool stone of the balcony, the first breath of morning barely grazing the red cliffs below, while my supply pack straps dig into my shoulders. Cassian still isn't here. The world sleeps, but my mind is wide awake, racing.

I've decided—against every instinct telling me not to—that this journey might actually be worth it. The scholar, wherever he is, could be the one to mend the cracks in my mind, to bring me some sense of sanity. Maybe, just maybe, he could help me earn the one thing I've never had—and been too terrified to even dream of.

But then there's the thought of hope. It presses down on my chest, weighty and fragile. The ache is real, so real that I can almost feel it pulling with every breath I take, a constant pressure reminding me just how easily I could shatter again.

Beside me, Azriel stands as a shadow against the pale light creeping over the horizon—distant and silent as always, even with our fragile truce.

As if sensing my thoughts, he steps closer. His gaze lingers on the pack he gave me—the very one he dropped at my feet with what could have been mistaken for a smirk and muttered, "Enough supplies to last a week," its bulk nearly half my height.

I feel its weight shift as he adjusts the straps with quiet precision. For a heartbeat, his hand rests on my shoulder, his warmth seeping through the thick leathers he chose for our journey, before he withdraws, his gaze hardening as he retreats back to his side of the balcony.

I glance at him, standing a breath away, his shadows stretching and curling between us. Distant. Silent. Ever-watching. His eyes flick to my movements, then back to the cliffs beyond.

The words slip out before I can stop them. "Planning to drop me in the middle of nowhere and let me fend for myself?"

Azriel stills.

Slowly, he turns his head toward me, unreadable as ever.

A pause.

The realization hits me like a stone. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Weeks of careful neutrality, of hard-won tolerance, and I open my mouth and say that?

Then—

"That's an idea," he finally says, voice flat. "But you wouldn't last a week, and we need you as a bargaining chip at the very least."

I blink.

Not because it's a threat. Because it's a joke. A dry, rare one.

Something flickers at the corner of his mouth, barely there before it smooths away. As if he's caught himself, as if he realized too late that he'd let something slip.

"I wasn't aware you had a sense of humor," I say cautiously, treading that hair-thin thread.

Azriel adjusts a buckle on his own pack with ease. How he managed to get it over his wings is beyond me. "I wasn't aware you were capable of walking from one room to another without passing out." His gaze flicks to my pack, then back to the cliffs. "We may need you for this mission, but that's where it ends. Don't expect the privileged princess treatment out in the woods, reaper."

The words land sharp and precise, aimed to cut. And they do.

Not because I expected anything from him—but because he knew exactly how to wield them.

Privileged princess treatment.

My fingers twitch against the straps of my pack.

I know what he sees when he looks at me—what they all see. A girl raised in a palace, dressed in silks, placed beside a king rather than thrown beneath him.

They didn't know the truth of it. Of what lay beneath the fine clothes, the whispered titles, the obedience carved into my very bones.

I had been trained, tested, used. A princess locked in a gilded cage, trained like a dog for a master who never intended to let her off her leash.

And yet, princess isn't the word that lingers.

Reaper. He had called me that before.

The first time, I was too delirious to put any thought into it. But now—now I wonder if it meant something more.

If he truly sees me as that.

If he thinks I did it all willingly.

If he thinks I wanted to unravel them, to send their souls screaming into the Below.

If he thinks I'm that much of a monster.

…Maybe he should. Maybe he's right.

I tighten the straps of my pack, staring out at the cliffs, saying nothing.

Not confirming. Not denying.

Let him think whatever he wants.

The silence stretches—taut, heavy—until boots thud behind us.

Cassian.

"Alright, alright. Drop the knives, both of you. Or at least save it for when I have a drink in my hand."

His wings rustle as he steps onto the balcony, his grin easy despite the tension still lingering between us. Dressed in the same thick leathers, a pack strapped across his back—larger than mine, of course—Cassian looks every bit the battle-hardened, war-mongering general.

Azriel exhales sharply, fastening the last strap on his pack. "You're late."

Cassian snorts, rolling his shoulders. "We all know I'm the only thing keeping this trip from becoming one very long, very miserable death march. You should be thanking me."

He flicks a glance at me, assessing—not skeptical, but measuring.

Judging whether I'll slow them down.

"Ready for this, princess?"

The nickname barely registers.

I shift my pack higher, forcing my expression neutral. "Do I have a choice?"

Cassian smirks. "Not even a little."

I sigh. This is going to be a very, very long trip. "Then, yes. I'm ready."

Cassian claps me on the shoulder, turning to Azriel. "See? Already more agreeable than you."

Azriel moves closer, stepping between me and the lifeline Cassian had been trying to throw, wings flaring, shadows already coiling around him.

Reaching out, he grabs Cassian's outstretched hand—a practiced routine.

But when his fingers clamp onto me, it's different.

His grip finds my bicep—tight, almost too tight. Not to steady me. Not even to keep me from slipping into the void.

To remind me.

That whatever this was, whatever fragile thing we'd built in the last few weeks, it wasn't trust.

And that thin thread I had been treading? Well, I fell off the wrong side.

Then, the world starts to sway.

The air tightens, vanishes, as if it's been ripped away.

Shadows rise, circling us faster and faster, swallowing the last few rays of sunlight that had just crested over the mountain.

Not like winnowing—nothing like winnowing.

It's not stepping through time and space. It's falling into the unseen, slipping through something cold and endless before reality snaps back into place.

And when it does—the heat hits first.

The scent of dirt and damp moss. The weight of a sky stretched wide and open.

The Continent.

And so we begin.

But buried truths still call our name,

A whispered curse that scars and maims.

The forest is barren, its skeletal branches stretching toward the sky, stripped bare from winter's retreat. Only the earliest hints of spring have begun to show—the occasional bud clinging stubbornly to brittle twigs, the earth still hard and cold beneath my boots.

The line of mountains in the distance looms, dark and endless, but they are still too far.

Too far.

I adjust the straps of my pack for what feels like the hundredth time, trying to ignore the weight pressing into my shoulders. My muscles burn, my knees scream, exhaustion curling its way through my body like a parasite sinking into bone.

Nine hours.

Nine hours of walking, with only a handful of stops to drink from icy streams or to relieve myself behind trees still locked in winter's lingering grip. And we weren't even close to the mountains.

Ahead, Azriel and Cassian walk side by side, their voices low, carrying just enough for me to catch snippets of their conversation.

"We'll camp in the next clearing," Azriel says, scanning the woods ahead. "We need cover, but not so much that we can't see what's coming."

Cassian grunts in agreement. "At this pace, we should reach the base of the mountains by midday tomorrow."

Tomorrow.

I suppress a groan. The mountains already feel impossible. And we still had another half a day's journey just to reach them.

Cassian must sense my growing despair because he adds, "Once we get there, we'll adjust. The real climb won't start until the second pass."

The real climb.

I don't have the energy to think about what that means.

The clearing Azriel spoke of isn't much—just a break in the trees with enough space to set up three small tents. The moment we step into it, my knees buckle. I hit the ground, my legs shaking so badly I don't even care about the damp earth beneath me.

A mistake.

Because Azriel doesn't hesitate.

"Get up."

I blink at him, barely able to lift my head.

His expression is unreadable, flat and distant, as if he wasn't also the one who forced me to walk for hours with only a few breaks.

"Set up your tent," he says simply. "We'll get firewood."

I want to tell him to go to hell. Want to stay on the ground, let the exhaustion drag me under.

But I already know how that will go.

So I bite my tongue and force myself to my feet, shoving my pack off my shoulders and fumbling through its contents. My fingers feel stiff, numb from both cold and exhaustion, but I manage to pull the tent from the bundle of supplies and begin assembling it.

Azriel and Cassian disappear into the trees.

By the time I finish staking the last piece into the hard earth, they return—Azriel carrying an armful of logs, Cassian balancing the firewood and a bag of smoked fish from our rations.

I barely register them moving around me.

The fire crackles to life, chasing away the worst of the chill, and the scent of fish fills the air as Cassian begins to heat them over the flames.

Azriel hands me a piece without a word.

I don't hesitate.

I wolf it down, barely tasting the salt, barely caring that the edges are still too hot.

Another piece appears in my hands, then another. By the time I'm done, my stomach aches—but it's a welcome kind of pain.

I don't even try to move toward my tent.

I barely manage to shift my pack beneath my head before exhaustion drags me under.

The scent of tea and woodsmoke pulls me from sleep.

For a moment, I don't move, letting the world settle around me. My body aches—no, burns. A dull, insistent fire in my legs, my back, my shoulders.

Nine hours of walking.

Every muscle protests as I shift, stiff fingers pushing against the blankets—a blanket.

I blink, forcing myself upright, taking in the neatly placed boots at the edge of my tent.

Cassian. It had to be.

Tugging on my boots, I unlatch the tent flap and step into the morning light, wincing as my calves scream in protest.

Cassian crouches near the fire, flipping over chunks of bread balanced on a flat stone, while Azriel pours steaming water from a blackened kettle into two tin cups. The scent drifts toward me, earthy and bitter, curling through the crisp, early spring air.

Tea.

Gods, I don't even remember the last time I had tea.

That smell alone is enough to make my mouth water, to make something deep in my chest ache.

Oh, what I would do to drink the whole kettle.

They don't acknowledge me at first.

I sink onto a log, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, reaching for the piece of bread Cassian sets beside me. The jam spread across it is a deep, bruised red—tart on my tongue.

Something feels off.

The heat of the fire brushes against my skin, the air suffocatingly warm—too warm for early spring.

And then I notice it—the sound.

Birds.

Their chirping rises in bursts, trilling and whistling through the thin trees—too loud, their chatter needling into my skull like an itch I can't scratch.

Yesterday had been silent.

Now, the forest is alive, the branches shifting with the weight of creatures that had likely been watching us long before I ever noticed.

Cassian finally glances up, offering a lopsided grin. "Sleep well?"

I ignore him, tearing another bite of bread, my shoulders already tightening from the soreness creeping through my body.

Azriel, perched on a rock across from me, sips his tea before finally speaking.

"You need to learn how to use your power. I'll admit, I don't know the full extent of a Thread Bearer's abilities, but you should be able to wield lesser magics at the very least."

The embers stir.

He doesn't look at me, doesn't even shift his posture, but the weight of his words settles over me—heavy, deliberate. Like he's picking a fight to see if I'll take the bait.

"If you're going to survive this trip, you might as well make it easier on yourself."

I exhale through my nose, setting my half-eaten bread aside. "I don't need to use it."

Azriel takes another slow sip. "I put up a shield last night to keep us warm and safe." A pause. "And Cassian used his to scout the area for threats. You could've done the same if you didn't insist on playing the broken, helpless role."

The words scrape against my already raw nerves, rubbing against the soreness in my muscles, the exhaustion still clinging to me.

"We're starting a bit early, don't you guys think?" Cassian chimes in, his eyes flicking between us, his usual grin tempered by something more cautious.

Pressing my nails into my palms I force my breath to stay even. But the words keep circling back. His voice. His dismissal. The role he thinks I'm playing. "I get by just fine without it."

Azriel sets his tin cup down with a quiet click against the rock. "Getting by and surviving are two different things. This is the Continent, Reaper, unknown, barely mapped territory. Even if you don't care whether you live or die, we need you to at least make it to the scholar."

The flickering warmth of the fire doesn't reach me, my own fire now burning deep inside.

My fingers curl against my thighs, nails pressing into the leathers.

"Stop calling me that." I say, forcing the words out as evenly as I can.

Cassian shifts slightly beside the fire, his usual grin long gone. His eyes flick between us, shoulders tensing just enough that I notice.

He's watching now. Fully. Like he's recognizing that whatever is happening between me and Azriel is more than just an argument.

Azriel barely blinks. "Why? You didn't hesitate to wield it when it meant reaping thousands of souls. But now? Now you refuse to use it for something as simple as survival—to light a fire, to dry your own leathers?"

Something in my chest tightens.

Because he doesn't understand. He can't understand.

I grip it tighter, bury it deeper, but his words hover, clinging to my mind like fog.

"Do you think I want to be on this trip?" The words scrape out, sharp and furious. "Do you think I bury my power because I enjoy it?"

Azriel doesn't so much as flinch.

That unreadable face, that cold, distant calm.

It makes me want to rip something apart. To rip him apart.

"You have no idea what it feels like," I snarl, my voice rising. "No idea how much pain it causes—how much damage it's already done."

The ache in my body is long forgotten.

The anger twists inside me, coiling tighter and tighter, fanning the flames of a fire I've spent my life extinguishing.

Azriel only tilts his head. Unimpressed.

And then—he laughs.

Low, quiet. Mocking.

"I don't see anything worth fearing. If this is all that's left, then maybe you really are broken-"

My fingers twitch, aching to move, to tear, to pull. The threads pulse beneath my skin, waiting. Watching.

I dig my nails into my palms. Hold my breath.

It's already too late.

A pulse surges through my chest, raw and untethered.

The threads snap.

There's no time to stop it.

The pulse of my power erupts outward, a silent, invisible force slicing through the air—cutting, severing—so many life-giving threads, burned.

And the forest around me dies.

The chirping stops.

The green vanishes. Leaves, grass, vines—all of it wilts, browning, crumbling to ash in the span of a breath. A perfect, decayed circle spreads outward from where I stand—as if my very presence has bled the life from the earth itself.

A ragged inhale shudders through me. The fire is gone, snuffed out as if it had never been.

I sink to my knees, ash coating my hands as I try to shove it back down, to bury it beneath the weight of everything it has already taken.

The silence is unbearable.

And then—Cassian moves.

A step forward. Instinctive. His wings flare slightly, his entire body going still in that way warriors do when confronted with something they don't quite understand but recognize as dangerous.

I don't look at him.

But I feel the way his gaze flicks between the circle of decay, between me, between Azriel.

A pause. A breath.

And then, a quiet, low curse. "Shit."

I force myself to lift my head, just enough to see the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers twitch at his sides like he doesn't know whether to reach for a weapon or offer a hand.

His eyes settle on Azriel, and even through the haze of my exhaustion, I can see the look he gives him.

A warning. A question.

A what the fuck did you do?

But Azriel doesn't look at him.

Doesn't acknowledge the destruction.

His attention stays fixed on me.

"Finally. We train as we walk, reaper."