When did you want to start trying?

By the time we reached the base of the mountains, the sun was beginning its descent, the sky painted in streaks of gold and violet. We had walked for half a day—long enough for exhaustion to creep into my bones, for the memory of this morning's argument to settle into something less jagged and raw.

The weight of it still clung to me, heavier than my pack.

Heavier than the power I had let slip.

The forest at the foot of the mountain was ancient. The trees stretched impossibly high, their black-barked trunks thicker than Cassian's wingspan. And as we wove between them, their silence pressed against me, thick and knowing.

With each agonizing step, my nerves pulled tighter—a held breath, the hair on my arms rising, the urge to look over my shoulder constant, though I knew I'd find nothing. Yet, the feeling remained, like I was being watched.

Not just by Azriel—who had barely spoken since this morning's battle. Not by Cassian, who kept sneaking glances at me as if I might collapse with each mile we passed, not that I blamed him.

No, it was the trees.

They felt alive. Not in the way all things in nature carried breath and quiet existence—but aware. Observing. Listening.

I ignored them.

I ignored the way the air carried whispers between the leaves, the way my skin prickled each time the wind shifted.

I ignored Azriel.

Not a single word. Not a single glance.

He had spent the entire trek testing me—subtle provocations meant to force a reaction. A rock, laced with whisps of shadow, appeared just in time to catch my boot, sending me sprawling. A branch, barely brushed in black, snapped free and crashed inches in front of me—I was still plucking green needles from my hair. Little things. Small nudges, each one pressing against the lock I had slammed down on my power.

But I hadn't cracked.

Because letting that drop of power free this morning had felt good. Too good.

Like scratching open an old wound, like something long buried stretching awake.

The farther we traveled, the worse it got.

The itch beneath my skin—the feeling of my power coiling and uncoiling, restless. It was growing louder, clawing at the edges of my mind, no longer willing to sleep.

It wanted out.

And I knew what would happen if I let it free.

Death.

Because no matter how much I trained, no matter how much I tried to control it—this power, my power—was never meant to be wielded without consequence. It was death and destruction, the unraveling of everything bound by a life-giving thread.

And I had already taken too much.

I pressed my nails into my palms, forcing my attention back to the present.

The terrain shifts, the dense underbrush thinning as we near the rocky incline of the mountain's base. The air carries a lingering chill—winter's grip slow to release its hold on spring. Cassian calls for a break, dropping his pack with an exaggerated groan as he rolls out his shoulders. I know he's playing it up, that he could have scaled the mountain by now. It's another mercy—one I don't deserve but selfishly take.

"We'll camp here," Azriel announces, his voice clipped as he tosses his pack against a nearby tree. "The ascent starts at first light."

Cassian grunts in response, already gathering wood for the fire. I say nothing, kneeling to rummage through my supplies, pulling out the tent Azriel so graciously packed for me—along with everything else I apparently need to survive. He's thorough; I'll give him that. Gloves, fleece-lined leathers, even cloths for my cycle—if my body is healed enough to start one.

As I roll out the thick canvas, a thought takes hold—if things had been different, if my life had been my own—I might have enjoyed this. Traveling from place to place, sleeping wherever I please, waking to a new horizon each day.

The thought is foolish.

But still, I let myself have it, if only for a moment.

The ground is hard, the stakes stubborn against the rocky terrain. I barely drive one into the dirt when a sharp gust of wind rushes through the clearing, rustling the trees at our backs.

I freeze.

The sound isn't just wind or shifting branches—something else moves. Something is there.

Azriel's head snaps up, a cobalt-blue shield, laced with shadow-black, flashes around the camp before vanishing. Cassian's gaze flicks to the tree line, his weight shifting to a defensive position.

The silence presses in, thick and expectant. Then—just as quickly as it came—the feeling fades. The wind settles, the trees still, and whatever had been watching… withdraws.

No one speaks.

I force myself to return to my tent, ignoring the way my heart still pounds.

The lake is exactly where I saw it earlier, a quiet stretch of water nestled between the trees, untouched and still—the perfect place to wash away two days of grime.

I pick my way toward the shore, already reaching for the laces of my boots—then stop short.

Azriel is on the other side.

I blink, surprised. I assumed he'd be out patrolling—or sulking on some sorrowful-looking rock.

He stands waist-deep in the lake, dark hair dripping as he runs a hand through it, water sluicing down the dips and curves of muscle in his arms. His leathers are folded neatly on a rock nearby, his siphons dim in the fading light.

I've seen plenty of males shirtless before. But not him. Not like this

The rigid planes of his back shift as he moves, the deep scars stark against his golden-brown skin. His body is built for power, for flight, for war—but here, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, he doesn't look like a warrior at all. Just a male, shaking water from his face, rolling his shoulders like he might actually be enjoying this brief moment of peace.

I should look away. Should turn back, give him privacy.

Instead, I find myself wishing he'd turn.

Just for a second.

As if the thought reaches him, Azriel runs a hand down his face, exhales softly before shifting—turning just enough for the water to dip below the V of muscle at his hips, just enough for the sun's dying rays to catch along the ridges of his stomach, every carved line, every sharp plane.

I swallow hard, my pulse tripping over itself.

Mother above.

A stupid, useless heat creeps up my neck, and before I can do something truly humiliating, a voice rumbles behind me.

"Like what you see?"

I nearly trip over my own feet. "Cauldron boil me, Cassian—"

He only grins, arms crossed, watching with nothing short of pure male delight. "What? Don't stop on my account."

I scowl, shoving at his chest, but he only leans against a tree, smirking. "No shame in it. Az does have that whole brooding, mysterious spy thing going for him. Silent, deadly, muscular—"

"Shut up."

"Hey, I'm just saying—if you're feeling tense, I'd be happy to help you unwind."

I step closer, tilting my head, letting my lashes flutter as I look up into his dark, hazel eyes. I even let my fingers graze his chest, slow, deliberate—watching as his smirk deepens, as he starts to think, for just a second, that I might actually take him up on it.

And then I shove him. Hard.

Straight into the lake.

I let out a satisfied huff, crossing my arms as I admire a soaking-wet Cassian emerge—laughing, dripping, and utterly unbothered.

Until a hand clamps around my ankle.

I barely have time to inhale before I'm yanked forward and dragged straight into the freezing lake.

I surface with a gasp, shoving my hair out of my face just as Cassian emerges beside me, grinning. "You really thought you'd get away with that?"

I lunge, aiming to kick him where it would truly hurt, but he's faster, catching my ankle and laughing. "Oh, so we're playing dirty now?"

I splash water into his face instead, wrenching free and backing up. "You started it."

Cassian smirks. "And I always finish it."

A quiet splash sounds behind us.

Azriel has been watching, his expression almost content, water dripping from his hair, his shadows curling tighter at his shoulders.

For a moment, I swear I see the faintest glint of amusement in his hazel eyes.

Then he turns and strides back toward the shore, shaking his head as if removing himself from whatever chaos is about to unfold.

Cassian cracks his knuckles. "Alright, Thread Bearer—let's see what you've got."

I'm already swimming away before he lunges.

And judging by the look in his eyes, I have seconds before I'm dead.

The fire had been waiting.

It had lived inside me for years—coiling in my marrow, licking at my ribs, pressing against my lungs. Waiting for the moment I'd finally set it free. Finally let it burn.

And I did.

Silence drapes over the room, broken only by the steady rise and fall of his breath. Slow. Deep. Asleep. Vulnerable.

I had never seen him like this before. At rest. Calm. Gentle.

It should have stopped me. Made me hesitate.

It didn't.

I find it without thought, as if drawn by something deeper than choice. His thread is rough beneath my fingers—thick, pulsing, wrong. A living thing. A dying thing.

The fire roars to life.

It rips through me, a searing, all-consuming inferno that spreads from my chest to my fingertips, down my spine, igniting every nerve in my body. The pain is instant, brutal, merciless.

My veins turn to molten lava, my bones white-hot steel, my skin cracking, blistering from the inside out. My throat tears open in a silent scream, my muscles locking as if my body were trying to contain the agony.

But it is nothing compared to what I feel in the thread.

His soul convulses under my touch, struggling, fighting, twisting in desperate, futile resistance. The fire takes hold of it, eats through it, piece by piece, devouring him from the inside out.

His body jerks once in his sleep, a single breath caught in his throat—then his eyes snap open. Black. Hollow. A void where he had once been.

I feel it—the sharp, panicked realization. Feel his confusion coil into fear, then terror, then nothing.

His soul shatters.

And I—

I shudder.

Because beneath the pain, beneath the unbearable burn that has me clawing at my own skin, there is something else.

Pleasure.

Sick, twisted, euphoric pleasure.

I gasp, my vision swimming, but I don't let go. I can't let go. The fire won't let me go.

It surges, ravenous, searing through my ribs, carving me from the inside out, its embers licking at my throat, curling around my heart like a lover's embrace.

Heat licks at my forearm—slow at first, then consuming, blistering.

I feel it form—my flesh searing, cracking, burning, as the invisible mark of what I've done brands itself into my skin. The fire left its mark on me, as I had on him. A reminder. A balance. A trophy.

And I savor it.

Every inch of the pain, every ember of suffering, every flickering remnant of his life snuffed out beneath my hands—I drink it in.

I weep at the sensation of it, my body wracked with exhaustion, agony, bliss.

And when the thread finally snaps, when his soul finally dies, when the fire finally ebbs—

I ache for more.

I barely feel myself collapse. Barely register the raw, gasping sobs ripping from my throat. Because here, in the stillness that follows, with his desiccated body cooling beside me, his soul nothing more than scattered remnants in the abyss—

I have never felt more alive.

Killing your father should leave you shattered. It should make you sick, hollow, ruined. But me? I was on cloud-fucking-nine.

With every thread pulled, the past unwinds,

Revealing scars time left behind.

Something shakes me. Hard.

I groan, curling deeper into the agony, but it does nothing to stop the fire licking at my ribs, searing through my veins—alive, insatiable, consuming me from the inside out.

"Lyra."

A voice—low, edged with something sharp, cutting through the flames, but not enough to pull me free.

The fire is inside me, around me, burning through me. I can't breathe, can't move, the heat pressing against my lungs, clawing at my throat.

A rougher shake.

"Lyra, wake up. Now."

The flames roar.

I gasp, the fire surging, consuming everything—until cold hands drag me from its grasp.

"Shit, you're burning up."

The panic behind the words yanks me out of sleep, but my body is sluggish, my mind thick with lingering ash.

Azriel's shadows weave around me, curling along my skin like a second layer. I feel the weight of them, the strange, cold press against my ribs. A shield—not one for protection, but for concealment.

I barely manage to crack my eyes open before the world lurches.

The scent hits me first.

Burnt earth. Charred wood. Something is wrong.

My stomach twists violently.

I barely have time to push up onto my hands before bile surges up my throat.

Azriel moves fast. Before I collapse forward, he is there, steadying me, guiding me onto my knees as I heave into the blackened dirt beside my bedroll. His hands, firm but careful, hold my hair back, keeping it from my face as my body trembles.

Realization sinks its teeth in.

The forest is dead.

Again.

I did this. Again.

Another dry heave wracks through me, my body rejecting the truth of it as much as my mind.

Azriel doesn't speak. Doesn't try to hush me, doesn't tell me to breathe. He just stays there, silent and solid, one hand bracing my shoulder, the other still gently holding my hair.

When the retching finally stops, I slump forward, my forehead nearly touching the scorched ground. My breaths come fast, shallow, gasping.

A new fear claws at me, colder than the rest.

I cut threads in my sleep.

I killed in my sleep.

It doesn't matter that I spend every waking moment caging it. That I refuse to wield. That I try. It doesn't matter.

Because it spilled out anyway.

Because I have no control.

Because if I can kill in my sleep…

A shudder runs through me.

And then—my blanket is draped over my shoulders, and a feather-soft touch circles my back. Slow, tracing warmth along my spine.

It's so gentle, for a moment, I think I imagined it.

But then Azriel, silent as a grave, keeps going—rubbing slow, careful patterns against my back, as if trying to anchor me without caging me.

I clench my fists into the dirt, swallowing hard.

"I—" My voice breaks, my throat raw. I don't know what I was going to say.

Azriel saves me from trying.

"You're safe." His voice is softer now. Steady. "It's over."

I let out a sharp, shaking breath. My hands curl into the blanket.

Safe?

I'm not worried about myself. They aren't safe.

I try so hard to bury it. But it is there, inside me, waiting. Watching.

And when I turn my back, it takes.

I squeeze my eyes shut, the weight of it all pressing against my ribs, my skull. My stomach rolls again, empty and aching.

Azriel keeps rubbing slow, steady circles.

Not pushing. Not speaking.

Just staying.

I don't know how long we sit there before his voice, low and rough, breaks the silence.

"Come on, let's walk."

I turn my head slightly, blinking up at him. He stands at the tent's opening, his expression unreadable, hands braced on his hips like he is waiting for me to argue.

I don't.

When he extends a scarred hand, I take it.

The air is crisp, stinging against my skin as we move away from camp. My legs are stiff, aching from whatever I did in my sleep. Azriel keeps an easy pace beside me, his wings tucked in close, his shadows shifting lazily at his heels. He doesn't speak, doesn't press, just lets the silence stretch between us.

I don't know why I agreed to this.

Maybe because I needed to move.

Maybe because staying in the ruins of my own making will break me completely.

I keep my arms crossed, fingers digging into my sleeves as I force out the words.

"Is Cassian okay?"

"He didn't even wake up. I threw up shields the second your power stirred."

That… shouldn't be a relief.

But it is.

I swallow, my throat tight. "Do you always do that?"

His gaze flicks to me. "Since we left Velaris."

I force my steps to stay even. "So, you expected this."

Azriel's wings shift slightly. "I prepared for it."

My stomach twists.

He prepared for it. Threw up shields, watched my power, waited for the moment it slipped.

I don't know if I should be grateful for his precaution—or ashamed for proving his expectations right.

Because what can I say? That I'm sorry? That I didn't want this to happen? That no matter how hard I fight, how much I refuse to wield, it comes anyway?

I clenched my jaw, staring ahead. "I'm a monster."

Azriel's step doesn't falter. He doesn't hesitate.

"No, you're not."

I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. "You don't know that."

Azriel slows, finally glancing at me, his expression unreadable. "I do."

The certainty in his voice knocks the breath from my lungs.

I don't have the strength to argue.

I exhale sharply, shaking my head, the weight of it all pressing down, threatening to crush me. And maybe that's why the words slip out before I can stop them—because holding them in feels just as unbearable.

"My mind is… tangled. I've tried, over and over, to remember, to find anything useful to give—but all I ever find are bodies and gore." My voice cracks. "Amren had it wrong. I wasn't cursed. I am a curse."

The words are raw and shaking, a single tear sliding down with the confession, but I can't stop.

"I don't know everything I've done. I don't remember all of it. But what I do remember, isn't good."

Azriel is quiet, his expression unreadable. Then, carefully, he asks, "What was your dream about?"

I let out a hollow laugh. "Proof of what I am."

His jaw tightens, a flicker of something dark crossing his face. "You think your power defines who you are?"

I look at him. Really look at him. "Doesn't it?"

Azriel exhales slowly, his wings shifting slightly. "All power can be deadly. We're not saints, and we've never claimed to be. I've done unspeakable things—things I'll never atone for. But I did them for a reason, to protect the ones I love, the family who saved me from being alone. Until you remember your reason, don't call yourself a monster."

I shake my head. "What reason could justify the death of thousands?"

Azriel doesn't argue. Doesn't try to tell me I'm wrong. He just keeps walking, giving me space to breathe.

After a while, he speaks again, voice softer. "You're not alone anymore."

The words lodge in my throat, heavy and unbearable.

I look away, staring at the blackened trees.

"I wasn't alone before," I murmur. "I had Seren."

Azriel doesn't press, but I feel his attention sharpen. He waits.

I don't know why, but I keep going—maybe it's the fractures in my mind, splitting wider with every step. Maybe it's the weight of losing control, the slow, inevitable unraveling of whatever grip I have left. Or maybe I have already lost it completely, and this is just the freefall.

"She was my best friend. My only friend. The closest thing I'll ever have to a sister."

A slow breath, the memory of Seren's laughter curling through my mind—something warm, something safe. My memories are fractured, scattered beyond repair, but some feel whole. And those ones? Those ones always have Seren in them.

"She was the only thing that made life in that castle bearable. The only person I ever trusted."

And the only person I have ever lost in a way that still haunts me.

Azriel is quiet for a moment, then asks, "What happened to her?"

The question settles in my chest like a stone, heavy and suffocating. I open my mouth, then close it. My memories are fractured, jagged at the edges, pieces missing where something important should be. But I know one thing.

"I lost her."

The words come out hoarse, barely more than a whisper. "I don't remember how. I don't remember why. But I know… she didn't make it out."

And that truth—whether I forgot it or buried it—is enough to hollow me out all over again, but this time, I know I won't have to claw my way back alone.

As we head back toward camp, I glance at Azriel, hesitating. "Thank you… for covering my power earlier." If the Scholar had sensed me—if even a sliver of my power had slipped through—we'd be right back where we started.

His gaze flicks toward me, unreadable. For a moment, I think he won't answer. Then—he shrugs, brushing it off like it was nothing. "We can't have the scholar running off to gods-know-where."

But there's something off.

The wear in him.

His face is drawn, exhaustion settling deep in the sharp cut of his features. His shadows cling a little closer, their movements slower, heavier. I wonder how much energy it took to keep my power hidden. How much of a toll it takes to shield us each night. How much of himself he's giving for his mission.

I press my lips together, glancing down before murmuring, "Yesterday… you started that fight on purpose, didn't you?"

Azriel looks ahead, as if the question barely registers. "Does it matter?"

Maybe not to him. But it does to me.

Before I can press him, he speaks again. "You shouldn't have gone to the lake alone."

I frown. "I was fine."

"You were reckless." His voice isn't harsh, just steady. "You need to learn how to control your power, Lyra. Not just for us. Not just so we can contain it. But so that when the time comes, you can protect yourself."

Something about the way he says it—the concern, the weight—makes my stomach pull tight.

I don't know how to answer. Because no one's ever cared before—at least, not like this.

The camp comes into view, the soft glow of the fire flickering between the trees. Azriel slows, his gaze drifting toward his tent, already retreating back into the quiet, shadowed space he always keeps between us.

And yet… For the first time, I realize—

He's not a monster, either.