Chapter 13: What's Left Behind

The blood wouldn't stop. Poma pressed both hands over the wound, her fingers trembling as she tried to keep the pressure steady. Borias lay sprawled across the dirt, his skin pale, his lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. His eyes rolled back for a moment before fluttering half-open, unfocused.

"Help me!" Poma shouted, her voice cracking as she looked around. "Somebody get a healer!"

No one moved at first. A small crowd had gathered, villagers frozen with shock, their eyes darting between the blood pooling beneath him.

"What are you all staring at?!" she screamed. "Get someone, now!"

Finally, a young man turned and sprinted off toward the healer's hut. The others began to stir, some offering rags, others bringing bowls of water, though none dared get too close. Borias was Xena's man. And Xena had just left him bleeding on the ground.

Poma didn't care. She pressed harder, wincing when he groaned under her touch. "Stay with me," she whispered. "You hear me? You don't get to die. Not like this. Not after all that." Her eyes looked over his face, searching for any sign of life, any trace of the man she knew—the man who used to smile too easily and fight too hard for the people he loved.

His head rolled slightly to the side. His lips moved.

She leaned closer. "What? What is it?"

"...Lexa..."

His voice was barely a whisper, but it gutted her. The pain in that single word was worse than the blood loss.

"I know," she said softly. "I know. I'm so sorry."

He blinked slowly, like he was trying to stay present, trying not to drift too far. His breaths came in short, shaky bursts, every one of them a fight. Poma's hands were slick with blood now. The cloth she had pressed to his chest was soaked through. She grabbed another and shoved it against the wound, whispering again.

"Please don't go. You still have something to live for. You still have them."

She didn't know if that was true. She didn't know if the children had made it. No one had seen them. No one had come out of the flames. But she wasn't going to let him slip away believing they were already gone.

Footsteps pounded the ground. The healer finally arrived, panting, carrying a satchel with herbs and gauze. He dropped to his knees beside Borias and ripped open the tunic, inspecting the wound.

"Where's Xena?" the healer asked without looking up.

"Gone," Poma said through clenched teeth.

The healer didn't ask for details. He didn't have to. Everyone knew what kind of damage it took to make Xena walk away from someone like this.

"She stabbed him clean through," he muttered, opening a jar and scooping out a thick, green paste. "Missed the heart, but barely. Lucky she didn't twist the blade deeper." He looked up briefly. "He might not make it through the night."

Poma's throat tightened. "Then do everything you can."

The healer nodded and got to work. Poma stayed crouched beside Borias, whispering to him the whole time, brushing his hair back when it stuck to his forehead, holding his hand when his body jerked in pain.

"You're not done yet," she said. "You don't get to be done."

She didn't say his name like a lover. She said it like someone who still believed in him—even after everything. "You're not dying in this dirt, Borias. You hear me?"

The wind picked up, brushing ashes past the edge of the crowd. The house still smoldered in the background, but for now, no one was looking at the ruins. All eyes had moved to the man on the ground. The warrior who had once stood tall beside a conqueror now laid broken and bleeding, his life hanging on by a thread. And no one—not even Poma—could tell if he would see another sunrise.

Xena walked blindly through the trees, branches dragging across her arms, her legs moving on their own. She didn't know where she was going. She didn't care. The deeper the forest got, the quieter it became. No more screaming. No more crying. No more Doria rocking and mumbling to herself. No more Borias bleeding out in the dirt. No more villagers staring at her like she'd broken the world.

She could still smell the smoke. It clung to her clothes, her hair, her skin, sinking into her like it belonged there. She didn't know if it was real or if her mind refused to let go. All she could picture was the back wall of the house, half-standing in the wreckage, warped and blackened, holding just enough of its shape to remind her of what had been lost inside. It felt intentional. Like something higher wanted to leave her a monument.

Her boots dragged through the brush until she couldn't take another step. She dropped her sword at her side and sank to her knees, her hands gripping the earth like it would hold her together. But nothing could. Her children were gone.

Gone.

Her chest cracked open, but no sound came out. Her mouth opened, her throat tight, and still nothing. No scream. No sob. Just breath—shallow and useless. Her fingers curled in the dirt as memories slammed into her, each one worse than the last.

Solan's first steps. His stubby legs wobbling as he charged across the camp, arms stretched out, grinning with two little teeth poking through.

Lexa curled against her chest, her tiny body warm and squirming, born too early but strong from the start. Xena had always said it was because Lexa couldn't wait. She'd heard her big brother banging sticks all day, yelling and laughing like the world was made for him, and she wanted to be part of it.

The way they both smelled after a bath. The tiny hiccups that came when they laughed too hard. The feel of their warm bodies pressed against hers when they needed comfort.

Xena's breath caught.

She had rocked them at night, whispering stories no one else would ever hear. She had held them when they were sick, kissed their foreheads when they cried. They were hers. Her heart. Her second chance. Her proof that she could be more than destruction.

And now she had nothing.

Her arms wrapped around herself as if she could still feel them there. But her chest was empty. Her lap was cold. Her body ached from absence. From the space where her children had curled into her. From the silence that followed their laughter. From the cold that settled in her arms where their warmth once lived.

And then—Borias.

Her head dropped lower, her eyes squeezing shut. She didn't even remember where she had stabbed him. Had it been the chest? The side? Was it shallow? Was it deep? She didn't know. She couldn't recall the moment clearly. Everything had gone red. Her rage had taken over, blinding and absolute. She blamed him—still blamed him.

She remembered when she told him she was pregnant for the first time—the way his whole face lit up, no hesitation, no second-guessing. He had pulled her into his arms and said they'd figure it out together, and he meant it. He stayed through all of it. Through the swelling in her legs, the meals she couldn't keep down, the long nights she paced the tent trying to breathe through the pain. He held her through every contraction and let her curse him without flinching, wiping the sweat from her brow like she wasn't terrifying, like she wasn't a storm, like she was his whole world.

He had sung to them. Told them bedtime stories in his rough voice while she tried not to smile. He had always admired her. Looked at her like she was something powerful, something untouchable. Even when she felt like she was falling apart, his arms were always there—strong, steady, warm. She slept best when she could feel him next to her, when his body curled protectively around hers, shielding her from a world she didn't trust.

And now...she didn't even know if he was alive.

She had left him bleeding out on the ground. She had told him she'd kill him if she ever saw him again. She'd meant it in that moment.

But now?

Now, she didn't know what to feel. Her grief was choking her, making it impossible to separate fury from whatever still pulled her towards him. All she knew was that she was empty.

She reached for her sword, her fingers wrapping around the hilt. Slowly, she raised it, turning the blade until the tip pointed toward her chest. It shook in her grip.

What did she have left? Her children were gone. The only place that ever felt like home—gone with them. And the man she once shared it all with, the one who made her believe they could build something real—he was gone too. Her eyes burned, too dry to cry, and the silence around her only made the emptiness sharper.

The world didn't stop. It kept spinning, stupid and unbothered, while her heart collapsed in on itself. Birds chirped in the distance. Wind rustled the trees. Somewhere, someone was laughing.

Xena's breath caught in her throat, sharp and uneven, each breath harder than the last. Her arm shook as she raised the sword, the tip pressing against her chest, steady and cold while everything inside her felt like it was unraveling. Her family was gone. The army meant nothing. The life she tried to hold together had fallen apart piece by piece, and now there was nothing left to protect.

But then—something stirred. It didn't come through her ears. It moved through her heart, low and sudden, like a heartbeat she hadn't felt in days. Lexa's soft coo, gentle and curious. Solan's babble, full of nonsense and joy. And Borias—his voice barely above a whisper, humming beside the fire as he rocked one of the babies against his shoulder.

Xena let out a strangled sob and dropped the sword. It hit the ground with a dull thud. She screamed. Loud and broken, the sound ripped from her chest like it had been caged too long. She clawed at the ground, tearing into the dirt with her bare hands until her nails cracked and her fingers bled. Her body shook as she curled into herself, her forehead pressed into the earth.

The Destroyer of Nations, brought to her knees by grief. She stayed like that for a long time, folded into the earth while silence gathered thick around her. It didn't bring peace. It brought pressure. The kind that pushed against her ribs and made it hard to breathe.

Her body stayed frozen, curled into the dirt with nothing left to give. Her mouth stayed shut. Her chest lifted just enough to keep her alive. Everything that once made her powerful—every urge to fight, every reason to conquer, every purpose she had clung to like armor—had slipped away without a sound. All that remained was pain, deep and constant, and the names that circled in her head like open wounds over and over. Solan. Lexa. Borias. Borias. Borias.

Because for all the rage she had spat in his face—for the threat she had meant with every breath—she didn't want him gone. She didn't want to lose him too. They had fought like enemies, screamed like strangers, but at the end of it all, he had been her constant. Her match. The only one who ever stood beside her without fear, without apology. He had defied her. Fought her. Loved her anyway. And she—she had trusted him with the one thing she had never trusted anyone else with.

But her body betrayed her thoughts, dragging her back into moments she hadn't asked for. She could still feel him. The way his skin burned against hers. The way he held her down and whispered her name. The way he moved inside her, each thrust matching the wild beat of her heart. She had never told him what it meant to her. That it scared her. That no one had ever made her feel like that. Like her chest would explode if she said it out loud.

She never said she loved him. Never could. She had taken him from his wife. From the life he had tried to build without her. Because deep down, she knew—he was hers. He belonged to her. And she belonged to him in a way that scared her more than any army ever had.

She stumbled forward, her boots dragging, her mind spinning with too many thoughts and too many regrets. The last thing she remembered was the sound of Poma's scream—shrill, fake, useless. That woman had probably been glad to see her walk away. Glad to have Borias bleeding out while Xena disappeared into the trees.

"Stupid bitch," Xena muttered under her breath.

She snorted. Of course Poma was happy. That snake had been waiting for her chance. Always watching Borias. Always smiling too sweet. Maybe now she'd finally have him all to herself.

"Why did you have to be such a damn fool?" Xena asked the air, her voice sharp with hurt that dug deeper than anger. "So trusting..." Her chest ached as the words left her. He had looked her in the eye and still walked straight into it. He heard every warning—every word she said about that village, about that woman, about the way it all felt wrong—and he ignored them. He believed it would be fine. He believed in people. And now their children were gone.

Now the world expected her to lie down and accept this? She clenched her fists and growled under her breath.

She should go back there. Right now. Ride into that village and burn it to the ground. Turn every house to ash, just like she did in Potidaea. Only this time, she wouldn't leave survivors. She wouldn't spare anyone. Let them scream. Let them beg. Let the whole cursed place fall.

A dark chuckle slipped from her throat before she could stop it. But the sound didn't stay. Her rage cracked too fast. Because then she remembered the house. The room. The flames. Could she really stand in front of it again? Could she look at the place that had swallowed her children? Her shoulders dropped and her face twisted as the tears started all over again.

She never got to take them to see her mother. Even though they weren't speaking, even though the old woman probably wouldn't have opened the door, Xena still had hopes. She had imagined it more times than she could count.

What she wouldn't give right now to be sitting on the porch, watching Borias push Solan on the swing. Lexa curled in his arms, cooing like she always did when she was content. She would've sat in that worn-out rocking chair and pretended everything was okay.

But now...Xena stumbled to the nearest tree, her body too heavy to hold itself up. She dropped under it, curled against the roots, and let the tears come.

She cried until she couldn't cry anymore. Until her throat burned and her chest ached and her face was soaked. Until the dirt beneath her soaked up her grief and the silence around her didn't feel like peace, just emptiness. And there she stayed.

Alone.

"Solan..." she whispered, so soft it barely made it past the air caught in her throat. Her eyes stared ahead, unfocused. Her arms wrapped around herself again like maybe, if she held tight enough, she could pretend they were still there.

"Mama loves you," she said, her voice breaking as the words left her. "I know I never said it enough...I know you don't understand what that means yet. But I did. I do. You made me better. You and your sister." She closed her eyes.

"I used to think I was cursed," she went on, her voice shaking, "but you—both of you—you were proof I was wrong." She pulled her knees tighter to her chest, her mouth trembling.

"Lexa..." she breathed, barely able to say her name without falling apart. "My little fighter. You were so small...but so strong. You held my finger the night you were born. Like you knew me already." Her hand moved to her chest, pressing flat against the place that hurt most.

"I would've given you everything," she said. "Anything. I was gonna teach you both how to ride...how to fight...how to survive." Her throat clenched.

"But I didn't protect you." She bent her head low again, forehead pressing to her knees.

"I didn't protect you..." She kept whispering their names, over and over.

"Solan...Lexa..." Her voice faded, slipping into the air like it had nowhere else to go. Then she went still, laid against the earth like it didn't matter if it swallowed her whole. The wind moved through the trees above her, brushing past without pause. She didn't move. She didn't speak again. There was nothing left to say.

The room upstairs was still. The kind of stillness that came after a storm, when everything was broken but no one had touched the pieces yet.

Gabrielle sat on the edge of the bed, her arms locked tight around her knees, her face turned toward the wall. She hadn't looked at anyone since they came in. Lila tried asking questions at first, tried getting her to eat, to speak, to blink—but nothing worked. Gabrielle had shut down. Like whatever she saw in the fire had taken the part of her that still knew how to talk.

Lila sat across the room in a wooden chair, her hands twisted together in her lap. She kept glancing at her sister, eyes narrowing every few seconds, the same quiet worry etched across her face. She had seen Gabrielle broken before, but never like this. Never silent.

Whatever happened in that village, it had changed her. In the farthest corner of the room, near the window, Tara sat with her back against the wall and her arms folded tight. She hadn't spoken either—not to Gabrielle, not to Lila, not to anyone. She kept her eyes low, her jaw set, but her foot tapped restlessly against the floor like she couldn't quite hold still.

Some of the other girls said she showed up before dawn, soot on her skirt and blisters on her hands, but she hadn't said anything to anyone. But Lila noticed the way her eyes flickered in that direction whenever Gabrielle moved.

Like there was something she wanted to say. Or something she hoped Gabrielle would say first. The air in the room felt heavy. Grief without names. Fear without questions.

Lila leaned her head back against the wall, her fingers pressing against her temples. No one was going to talk. Not yet. But her gut told her something tied these two together—something bad. And if she waited long enough, it would come out.

One way or another.

The tent smelled like blood and herbs. It was quiet except for the rustle of cloth and the shallow rasp of Borias' breathing. He laid on a thin mat, his shirt cut away, his skin slick with sweat. Blood soaked through the bandages across his ribs, dark and stubborn. Every breath came hard. Like his chest had to fight for it.

The healer knelt beside him, whispering something to the assistant crouched by his side. Her hands moved quickly, pressing herbs against the wound, tying strips of linen into place, but her face gave everything away.

She didn't think he'd make it.

Poma hovered near Borias' head, her hands shaking as she tried to dab the sweat from his brow. Her voice was low, trembling, like she thought maybe if she didn't speak too loud, he wouldn't slip away.

"Stay with me," she murmured. "Come on, Borias. Don't let her be the last thing you see." His eyes fluttered open for a second, unfocused. He tried to speak, but his lips barely moved. Just a breath. Just a broken sound. Poma leaned closer.

"It's me," she whispered. "You're not alone. I'm right here." His brow creased. His hand twitched against the mat.

"Xena..." The name fell from his mouth like a plea. His mind was slipping somewhere far away—somewhere deeper than pain.

...He was in a tent again. But not this one. No pain. No blood. No voices calling his name in panic. Just the thick scent of pine smoke curling through the air. The soft weight of furs beneath his back. And her body draped over his like she belonged there.

Her skin was still damp with sweat, her cheek resting against his chest, one leg draped over his with her thigh warm and bare where it touched him. Her fingers moved in slow, steady lines along his ribs, careful and unhurried, like she was learning him piece by piece. It wasn't the kind of touch she gave when eyes were on her. This was different. This was hers—quiet and real, the part of her that only existed when the world outside their tent disappeared.

He remembered the sound of the fire crackling beside them. The way her breath slowed when she finally let herself rest. And the way his hand moved over her back, lazy and certain, like he knew every inch of her by memory now.

He tilted his head down just enough to see her hair spilled across his chest, dark and wild, hiding her face. But he didn't need to see it. He already knew how she looked when she let herself soften.

"I don't need forever," he whispered, brushing his knuckles along her jaw. "I just want this."

She didn't say anything. Of course she didn't. Xena never answered things like that. But she didn't pull away. She curled closer. Her fingers stopped tracing his ribs and pressed flat against his chest, right over his heart, like she needed to feel it beating to remind herself this was real.

His lips brushed her forehead. He didn't even think about it. It was instinct. Need. Worship.

And for the first time since he met her, he felt safe—not because of the blade she carried or the name the world feared, but because she was in his arms and she wasn't pulling away. She had stopped moving, stopped hiding, just long enough to let him believe she might stay. He would've lived in that moment forever if the world hadn't kept turning.

His body felt like it was sinking—heavy and slow, like the earth was pulling him under inch by inch. The voices around him faded into something distant, blurred by the rhythm of his own failing heart. But inside his head, he wasn't in the tent anymore. Not really. His mind had turned inward, drawn toward the thing that hurt more than the wound in his side. His son.

Solan.

Borias could still see his face—the wide grin, the messy hair, the way he used to point at everything with those tiny, grubby hands like the world belonged to him. Gods, there was so much he wanted to teach him. Not just how to hold a sword, but how to use his hands for more than violence. How to build something. How to fix what was broken. He'd pictured it a hundred times—Solan standing beside him, hammer in hand, eyes wide as he learned to shape wood, to stack stone, to sharpen a blade without dulling the edge. He wanted to teach him how to fight, yes—but only to protect what mattered. Never for conquest.

He wanted to show him how to be a real man.

The kind of man he wanted to be wasn't the one he was taught to become. It wasn't the way he was raised, surrounded by warlords who measured worth in blood and control. He wanted more than that. He wanted him to be the kind of man who built things instead of tearing them down, who stood for his family, who made the people he loved feel safe just by being near. And now that chance was gone.

He saw another moment in his life. It was warmer. Quieter. Furs beneath him, firelight casting long shadows on the canvas walls, and the weight of her pressed along his side. She wasn't asleep, not yet. Her breath moved steady against his neck, and her belly—round and full—rose and fell with each inhale. He had one hand spread over it, his thumb stroking slow circles over her skin like he could memorize every inch.

"You're getting big," he murmured, his voice low, teasing.

She scoffed, barely amused, and muttered something about kicking him out if he said that again. But she didn't pull away. Didn't stop him when he dipped his head and whispered against her stomach.

"Did you hear that, little one? Mama's still pretending she's not soft."

Her body tensed against him, like she wanted to object—but then she relaxed, and her fingers curled into his shirt. He smiled into her hair and kept talking, letting his voice trail into a soft tune, not quite a lullaby, but close enough.

She never said she liked it. Never asked him to do it. But she stayed every time. Curled close while he spoke to her belly, her head resting back against him, pretending it didn't matter—but it did. He remembered the way her eyes looked on those nights, softer around the edges, worn down and carrying something she refused to name. He never asked her to explain it. He just held her a little tighter, kept his voice low, let her breathe without expecting anything back.

What he remembered most wasn't the thrill of war or the rush of victory. It was her leaning into him like she finally felt safe. Her breath slowing against his chest. Her silence meaning more than any words she could've said. That was what stayed with him. That was what mattered.

The pain in his side spiked again, sharp and blinding, dragging him halfway back to the surface. He felt the sweat clinging to his skin, the bandages heavy against his ribs, someone's hand pressing too hard against the wound, trying to keep him here. But he was slipping again. Not into darkness—but into memory.

This time it wasn't Solan's face that haunted him. It was his baby girl's. Lexa hadn't even been born yet, but he thought about her more than he had the words to explain. That pregnancy had been harder. Xena had been quieter. She fought longer, slept less, barely let anyone touch her unless it was to spar or treat a wound. But when the others weren't watching—she came to him.

He remembered one night clearer than the rest. She had limped into the tent after drills, her hair sticking to her neck, her face set in stone like she didn't feel a thing. But he could see the tightness in her jaw. The heaviness in her steps. He said nothing. Just opened his arms and waited.

And she came to him.

She didn't come quickly, and she didn't come easily—but she came. Something in her pulled her toward him anyway, like even when she fought it, her body knew where it belonged.

She laid between his legs, her back against his chest, and her belly—rounder than she wanted to admit—resting under his hands. He held her. Rubbed slow circles over her skin. Murmured to the life growing inside her like the child could already hear. And when he started singing—soft and low and half out of tune—she rolled her eyes.

She told him to shut up, her voice low and flat like she wanted to stay annoyed—but she didn't move. She didn't pull away. And when he glanced down at her face, he caught it—that tiny shift she probably didn't even realize had happened. Her eyes were closed, but her mouth had changed, just barely. It wasn't a smile. It wasn't peace. But it was something close, something honest, and for her, that meant more than anything she could've said. He kept singing, kept his arms around her, and in that quiet moment—just that one—she didn't seem afraid to let herself need him.

His body was giving out. He could feel it in the way his breath rattled in his chest, each inhale shallower than the last. The healer's voice had faded to nothing. The pain dulled. His limbs numb. But the grief—the grief still tore through him.

She was gone.

She wasn't dead. She wasn't buried. But she was gone in a way that made it clear she no longer belonged to him. And maybe, deep down, she never truly had.

He had loved her—more than anything—and now that he was bleeding out in a stranger's tent, all he could think about was her hands. The way they moved over his body when no one else could see. The way she rubbed the tension from his shoulders after sparring, her thumbs firm, her touch quiet. She always acted like she didn't care. Like it didn't mean anything. But she stayed longer than she had to. Pressed harder when she knew he'd been carrying too much. And sometimes, when he tilted his head back to look at her, she leaned in and kissed him like she couldn't stand the space between them.

Hungry. Fierce. Like she needed him to remind her she wasn't alone.

They always surrendered to each other. No matter what mask she wore in front of the world, behind closed doors she gave herself to him—arms tangled, bodies burning, breath stolen. There were nights when she clawed at his back like she didn't want to feel anything else. Nights when she held his face in both hands and kissed him so hard he forgot where he was. Nights when she said nothing, but he felt everything. He could still taste her. Still hear her voice when she whispered his name, low and ragged, just before she gave in.

And he'd ruined it.

He had turned on her—again and again—never fully believing that someone like her could be his. He had questioned her judgment, pushed back when she asked him to trust her, dragged her into arguments because he was scared of what it meant to truly need her.

And now, lying here with death creeping in around the edges, he didn't know if he would ever get the chance to tell her that he was sorry. That he loved her. That the fire in her eyes was the only light he ever needed.

Borias clenched his jaw, desperate to hold onto the memory of her smile—not the hardened glare she gave to the world, not the ash-covered face that haunted him now, but that one beautiful smile she saved only for him. The one she never shared with anyone else. Soft and rare, like it slipped out before she could hide it, and every time he saw it, it felt like a secret meant just for him.

The way she looked the night she kissed him like she would never stop. The night he thought maybe, just maybe, they'd made it. She would never say the words, but he had seen them—written across her face, glowing at the edges, caught between pride and fear. She never told him she loved him. But in those moments, he didn't need her to.

Pain pulled him out of the memory like a hook in his side. The warmth of Xena's breath vanished, replaced by a searing burn in his ribs and the harsh sting of air clawing at his lungs. The healer's hands were pressed against his wound, her voice tight and focused, but it all blurred into the background. He couldn't hear what she was saying. Not clearly. Just a flurry of motion and urgency, like the world was trying to outrun the end creeping up behind him.

Then came the crying.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't hysterical. It was quiet and close, and it shook in a way that made something in his chest tighten. He tried to open his eyes, but his lids barely moved. His body felt like it weighed more than stone, and his breath came in shallow gasps that hurt more than the wound itself. But the sobbing didn't stop. It got closer. Closer still. And something in him stirred when he realized—it wasn't her voice.

It wasn't Xena. The crying didn't sound like her at all. This woman was breaking open, pleading softly between breaths, like she didn't care who heard.

"Please," the voice whispered, so raw it scraped against the air. "Please don't go. Don't leave me. You hear me?"

Fingers wrapped around his hand—warm, trembling, real.

"You stupid, stubborn man...you fight." He wanted to move. He wanted to speak. But his mouth wouldn't form the words.

"I know she hurt you," the voice cracked, then steadied again, barely. "I know you think she's the only one who ever saw you. But she left. I didn't. I stayed. I'm still here."

The voice dipped into silence for a moment, broken only by a sharp intake of breath and the wet sound of another tear falling.

"Come back to me," she whispered, like a prayer that had been whispered too many times to count. "Please. Just once. Come back."

And then...quiet.

Suddenly, there was light. His eyes fluttered open. Shapes blurred and swam above him. The canvas roof. The healer hunched beside his legs. A haze of motion and blood. And Poma—kneeling over him, her face streaked with tears, her mouth trembling as she let out a shaky laugh that sounded like it hurt to breathe.

He blinked slowly, trying to place her, trying to understand why his heart was still beating when everything inside him said it shouldn't be. The pain was still there, low and deep, but it had blurred behind the warmth of a hand on his cheek and the weight of a presence beside him that refused to leave.

Poma leaned close, her face blotchy from crying, but her expression had changed. It wasn't panic anymore. It was something softer. Gentler. Like she had been waiting for this moment—not just for him to live, but for him to see her.

"You don't have to think about her anymore," she said quietly, her thumb brushing just beneath his eye. "She's gone. She walked away and didn't look back. You know that, right?"

He blinked again. His mouth parted, but no words came.

Poma moved her hand to his hair, smoothing it gently like he was something fragile she didn't want to break. Her fingers trailed through the loose strands, slow and calming, like she was trying to soothe a fevered animal.

"She left you bleeding in the dirt," she whispered. "After everything. After all the times you stayed by her side. That wound..." she gestured toward his ribs, her voice quieter now, almost bitter, "that's what you got for loving her." Her eyes glistened, but her smile wavered into something tender.

"I would never do that to you," she said. "Never."

She let her fingers curl near his ear, then down to the edge of his jaw, soft and slow.

"I would've treated you the way you deserve. I would've stayed. Fought for you. Given you every part of me without needing to be chased, or begged, or forgiven." She leaned in, her forehead brushing his, her breath warm against his cheek.

"I know what you're thinking," she said. "That she's still in your heart. That nothing I say can change that. But Borias...you don't have to keep bleeding for someone who only knows how to destroy." She let the silence stretch between them for a moment, her fingers still moving gently through his hair.

"I love you," she said, her voice soft and steady. "I love you, and I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."She leaned in closer, her hand still gently moving through his hair as her voice dropped to a near whisper.

"I'll be the best wife you've ever had...the only one you'll ever need." Her lips brushed his ear as she repeated it in Hungarian, slower, more intimate, like a promise meant for his heart, not just his ears.

"Én leszek a legjobb feleség, akire valaha is szükséged lesz...az egyetlen, akire valaha is szükséged lesz." Then she smiled, slow and sweet, like she'd been holding it back for a long time.

"And I have a surprise for you," she added, brushing her lips just barely against his temple. "But not yet. You need to rest first." Her voice dipped to a whisper.

"Then I'll show you everything."

Lao Ma sat in silence, her legs folded beneath her and her hands resting in her lap, the long sleeves of her robe pooling at her wrists like quiet waves. The air around her was undisturbed, not even a breeze moving through the high windows that opened onto the mountainside.

And yet she felt it. A shift in spirit, quiet and deep, moving through the air like something ancient had stirred awake. A cry without voice. A tremble that threaded through the threads of life itself. It was pain. Fresh. Deep. Widening like a crack across a still lake.

Her eyes opened slowly.

There was no sound in the chamber. But her body knew something sacred had been torn. Something she had seen once in a vision, long ago, when she first crossed paths with the warrior whose path spiraled between death and destiny. Xena. Her children. Her bloodline.

And now—it was breaking.

Lao Ma rose without urgency, as if she had already seen where she was going. She walked barefoot across the cool stone to the pool that sat at the center of the chamber, its surface undisturbed, its water still. She did not touch it. She only looked. And in its reflection, the scene revealed itself.

Flames, roaring. Wood collapsing. Screams lost in smoke. The children. Still alive. And the man—the one who went back. Loyal, unshakable, ready to die if it meant saving them. Lao Ma inhaled, then let her breath go like a whisper between worlds.

"Let me in."

The fire clawed at the ceiling. Smoke poured in from the cracks. Kallos couldn't feel his legs anymore. His arms burned, skin blistering where it had brushed the scorched doorframe, but he didn't stop. Not when he heard the children scream. Not when the roof splintered above him. He had crawled through fire for them. He would do it again.

He found them where the back wall had half-collapsed—Solan curled into a ball around Lexa, the toddler's cheeks soaked with tears and soot, her tiny mouth open in a scream that had started to go hoarse. Kallos dropped to his knees and pulled them both into his arms, wrapping his body around them to shield them from the falling ash. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths, each one harder than the last.

"I've got you," he said, though his voice cracked so badly it barely sounded human. "I've got you...I'm here."

But the way back was gone. He turned toward the hallway, and all he saw was flame. Thick, towering, unforgiving. There was no door. No window. No path. They were trapped. He crouched lower, the children pressed tightly to his chest, and whispered a name through the smoke—Borias'.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice breaking. "I couldn't...I couldn't protect them."

He was slipping. His lungs ached. His vision blurred. The weight of the world, of failure, pressed down on his back until he didn't know if he was still holding the children or if they had already fallen from his arms.

Suddenly, everything changed. It was light, but not the kind fire brings. It was softer. Whiter. It moved through the room like a breath too quiet to hear. Kallos looked up, blinking through the haze, and saw her. A woman, still and composed. Her robes didn't catch flame. Her hair didn't stir. She moved through the burning doorway like it was mist.

The fire bent around her, folding back like it had been commanded by something it couldn't defy. It wasn't magic or power. It was presence—calm, ancient, undeniable. The flames moved aside as if they knew they were in the presence of something greater. Something sacred. Something they were never meant to harm. She walked to him and crouched low, her eyes meeting his with calm certainty.

"If you want to live," she said gently, "take my hand."

He reached out without hesitation, his hand trembling as it met hers. The moment their skin touched, the heat vanished. The roar faded. The fire pulled back—not extinguished, but redirected—parting like a curtain, forming a narrow path through the smoke.

Kallos stood, barely, cradling Solan in one arm, Lexa against his chest. The woman's hand remained in his, steady and sure as she walked beside him. They moved through what had been impassable just moments before, stepping over burning beams and blackened floorboards without feeling the heat beneath their feet.

Her eyes looked towards a pile of fallen hay and loose debris near the rear of the house—part of the barn where the flames had barely reached. It was the only place untouched. The only space hidden from view.

He understood without needing to ask. Kallos dropped to his knees beneath the mound, shifting the broken crates and straw just enough to lower the children in, shielding them from sight. He crawled in after them, tucking their small bodies against his chest.

Darkness settled around him again, but it wasn't the choking kind that came with smoke. It wasn't fear clawing at the edges of his mind, or fire tearing at his lungs. It was quiet now. Still. The kind of silence that followed something divine. The kind that made him wonder if it had ever happened at all.

Didn't feel the moment her hand slipped from his. But he felt her presence retreat like a breath drawn back into the sky. And as he laid back beneath the collapsed hay and scattered crates, the children held close to his chest, their breath finally slowing against his skin, he knew they were safe, no thanks to him. But because something far greater had stepped into that fire and chosen not to let them go. He closed his eyes. And let the world go still around him.