Chapter 44
ALAINA
Iprop myself against the jagged wall near the shattered café windows. The early light seeps through broken glass, dust motes drifting like trapped fireflies. The stench of burnt wiring, spilled oil, and stale fear lingers in every breath.
Troka sits beside me, legs drawn up, arms wrapped loosely around his knees. His shoulder presses into my side. Fine grit from the floor embeds itself in our clothes. He’s quiet—rare silence after so much noise.
I reach out—my fingers brush his arm. It’s scarred, rough; the scales faintly raised from burns and shrapnel. He doesn’t flinch. I take that as permission.
“Do you feel that?” I murmur. “The quiet?”
He nods. The broken carousel outside creaks somewhere—metal on metal in slow protest. The hum of broken lights overhead flickers.
I inhale. The air smells like ash and sweat and hope. I let out a shaky breath.
We sit, wordless. Then I say, simply: “I thought hiding the secret would save us.”
He turns, amber eyes heavy. “Save me from what?”
“From myself,” I whisper. “From doubt. From failing you. From showing you the broken parts.” My voice cracks. I press my forehead to his arm.
He stills. Sweat beads along his jawline. His breathing is low but steady.
“Alaina,” he says after a long pause, “I saw pieces of you I didn’t understand—all your walls. But when you tell me this… I feel you.”
I pull back just enough to see him. His face is a map of pain and love and exhaustion.
“Do you hate me?” I ask, voice trembling.
He shakes his head. His hand comes up, brushing my cheek. I taste grit, trace the dried salt of our tears.
“I’m not whole yet,” he says. “But I stay.”
I close my eyes—for a heartbeat—and let his words settle.
Below us, the hostages are being ushered out. Footsteps. Shouts. The world reemerges. But here we are: raw, unguarded.
“Tell me about Horus IV,” I say, swallowing fear. “Tell me what you carried.”
He looks away, jaw clenching. He breathes a moment, then begins: “The corridors were red. Plasma slicing walls. Screams in the dark. My squad pinned. Their voices—‘Move! Move!’—but they froze. I refused. I gave orders that echoed to nothing. In that silence I felt hollow.”
His words tremble in the air between us.
I reach, grip his hand. “That was war. Not you.”
He squeezes back, rough fingers pressing. “Still … I carried every death with me.” He pauses. “Even now.”
I close the tiny distance between us. I rest my head on his shoulder. He tilts his cheek against my hair.
“I feared you’d leave me when I told you Caelix was yours,” I confess. “I thought you’d run from the burden.”
He doesn’t pull away. He holds me safe.
“You don’t owe me perfection,” he whispers. “You never did.”
We drift in that space. Outside the hall’s chaos recedes.
I lift my face, look into his eyes. “I’m sorry I hid from you. But I’m here now.”
He nods, lips trembling. “I believe you.”
And so we sit—healing, shaky, hopeful—until the sunrise floods the wrecked mall in gold and dust.