38. A Heroic Figure #3
“And you—” he points at me, “probably need it the most after . . . whatever the hell that was.”
I roll my eyes, but take the bottle when he offers it. The burn of alcohol slides down my throat, warming my insides, but it doesn’t quite chase away the unease curling inside me.
I swallow and smirk. “How do you always seem to have this on you?”
Ash gives me a smug look. “I’m always well prepared.”
Zander scoffs, reaching for the bottle when I pass it over. “Prepared? More like a drunk.” He takes a swig, wincing slightly before handing it back to Ash.
“Excuse you, I am a survivalist.” Ash leans back against a tree, stretching out like he has no care in the world.
“Alcohol is essential to surviving miserable nights in the woods with the two of you.”
“Oh, how will we ever repay you for suffering through our company?” I deadpan, rolling my eyes again.
“Free drinks when we win this war,” Ash shoots back, flashing a grin. “And maybe a statue in my honor.”
Zander lets out a rare chuckle. “The world doesn’t need a statue of you.”
Ash presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I think the world needs exactly that. A heroic figure, bottle in one hand, blade in the other, charming smile that could melt hearts—”
“You’re an idiot,” I mutter, but a small smile tugs at my lips despite everything.
Ash just grins wider. “And yet, you love me.”
I huff, shaking my head as I take another drink. For the first time since the battle, since Oberon, the weight on my shoulders feels a little lighter. The fear is still there, but at least for tonight, I can push it down.
The next day, we are off on another mission, another supply run. My body moves on instinct, but my mind is elsewhere, tangled in the events of the night before. Nerves twist in my gut, but this time, it isn’t the thoughts of Oberon that hold me captive.
This time, it is fear.
Not of the enemy. Not of failing.
Fear of myself.
I didn’t know my power could do that. I didn’t even know it was possible. And worse, I’m not sure if I want to be able to do it again.
They were hurting us, all of us, and we couldn’t fight back. I felt the panic clawing at my throat, the helplessness crushing me. I imagined them falling, imagined us winning, and then it had just happened.
A single scream. A single pulse of energy. I sent a frequency through them that melted their minds from the inside out.
I shudder at the memory, the way their bodies crumpled, the blood pooling beneath them, the absolute silence that followed, and the horror in Ash and Zander’s eyes.
I push the thought away and quicken my pace, catching up to them as they trudge through the dense underbrush.
Ash shoots me a sidelong glance. “You good?”
“Fine,” I lie.
Zander doesn’t say anything, but his gaze lingers on me for a beat too long before he looks away.
I force myself to focus. Another mission. Another supply line to intercept. I can shove everything else down, at least until this is over.
The ambush happens fast.
The soldiers barely have time to react before we are on them, moving in perfect sync. Zander strikes first, his blade flashing as he takes down the nearest guard. Ash follows, using his gravity to send another soldier stumbling, just enough for me to land a precise, bone-snapping kick to his chest.
Steel clashes, fists connect, grunts of pain, and the crunch of impact fill the air. One soldier swings at me, but I duck, twisting behind him and sending a pulse of energy through his body. He drops like a stone.
Ash yanks a dagger from his belt and throws it, the blade sinking into the last enemy’s thigh. The soldier collapses with a cry, and Zander finishes him off with a swift strike to the head.
Silence follows. The three of us stand there, breathing hard, bodies tense, waiting for another wave that never comes.
Zander glances between us and smirks. “Good work.”
Ash dusts himself off, flashing his usual grin. “Yeah, yeah, teamwork makes the dream work or whatever. But let’s be real, I carried.”
I scoff. “You threw one dagger.”
Ash shrugs. “And it was a damn good throw.”
The days blur together in a cycle of ambush, retreat, and exhaustion. Each supply line we hit chips away at the enemy’s resources, but it also chips away at us. The bruises stack up, the cuts and scrapes accumulate, and sleep becomes a fleeting luxury rather than a necessity.
Still, we press on.
The fights start to feel easier. Not physically, we are still running ourselves ragged, but the rhythm of battle has become instinct.
We move in unison without needing to speak, anticipating each other's next move, adapting as if we are one entity rather than three. Ash’s gravity, Zander’s precision, my power, together, we are nearly unstoppable.
And slowly, slowly, Oberon starts to take up less space in my mind.
I don’t know if I am ready to go back. If I even want to. Not knowing if he’ll be there, not knowing where we stand, it makes my chest ache in a way no battlefield wound ever has. I thought I found something steady in him, something solid, a place to belong.
Now? I’m not so sure.