She brought it with her.
CHAPTER 17
JAELA
The oil-fueled generator makes a sound like a dying god choking on its own tongue—loud, uneven, and impossible to ignore. It rattles through the floor of the war tent, vibrating up my spine like some demon lullaby. I stare at the ceiling, eyes dry and stinging, Kyldak’s warcoat half-twisted around my legs. His scent clings to it—smoke and iron and stormlight.
He’s beside me. Still. Breathing deep and heavy, chest rising and falling in sync with the low thrum of the camp outside. But even in sleep, the man doesn’t look peaceful. His fingers twitch, jaw tight, eyes flickering beneath closed lids like he’s trapped mid-battle.
I know that kind of restlessness. The kind you never get rid of. Not with time. Not with love. Not even with blood.
I slip out of bed without a sound.
The floor is cold as hell. Sharp-edged metal patched with scorched rubber and frayed tarp. Every step is a question. Every shadow holds a blade.
But nobody stops me.
Out here, in the hours before dawn, the warcamp is almost... tranquil. Almost. Smoke coils lazy from engine pits. A few gruntssnore into half-empty jugs of liquor that could probably strip rust from an assault cruiser. There’s laughter in the distance—soft, tipsy, human.
I wander.
Past the comms scaffold, still jury-rigged with my hacked relay. Past the blood pit, scrubbed raw from yesterday’s executions. Past Kyldak’s beast of a cruiser, its engine still warm, purring like a half-fed lion.
Everywhere I go, I hear his name.
Red Eye.
Not whispered. Not feared.
Revered.
Like a title. Like a promise.
I pass two guards posted near the supply cache. One’s missing three fingers. The other’s got a crude Kyldak symbol carved into his chest, fresh and still oozing. “He gave me food when the Alliance left me to rot,” he says to the other. “Red Eye don’t forget who you were before you broke.”
And I just... stop.
Right there in the middle of the damn path. Heart pounding.
Because this—this isn’t the Kyldak I remembered. Not entirely. The warlord, sure. The rage, the iron spine. But this?
Thisfaith.
It scares the hell out of me.
By the time I return to the tent, the horizon’s bleeding pink and purple, thin as a scar. The wind’s picked up. Grit stings my cheeks.
I push through the flap.
He’s awake.
Of course he is.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, red eye glowing like an ember. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches me.
I close the flap behind me. "Thought you were out cold."
"I was listening."
