"What does that mean? Leap of faith. Leap from where? Into what?"
But she's already pulling away. Already turning toward the dock.
"Thalia—"
"You'll know when you see it." She glances back at me one more time, and for a split second, that nagging feeling is back, the familiarity, the sense that I know her from somewhere deeper than these scattered meetings across iterations. Then she's climbing into the rowboat, untying the rope, pushing off from the dock with one smooth motion.
"Wait—"
The oars dip into pink water, and she rows. Within minutes she's a silhouette against the glow of the Starblush Sea, and then she's gone.
I stand on the dock and watch the empty water. "Great. Thanks for the cryptic prophecy. Very helpful. Love the communication style."
The sea doesn't answer. It just keeps being impossibly, heartbreakingly pink.
The sun sets in shades of coral and amber. I find a small fisherman's cottage set back from the beach, half-hidden by dune grass and weathered to a silver-gray that says it's been here longer than anyone remembers. The door is unlocked. Inside is a simple cot, a table, a fireplace with kindling already stacked. A wool blanket folded at the foot of the bed.
I eat some dried fruit I find in a sealed jar on the shelf, drink water from a clay pitcher, and collapse onto the cot without even pulling the blanket over myself.
Sleep hits fast. Hard.
And then I'm somewhere else.
At first, I think it's a dream. The vivid, hyper-real dream you get when you're exhausted and your brain goes completely off the rails. But something is wrong with it.
This isn't a dream. It's a merge.
Iteration Eight. I can feel her, this version of me, like a second heartbeat layered over my own. Her thoughts are my thoughts. Her body is my body. But she's the one driving, and I'm just along for the ride, experiencing everything she experiences in first person.
We're in a lighthouse.
The realization settles over me as Iteration Eight Elle's eyes adjust to the dim interior. Stone walls, circular, with a spiral staircase winding up to the lantern room. The air smells of salt and old wood and candle wax. Through narrow windows, I can see dark water stretching to the horizon, moonlight cutting a silver path across the surface.
The entire crew is here. I can hear Bryx somewhere below, telling a story that involves Kevin, a barrel of fermented nectar, and what he insists was a "consensual dance-off." Sarnyx's voice cuts in with something sharp and dismissive. Nimor laughs, a rare sound, quiet and surprised. Mora murmurs something I can't quite make out, and Bryx's response is so theatrical I can practically see him clutching his chest.
They're hiding out here. Lying low. From what, I don't know. Iteration Eight Elle's memories are hazy to me, filtered through the merge. But there's a feeling of safety in this place. Temporary, fragile, but real. A pocket of peace in whatever war this version of Wynmire is fighting.
A hand slides around me from behind.
I know that touch. Would know it in any iteration, any timeline, any version of reality.
"You're thinking too loudly," Kaelren murmurs against the back of my neck. His breath is warm. His lips graze the skin just below my ear. Iteration Eight Elle’s entire body responds. Her spine straightens. Her pulse quickens. Heat blooms at the point of contact, radiating outward.
This Kaelren is different. The corruption marks are there. I feel them where his hands rest on my waist, slightly cooler than the surrounding flesh. But there’s something softer about him. Less guarded. The walls he normally keeps raised like fortifications are lowered, and what lies beneath is raw, open, achingly tender.
"I'm always thinking too loud," Iteration Eight Elle says with my mouth. I feel the smile form. "You knew that when you signed up."
"I didn't sign up." He turns me to face him. Moonlight from the window catches his features. Sharp jaw. Dark eyes looking at me like I'm the only solid thing in a dissolving world. "I was ambushed. By a redhead with a smart mouth, absolutely no sense of self-preservation."
"And you love it."
"I do." He says it simply. No hesitation. No deflection. Just the truth laid bare between us in the dark. "I love all of it. Every reckless, stubborn, beautiful part."
He kisses me. Not desperate, not world-ending. Slow. Deliberate. A kiss that says we have time, even when we probably don’t. His hands frame my face. Thumbs trace the line of my jaw. He kisses me like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my mouth.
I feel Iteration Eight Elle melt into it. Her hands slide up his chest, over the carved marks, feeling their texture beneath her fingertips. His breath catches when her fingers trace a line from his collarbone to the base of his throat. The sound sends a jolt of want through both of us.
"Upstairs," she whispers against his mouth.
