And I see it—the fight happening inside. Tharos, clawing his way back to control. The King, trying to hold on. Two wills battling for dominance in a single body.
I don’t think. Just act.
My blade presses against his throat. Not cutting. Just... present.
“Listen to me.” I pitch my voice low, steady. “Whatever’s happening in there, whatever fight you’re having—you need to win it. Right now. Because if you don’t, I will cut your throat. I will end you before that thing gets free. Do you understand?”
The body goes still. The eyes flicker—burning, then dark, then burning again.
“Xela.” Tharos’s voice. His real voice, strained and desperate.
“I’m here.” I don’t lower the blade. “Come back. Fight it. Whatever you have to do.”
“I can’t—it’s too strong?—”
“Bullshit.” The word comes out hard. “You’ve been fighting it for decades. You’ve been holding it back while the world forgot you existed, while hunters came and died and came again. You didn’t break then. You don’t get to break now.”
A sound escapes him—half laugh, half sob. “You don’t understand. The attack—the violence—it’s feeding the King faster than I can contain. I can’t hold it and fight the Consortium at the same time.”
“Then don’t.” The idea forms even as I speak it—reckless, possibly suicidal. “Let me handle the Consortium. You focus on the King.”
“You can’t fight seventy hunters alone.”
“I’m not going to fight them. I’m going to slow them down. Sabotage. Guerrilla tactics. I’ve been doing this my whole life.” I press the blade just slightly harder against his throat. “But I need you to win this fight first. I need you to come back.”
The eyes flicker again. Dark. Burning. Dark.
Then—purely burning. Bright with pain and exhaustion and what looks almost like gratitude.
“You should have run when you had the chance.” His voice is his own again. Rough. Broken. But his.
“Probably.” I lower the blade. “Too late now.”
He sags against me. Heavy. Exhausted. His scars have split, and his skin is fever-hot where it presses against mine.
“The things it said.” His voice is rough, each word an effort. “About Cyrilla. The King was manipulating you. She is not in the bark. I would know every face in this forest.”
I catch him. Hold him up. My hand finds the back of his neck, and his forehead drops against my shoulder, and for one moment, we’re just two people holding each other up in the dark.
The King’s claim settles into its proper shape—a lie, exact and targeted, designed to find the gap in my armor. I believe him. He would know.
“The Consortium,” he manages. “They’re still coming.”
“I know.”
“The King will try again. As soon as I’m weak enough.”
“I know.”
“Then why—” He pulls back. Meets my eyes. “Why stay? Why risk yourself for a forest that wants to kill you and an orc who might lose control at any moment?”
I think about Cyrilla. About the five years I’ve spent running from her memory. About the contract in my pocket and the money it promises and the life I could have if I just walked away.
Then I think about the way he looked at me in that clearing. The way he said I defied expectation. The way he’s been holding back a monster for decades, alone, forgotten, waiting for the end.
“Because the alternative is worse,” I say.
The words hang between us. His expression shifts—surprise, then a deeper emotion. One I don’t have a name for.
