He looks back up at me, his eyes glassy now. “They already knew, long before you ever spoke to me.”
“You didn’t tell them?”
“No.” His head shakes once. “Strannt’s orders were to make an example of him. Slow. Public. Painful. They wanted him broken before he died. Everyone was watching, I had seconds to decide, so I made the only choice I had. I made it look slow, and I took as much of the pain as I could and ended it before they could do worse.” He holds my gaze and doesn't soften it. “ButIstill killed him. That part’s on me, and I can’t undo that.”
Wood creaks as he leans in toward me, close enough for the bittersweet scent of smoke and sweat to sink into my chest.
“Lyra, I’m not asking for your forgiveness, lord knows I don't deserve it, but I do need you to understand thatthis—” He gestures to outside the tent “—This is bigger than me. Bigger than what I’ve done, bigger than how you feel about me. And I know you have more questions, about the Movement, about Serrane, why you’re even here. Merrin is coming tomorrow to speak with you himself; you can ask him anything then. But right now there’s someone you need to meet before I go back to the Citadel.” He pauses, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Will you come with me?”
Talen doesn’t move; he sits there watching me like he’s bracing for a verdict as the space between us pulls taut.
My gaze flicks between his eyes, then holds, and this time I look at him, really look, and all I feel is the weight of it. His. And God help me, it sinks into my chest like a stone and stays there, cold and heavy.
I see what he’s done and I also see the torment beneath it. The part of him that loathed every second.
I should walk away. Draw the line. Call it done. Tell him some things can’t be justified—no matter how noble the cause pretends to be. But if I walk away now, I don’t stay clean, I stayignorant. I’m cutting myself off from the only path that might lead to the truth. What happened to Ashvale, to Rowan.
No. They can’t have died for nothing. I wanted answers. I wanted justice. I wanted someone to blame. To understand why I’ve been dragged into all of this and now I finally have the chance to see the full truth—and I can’t run from it even if it is ugly, compromised and soaked in blood.
“I understand...” I say, holding up a hand before he can speak again. “I do. That there is something going on that is bigger than you, bigger than how I feel about you, who you are,whatyou are, what you’ve done. But don’t mistake that for forgiveness. I’m listening because I want answers. Not because I accept this, acceptyou.”
His head dips in a single, weighted nod.
“Ezzy?” I add. “You said I could see her.”
“After,” he murmurs with a small smile. “I promise.”
Pushing back his chair, he stands—and it takes me a second to register why it hits so differently. He’s not in uniform. No polished Citadel jacket, no high collar or rigid lines. Instead he wears a loose white linen shirt, sleeves pushed to his forearms, the top buttons undone, enough to expose the edge of the pale birthmark near his heart—and leather trousers that fit him like a threat.
I shouldn’t notice. Shouldn’t care.
But with everything sharp inside me dulled beneath the surface, what’s left behind is the wreckage. The ache. The want.
Wanting his arms around me. Wanting my forehead pressed to his, pretending none of this is real. Pretending he’s the safe thing—the thing I should be running toward, not away from.
For one fragile heartbeat, it feels like he’s right there with me. His chest rises, heavy and uneven, and my hands clench in the sheets before I can stop them, fingers curling like the silk andwishful thinking might anchor me in place. Then he swallows, the muscles in his jaw tensing, as he takes a step back.
“There are some clean clothes on the dresser over there,” he says, already turning away. “I’ll wait outside.”
Before I can reply, the tent flap falls shut behind him.
Five or so minutes later,I step outside into the cool summer night.
Across from me, Talen waits, worry written through every line of him as he leans back against a wooden post beneath a flickering lantern. One hand holds a leather jacket slung over his shoulder while the other turns his talisman restlessly between his fingers. Then his mouth curves a little, and the creases at the edges of his eyes deepen when they land on me.
“Not bad, Bloom,” he states, looking me up and down.
“Thanks,” I mumble, running my hand down the front of a soft lightweight wool top, then over the fitted black leather trousers.
When he left the tent, I almost didn’t put them on, almost slipped through the back flap without waiting.Almost. But I want the truth—and he’s finally giving it to me. I just want to get it without handing him any more of me in return.
Pushing off the post, he slides his talisman back into his pocket and takes a step toward me, brows drawn in. “How are you feeling? Stable? Any pain?”
“Uh...” Shifting my weight, my boots scuff against packed dirt as I ease pressure onto my heels—no pain, no sting. I flex my arms, testing them too. Still nothing. “Yeah, I feel fine. The healer did a good job.”
“We’re lucky to have her.” The curve of his mouth spreads into a wider smile, and the sight of it sends the rhythm in my chest skipping a fraction. Before I can stop myself, I smile back.
God, no wonder Serrane keeps him close. He just laid it all out, told me every bad thing he’s done and I’m over here fumbling pleasantries and trying to ignore how ridiculously hot he looks in leather.
