Mira’s POV.

I stayed in my quarters after we returned. The walls felt closer than usual, and I didn’t want to speak to anyone. The necklace fragment lay on the table, catching faint light. I stared at it until everything blurred. I thought stillness would help the grief pass. It didn’t.

It pressed tighter against my chest until breathing felt false. Someone knocked, waited, then left. I didn’t answer. Silence was easier than pity.

When the door opened again, I knew it was him. Kael stepped inside, quiet and steady. “You haven’t eaten,” he said. “Leave me alone.” He didn’t. “We can’t afford this,” he said. “You think I don’t know that?”

He remained by the doorway. “You’re stronger than this.” I laughed, sharp and bitter. “Strong? That’s what you call watching children burn because we were too late?”

He didn’t answer. I finally met his eyes, blank, controlled, hiding what he didn’t say.

I picked up the necklace. “It’s a graveyard out there. Names we swore to protect are smoke.”

“We did what we could,” he said. “Don’t lie, Kael. We did what we were allowed to do.” His jaw tightened.

“You lead like you believe there’s something left to save,” I said. “There is. Us.” “There is no us. There are command, obedience, and fire.” He stepped forward. “Then stop walking into it.”

“I don’t know how,” I whispered.

The necklace slipped from my hand. My knees gave out, and I sank. He approached slowly, as if I were made of thin glass.

“Don’t,” I said. “I don’t need pity.” He crouched anyway. “Then take truth.” He placed the necklace back in my palm and closed my fingers around it. “You don’t carry this alone.”

Something cracked inside me. A sound tore from my chest, not quite a sob. I folded against him, trembling. He didn’t speak. He just held me, steady and warm, until the world shrank to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

“I saw a girl wearing this,” I said. “I gave her food last month. She smiled. She said she’d come back and thank me.” My voice shook. “I keep wondering if she was there when it burned.” “We’ll find out,” he said. “No. There’s nothing left.”

I pressed the necklace to my chest. “I used to wear one like this. My sister had the same.”

He watched me quietly.

“She was taken during the first purge. I told myself forgetting her would help me survive.” My throat tightened. “Every time I saw a child like her, I looked away. It was easier than remembering.”

“You fought because of her,” he said. “No. I fought because I couldn’t forgive myself.” Silence settled between us. “You don’t have to be strong now,” he said. “I don’t know what else to be.”

My tears came again, slower. He didn’t wipe them; he just stayed. “I keep seeing their faces,” I whispered. “We can’t undo it,” he said. “Then what are we doing?” “Enduring.”

The word didn’t comfort or hurt. It simply existed. “You think I don’t feel it too?” he asked softly. I didn’t respond. “Every loss, every name, I carry them all.” “And still you keep moving,” I said. “If I stop, it ends. And I can’t let it end.”

“You think you can protect everyone.” “I can’t. But I can protect you.” I didn’t tell him not to make promises. I just stared until silence spoke for both of us.

He brushed my cheek lightly. “You’re the one person I can’t lose.” “You already have,” I whispered. “Loss doesn’t wait.” “Then let it come for me, not you.” I rested against him, letting the exhaustion drain the fight out of me. My grip around the necklace loosened.

A sudden knock broke the quiet. “Commander,” Roe called. “A report just came in.” Kael didn’t move. “Not now.” “It’s urgent.” “It can wait until morning.”

Footsteps faded. He looked only at me. “I can’t face more of this,” I said. “You won’t have to,” he answered. I didn’t believe him, but the sound of his voice made me want to. “You should go,” I murmured. “If I go, you’ll be alone.” “Then stay.”

I leaned closer. His presence filled the hollow places the war had carved into me. “If they come again, I promise you won’t let them burn more children.” His hand tightened around mine. I whispered, “

Time blurred after that. I drifted into sleep against his shoulder, the first sleep that hadn’t felt hunted. When I woke, the lamp had burned out, and he was still there. “You didn’t sleep,” I said.

“Didn’t need to,” he replied. “You did.”

The room felt lighter, though nothing had changed. “What now?” I asked. “We start again at dawn.” I tied the necklace fragment to my wrist. “Then we start with this. And end where it began.” “You’re not done grieving,” he said. “Neither are you.” “Then we’ll do it together.”

He rose to leave, but paused. A folded paper lay on the floor, wax seal cracked. He picked it up, studied it, then slipped it into his pocket. I didn’t ask. “Rest while you can,” he said.

When he left, the room went quiet except for my heartbeat, which became faster. I stared at the table, thinking of ashes, children, promises, and the fire that refused to die.

I told myself I’d believe his promise, at least tonight. The candle flickered with the shifting wind. I closed my eyes. “We start again at dawn,” I whispered.

The words felt like a vow I didn’t fully understand, but I held onto them. Because letting go meant forgetting, and I wasn’t ready to forget.