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Chapter Text

The smell of rot and damp earth clung to Imogen’s skin as she stumbled forward, her bare feet dragging across the rough cobblestones. Days spent in darkness had left her eyes struggling to adjust to the sunlight, though the haze of ash in the air dimmed the brightness. She barely registered the guards’ shouted commands or the dragons perched on the rooftops, their gleaming scales catching what little light broke through the smoky clouds.

Her breath hitched as they entered the town square. The last time she’d been here, she’d stood frozen in this same spot, forced to watch her mother and sister burn. Now, the charred remains of the pyres had been cleared away, but the scorch marks remained—a blackened reminder of the lives lost.

The guards shoved the marked ones into tight rows, their grips rough and unyielding. Imogen staggered but didn’t fall, biting down on her lip to keep from crying out. She’d learned quickly that weakness was punished.

The square was unnervingly silent, save for the faint rustle of dragon wings and the clink of the guards’ weapons. Imogen’s heart pounded as she scanned the crowd of marked children, their faces hollow and their eyes dull. None of them knew what would happen next, and the tension in the air was suffocating.

A movement on the platform at the center of the square drew her attention. Two guards dragged a figure forward, his steps faltering as they shoved him into place. His wrists were bound in heavy iron cuffs, and his shirt hung in tatters, revealing pale skin streaked with blood and bruises.

Imogen’s breath caught in her throat.

The figure was Xaden Riorson. She didn’t know him personally—few of them did—but his name was etched into the history of the rebellion like a curse. The son of Fen Riorson, the rebel leader who had stood defiant against the kingdom. Even when the rebellion fell, his family name lingered like a shadow.

On the stage, Xaden struggled to lift his head. His dark hair hung in his face, and blood dripped from a gash above his brow. Despite his injuries, his gaze was sharp, his dark eyes scanning the rows of marked children with a fierce intensity.

The crowd shifted uneasily as a figure emerged from the shadows behind him. A woman with sharp features and cold, calculating eyes strode onto the platform, her every step commanding attention. She was clad in a pristine military uniform that gleamed against the soot-streaked square.

Imogen didn’t recognize her, but it was clear she held a position of power. The guards stiffened as she approached the center of the stage, and even the dragons seemed to pause their movements.

The woman raised her hands, and the square fell into an unnatural silence.

“I am General Lilith Sorrengail,” she announced, her voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. “And you—each and every one of you—owe your miserable lives to the man standing beside me.”

Imogen’s stomach twisted as Sorrengail gestured to Xaden, whose jaw clenched but whose expression remained unreadable.

“In the days since your parents’ execution, this traitor’s son,” she spat the word like venom, “has struck a bargain with the kingdom.”

Imogen’s breath hitched. A bargain?

General Sorrengail’s gaze swept over the crowd, her sharp eyes settling on the rows of children. “He has taken personal responsibility for every single one of you—107 marked children.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, but Imogen could barely process the words.

“In accordance with the laws of Tyrrish tradition,” Sorrengail continued, her lips curling into a cruel smile, “he has agreed to bear the punishment for your crimes.”

She turned to Xaden, her expression darkening. “One cut for every child. One hundred and seven scars across his back. An archaic practice, but fitting, wouldn’t you agree?”

“In return,” Sorrengail continued, her voice dripping with disdain, “you will be allowed to fight for your lives in the Riders Quadrant instead of facing the executioner’s block.”

Gasps echoed through the square. Imogen’s heart pounded as the weight of the deal settled over her. The Riders Quadrant. A chance to bond with dragons. A chance to survive. But the odds of making it out alive were slim at best.

Sorrengail stepped closer to Xaden, her voice lowering to a deadly hiss. “Make no mistake—this isn’t mercy. It’s a gamble. Most of you will die in the Riders Quadrant, and those who survive will do so knowing it was because of him.” She sneered, her gaze boring into Xaden. “The son of the man who doomed you all.”

Xaden didn’t flinch. He didn’t cower. He simply stared back at her, his expression hard as stone.

Imogen’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. She felt the tears burning at the edges of her vision, but she refused to let them fall.

Sorrengail turned back to the crowd, her voice cold and unyielding. “Your fate is sealed. Your lives belong to the kingdom now. Pray that you are strong enough to be of use to us.”

The marked ones did not move. They did not speak. They only watched as General Lilith Sorrengail unsheathed a thin, wickedly curved dagger from her belt. The blade gleamed even in the dim light of the square, its edge razor-sharp, its purpose unmistakable.

Xaden stood unmoving, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. His wrists were still bound, iron cuffs digging into his skin, chains rattling as he shifted ever so slightly. He knew what was coming.

Lilith took her time, stepping behind him with the patience of a predator.

“One hundred and seven,” she said, voice smooth as glass. “A fitting number, don’t you think?”

Then she made the first cut.

Xaden tensed, a sharp breath escaping through gritted teeth, but he did not make a sound. Blood welled up immediately, a thin line of red stark against his pale skin.

The next cut came without hesitation. And the next. And the next.

The watching children flinched, but none dared to move.

Then, a voice rang out.

“Stop this!”

A towering boy with dark hair, broader than the others, stepped forward, his voice raw with rage. His fists clenched at his sides as if he might tear himself free and charge the platform.

The guards were on him instantly. A sharp crack echoed through the square as the hilt of a sword slammed into his gut, sending him to his knees. One of the guards pressed a heavy boot to his back, forcing him into the dirt.

“Keep quiet, unless you want to be next,” the guard sneered.

The boy coughed but said nothing more.

Imogen forced herself to breathe, her lungs burning. There was no use in fighting this. No stopping it.

The blade kept moving.

Each slice was deliberate, each cut measured. Lilith did not hesitate, did not slow. She did not allow Xaden the mercy of catching his breath. She counted every single one.

"Thirty-four."

"Forty-two."

"Fifty-six."

Her voice was calm. Methodical.

Imogen felt bile rise in her throat. It wasn’t just the blood or the sound of the blade tearing through flesh—it was the way Lilith counted, like she was ticking off items on a list. As if Xaden wasn’t a person at all, just another task to be completed.

Imogen clenched her hands so tightly her nails bit into her palms. She wanted to look away. She should look away. But she couldn’t.

Xaden’s body swayed slightly, his breaths growing shallow. He was shaking now, though he still hadn’t cried out. The only sound in the square was Lilith’s even voice and the soft, wet sound of blade meeting flesh.

"Seventy-nine."

"Eight-five."

"Ninety-two."

Xaden collapsed.

The chains kept him from falling completely, but his knees hit the wooden platform with a dull thud. Blood soaked the back of his tattered shirt, dripping down his sides, pooling beneath him. His fingers curled weakly against the platform as he tried to push himself up. He couldn't.

Lilith did not stop.

"Ninety-eight."

"One hundred."

Her voice remained infuriatingly steady, not even winded from the exertion.

Xaden’s head hung forward, his body limp. He wasn’t conscious anymore.

Good. Merciful, Imogen thought, swallowing hard. He didn’t have to endure the last cuts awake.

And still, Lilith finished the count.

"One hundred and seven."

She stepped back, wiping the blood from her blade with a pristine white cloth. Not a flicker of emotion crossed her face.

Imogen had seen death before, had seen cruelty and destruction, but this—this was something else. There had been no rage, no passion in Lilith’s eyes. Just cold precision. A lesson to be taught. A debt to be paid.

The guards moved then, unshackling Xaden only to throw him into the dirt. He didn’t stir.

No one moved.

Lilith stepped forward, wiping the last streak of blood from her blade before tucking it neatly back into its sheath. She surveyed the children before her, her expression unreadable, as though she had not just carved a boy into ruin before their very eyes.

“In the coming days, you will be placed with foster families,” she announced, her voice carrying across the silent square. “You should consider this an opportunity—a chance to be reared into proper citizens, to redeem yourselves from the sins of your families.”

Imogen’s stomach twisted.

Lilith’s gaze swept over them, cold and detached. “Of course, finding homes willing to take in such disgraceful children has proven… difficult.” She sighed, as if the burden was theirs to bear. “But we are working to place each of you. This is a process, and until it is completed, you will remain under our supervision.”

A process. Imogen knew what that meant. That the marked ones were unwanted. That no family in the kingdom wanted to stain their good name by taking in rebels’ children. They didn’t see them as people. Just burdens.

Lilith seemed satisfied with her decree. Without another glance at the boy she had brutalized, she turned and strode off the platform, without a glance behind her.

The silence stretched, suffocating and thick.

Then a guard barked, “Someone get him up.”

The towering boy who had spoken out earlier pushed forward. His jaw was tight, his hands clenched into fists, but he bent to grasp Xaden under the arms, straining to lift him.

Xaden barely moved.

The boy gritted his teeth and hissed, “Bodhi! I need help.”

A boy with a sharp face and a wild mane of dark curls stepped from the cluster of children. He hesitated for only a second before moving to the other side, looping Xaden’s arm over his shoulder. Together, they managed to haul him upright, though his legs dragged, his weight nearly unbearable.

The guards didn’t help. They merely watched as the boys struggled to carry Xaden’s limp body across the square, their amusement barely concealed.

Imogen turned on her heel and walked. Not too fast, not too slow—just enough to keep moving, to keep breathing.

The group shuffled back through the winding corridors of the keep, pressed close together, the air thick with the stench of blood and sweat. Xaden’s soft, shallow breaths were the only sound as the boys half-carried, half-dragged him along.

By the time they reached the locked room, her limbs ached with exhaustion, but she still found herself glancing back as Bohdi and the other boy eased Xaden down onto the cold stone floor.

The door slammed shut behind them.

No one spoke.

No one knew what to say.

Xaden lay still, his back a ruined mess of torn flesh and drying blood. Imogen swallowed hard.

This was their future.

They were not children. They were not citizens.

They were debts to be paid.

Chapter Text

The room was cramped, the air thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and unspoken fear. Bodies huddled together, children pressed into every corner, their wide eyes darting between one another as though searching for reassurance that none of them could provide. The only sound was the occasional sniffle, the soft rustling of limbs shifting uncomfortably on the cold stone floor.

Xaden lay motionless in the center of the room, his back a mess of raw, bloody lines that no one dared touch. Bohdi knelt beside him, his hands hovering uncertainly over Xaden’s body, his panic barely concealed beneath a trembling scowl.

Imogen sat nearby, her back pressed against the rough stone wall as she surveyed the others. Many of them were young—too young. The smallest couldn’t have been more than six or seven, their tiny hands clutching at threadbare clothing, their bodies curled in on themselves for warmth and comfort that wouldn’t come. Imogen felt a lump form in her throat. How were they supposed to survive this? 

It struck her how young most of them looked. A boy no older than nine clung to a girl who might have been his sister, his tear-streaked face pressed into her arm. A group of children huddled in the corner, their wide, frightened eyes darting to every shadow. Imogen couldn’t stop the pang of sorrow that twisted in her chest. These weren’t soldiers or rebels—they were just kids.

She felt like one of the oldest there, save for Xaden and two others: the dark-haired boy who had shouted at Lilith earlier and another boy with sharp eyes and a wiry frame, who had introduced himself as Bodhi. The two of them seemed to hover near Xaden’s still form, their worry etched into their faces in different ways.

A loud thud shattered the silence.

Imogen snapped her head up in time to see the unnamed boy pulling back his foot from where he’d just kicked the stone wall. His entire body vibrated with barely restrained rage, his fists clenched at his sides. His face was twisted into a scowl, his jaw so tight it looked like it might snap.

The sudden noise sent a ripple of fear through the room. A small girl with matted blonde hair let out a sharp cry, her hands flying up to cover her ears as she started to sob.

Imogen was on her feet before she even thought about it.

“Stop it!” she hissed, rounding on the boy. He looked at her, his chest heaving, but she didn’t back down. “You’re scaring them.”

He didn’t respond right away. His dark eyes flicked to the crying child, his expression shifting from anger to something closer to guilt, but the tension in his body didn’t ease. He turned away, raking a hand through his hair.

Imogen sighed and crouched down beside the young girl. “Hey,” she murmured, keeping her voice soft as she reached out to touch the girl’s shaking hands. “It’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you.”

The girl sniffled, blinking up at her with watery green eyes. “Is he mad at us?” she whispered.

Imogen shook her head. “No. He’s mad at—at everything. But not at you, I promise.”

The girl hesitated before nodding, though she still looked wary. Imogen offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile before wrapping an arm around the girl’s shoulders, pulling her close. The child leaned into her, her body still trembling, but her sobs quieted to sniffles.

The dark-haired boy stood frozen, guilt flickering across his face as he watched the scene unfold. Bodhi, who had been hovering over Xaden, turned and shot him a sharp look. “Garrick, you need to calm down,” Bodhi said, his tone firm but not unkind. “You’re not helping anything by freaking out.”

The boy opened his mouth to argue but then snapped it shut, his shoulders sagging as he exhaled through his nose. Bodhi nodded, satisfied, before returning his attention to Xaden.

Bodhi leaned closer to Xaden, gently brushing aside some of the tangled hair matted with sweat and blood. "He's burning up," he muttered, glancing at Garrick. "If we don't figure out how to cool him down, this fever’s going to kill him before anything else does."

Garrick crouched down beside him, his anger now channeled into something quieter but no less intense. "We can't let that happen." His voice was low, rough, as if he were holding back the storm that still brewed inside him. He glanced toward Imogen briefly, then back to Xaden. "We owe him."

Imogen heard his words, but her focus remained on the youngest children clustered around her. A few of them had started to cry softly again, their fear reigniting with every pained groan that slipped from Xaden's lips as he stirred faintly. She tightened her grip on the small blonde girl leaning against her side and forced herself to speak in a soothing tone, even though her own chest felt tight with dread.

“It’s going to be okay,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the hushed murmurs and shifting bodies in the cramped room. 

But even as she said it, she wasn’t sure she believed it. Xaden had looked invincible on that platform, standing tall and unyielding despite the agony inflicted upon him. Now, crumpled and barely conscious on the cold stone floor, he looked far too human. And far too fragile.

A sudden, ragged gasp from Xaden made everyone freeze. His body jerked, his back arching slightly, and then he let out a guttural scream that echoed off the walls. Garrick and Bodhi immediately moved to hold him down, their hands firm but careful as they tried to keep him from thrashing too much.

“Xaden!” Bodhi called out, his voice urgent. “It’s us. You’re safe.”

But Xaden didn’t seem to hear him. His head twisted from side to side, his eyes fluttering open only to reveal an unfocused, glassy stare. He mumbled something incoherent, his words slurred and broken, before another cry of pain tore from his throat.

Imogen squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, fighting back the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. She had to stay calm—for the children, if not for herself. She glanced around the room, taking in the wide-eyed stares of the younger ones, their terror mirrored in their expressions. They couldn’t handle seeing this—not after everything they’d already endured.

She turned her attention back to the blonde girl beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her tear-streaked face. “Do you like stories?” Imogen asked softly, trying to keep her tone light. The girl blinked up at her, her fear momentarily replaced by confusion. “I know some good ones. Would you like to hear one?”

The girl hesitated before nodding slowly. A few of the other children perked up at the mention of stories, their curiosity momentarily distracting them from the tense scene in the center of the room.

Imogen took a deep breath and began to weave a tale, her voice steady and soothing despite the chaos around her. She spoke of brave knights and clever tricksters, of far-off lands where the sky was always blue and the air smelled of flowers instead of ash. Her words were simple, her stories ones she’d heard long ago from her mother, but they seemed to do the trick. The children leaned closer, their expressions softening as they became engrossed in the imaginary worlds she painted for them.

In the background, Garrick and Bodhi continued their desperate attempts to tend to Xaden, their whispered exchanges growing more urgent. But Imogen kept her focus on the children, determined to shield them from the worst of it. They’d seen enough horrors already. She could at least spare them this.

Finally, Xaden seemed to settle, his body going limp as his cries faded into quiet whimpers. Garrick sat back on his heels, his chest heaving as he ran a hand through his hair. “At least he’s not fighting us anymore, he has always been too strong for me.” He muttered, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

The room had quieted, the tension settling into something softer, something almost fragile in the light. The youngest children had all drifted into uneasy sleep, their small bodies curled together like fragile birds seeking warmth. The scent of blood still lingered in the air mingling with the damp stone.

Imogen sat with her back against the wall, arms wrapped loosely around her knees as she gazed at the flickering light dancing across the ceiling. Across from her Xaden lay still, his breathing shallow but steady, his fever making his skin glisten with sweat, Bodhi and Garrick flung lazily by his side. 

It was clear to Imogen that the three boys knew one another. There was an ease to the way Bodhi and Garrick moved around Xaden, the way they anticipated each other’s actions without speaking. Garrick sat close, his knee nearly brushing against Xaden’s arm as if standing guard. Bodhi, quieter now, kept sneaking glances at the unconscious boy, his lips pressed into a tight line. It was all so familiar between them, yet Imogen remained on the outside of it.

Not that she cared.

None of it mattered. They were all about to be shipped off to different families, scattered like debris after a storm. There was no point in getting to know them. No point in forging connections that would be severed in a matter of days.

Still, silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, until Bodhi exhaled sharply and broke it.

“They’re going to separate us,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper but sharp enough to cut through the stillness.

Garrick let out a bitter scoff. “You say that like it’s a question.”

Imogen shifted her gaze toward them, waiting. She didn’t need to ask what they meant—she already knew.

“They’ll send us to foster families,” Bodhi continued, rubbing a hand over his face. “We’ll be ‘reeducated.’ Taught to be proper, obedient citizens.” His voice dripped with sarcasm, but there was something else beneath it, something raw.

Garrick’s expression darkened. “They can try.”

Imogen watched them for a long moment before finally speaking. “Do you think they actually believe that?” she asked. “That they can make us into good little soldiers for Navarre?”

Bodhi huffed out a humorless laugh. “They believe whatever they need to so they can sleep at night.”

Garrick shifted, his jaw tight. “They don’t care about changing us. They just want to control us.”

Imogen considered that. They weren’t wrong. From the moment their families had been executed, it had been clear that this was about more than punishment—it was about power. It was about ensuring no child of a traitor ever grew up to challenge the status quo.

Imogen’s gaze lingered on Xaden. Even unconscious, his presence was heavy, magnetic. It wasn’t just the raw brutality of what he’d endured—it was the way the others, Bodhi and Garrick especially, seemed to orbit him, like he was a tether holding them steady in a storm. She hated to admit it, but it was... compelling.

She drew her knees closer to her chest, the rough stone of the wall digging into her back. “They can try to control us, but they won't,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the quiet. 

Both boys turned to look at her. Garrick’s expression was guarded, but there was a flicker of interest in Bodhi’s dark eyes. It was the first time she’d spoken directly to them.

“You sound awfully sure of that,” Garrick said, his voice flat.

Imogen met his gaze steadily. “I am.” 

Bodhi tilted his head, studying her. “Who are you, anyway?” he asked, curious. 

Her mouth twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. “Imogen,” she said simply. “And you’re Bodhi.” She looked at the other boy. “And Garrick.”

Garrick raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“Someone has to,” she said dryly. Her tone softened as her gaze flicked back to Xaden. 

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t as heavy this time. The three of them sat in a loose triangle around Xaden, their gazes drifting to him as though drawn by some unspoken agreement.

And then, with a sudden, sharp gasp, Xaden stirred.

His eyelids fluttered open, his pupils dilated and unfocused. For a moment, he just stared at the ceiling, his breath shallow and uneven. Then his head turned slightly, and his gaze landed on Bodhi.

“Bodhi?” he rasped, his voice hoarse, barely audible.

Bodhi leaned forward immediately, relief flooding his features. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m here. You’re okay.”

Xaden’s brow furrowed, his lips moving silently for a moment before he managed to speak again. “The others... are they...?”

“They’re safe,” Bodhi said firmly. “We’re all safe. Just rest, okay?”

A sharp scoff cut through the air, and Garrick shot to his feet, his expression tight with barely restrained anger. “Safe? That’s rich, considering what he did.”

Bodhi tensed but didn’t stop him. Xaden, despite his obvious exhaustion, forced his eyes open again, shifting slightly.

Garrick stepped closer, his voice a low growl. “What the hell were you thinking, Xaden?”

Xaden’s fingers twitched where they rested against his side, but his gaze remained steady. “I was thinking I wasn’t going to let everyone die,” he murmured, voice raw. “Seemed like a fair trade.”

“Fair trade?” Garrick spat. “You call taking a hundred and seven cuts a fair trade?” His jaw clenched as he ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. “You nearly died, you stupid bastard.”

Xaden exhaled a weak chuckle. “But I didn’t.”

Garrick swore under his breath, fists clenched. “You always do this. You expect the rest of us to just—just accept this? As if our lives matter less than yours?”

Xaden’s lips barely curved, something hollow in his expression. “Not less. Just... worth saving.”

Garrick looked ready to lunge at him, and Bodhi quickly interjected, standing and placing a hand on Garrick’s chest. “Enough,” he said, exasperated. “Arguing won’t change what happened, and it sure as hell isn’t going to help Xaden right now.”

Garrick let out a harsh breath, turning away sharply. “Yeah, well, excuse me for being pissed that he thinks bleeding out for us is some noble sacrifice.”

Xaden huffed softly. “I appreciate your concern, really.”

“Go to hell,” Garrick snapped, though there was no real venom behind it.

“Already there,” Xaden murmured, eyes drifting closed for a moment before he forced them open again. “Just saving you a seat.”

Bodhi snorted. 

Garrick rolled his eyes, but his shoulders relaxed slightly. “Next time, you get to be the one standing over his half-dead body.”

Xaden smirked faintly, but the effort cost him. His breathing grew heavier, his body sinking deeper into the floor. The fight was draining from him, sleep clawing at the edges of his awareness.

Imogen watched silently from the corner, her hands curled into the rough fabric of her pants. She understood, in a way she wished she didn’t. The bond between them—Xaden, Garrick, Bodhi—it was something she would never be a part of. A brotherhood forged in fire and blood, in shared sacrifices and unspoken promises. It was theirs, and no matter how much she fought, no matter how much she tried, she would never truly belong in it.

And soon, in a few days, she would likely never see them again. The realization settled heavily in her chest.

Xaden’s breathing evened out, his body finally giving in to exhaustion. Garrick ran a hand over his face before sitting back down with a heavy sigh. Bodhi exhaled quietly, as if letting go of something he’d been holding onto.

Silence settled over the room, thick with unsaid words. The three of them—Garrick, Bodhi, and Xaden—would always have each other. And Imogen? She was just passing through.

She leaned back against the cold stone wall, staring at the ceiling. The quiet stretched on, and eventually, one by one, they drifted into uneasy sleep.

Xaden’s final words lingered in the air, a ghost of defiance even in unconsciousness.

Just saving you a seat.

Chapter Text

“Gather up!” one of the guards barked the next morning, his tone cold and commanding. “We’ve found placements for you. Time to go.”

The words hung in the air like a death knell. Imogen’s stomach churned as the children stirred, some startled, others barely moving. It was as if the command itself sucked the last traces of hope from the room. The sense of finality was suffocating, as if the walls themselves were closing in.

They were separating them. She understood it now—this wasn’t just about displacing them. They were being scattered so that they could never rely on one another again. No alliances. No rebellion. They were too young, too fragile. Even if they wanted to resist, the odds were stacked against them. 

Imogen’s heart clenched as she realized it was deliberate. This was how they ensured no rebellion would rise again. They’d divided the children by age, by family, by whatever criteria suited them. Imogen didn’t have time to figure out their system, and she frankly wasn’t sure she cared. 

The guards called names one by one, their voices hollow and indifferent, like the ticking of a clock counting down to an irreversible fate. Imogen glanced at each child as they were ushered out of the room—some tear-streaked, others with heads bowed in quiet resignation. The youngest, barely old enough to comprehend the situation, looked lost. 

Her breath hitched when the youngest girl, the one who had been so terrified the night before, was called. The child’s frail form trembled at the sound of her name, and Imogen felt a pang deep in her chest, an ache she couldn’t ignore. Without thinking, she rose from her place and walked over to the girl, bending down to meet her gaze.

“It’s going to be okay,” Imogen whispered, her voice soft but firm, her hand gently brushing the girl’s tangled hair away from her forehead. She tried to offer a smile, but it felt hollow, as though the weight of what was happening made it impossible to believe the words she was speaking. “Maybe your new home will have a puppy,” she added, forcing a lightness into her voice that didn’t belong there, hoping against hope that the girl would take comfort in it.

The girl sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “Do you think so?” she whispered, her voice so small it nearly broke Imogen’s heart.

Imogen nodded, though she was sure the words weren’t enough. “I’m sure of it,” she said, though a part of her wanted to scream out the truth—nothing will ever be okay again.

Before she could say more, the guards were at her side. One of them shoved the child forward, sending her stumbling away from Imogen. The weight of helplessness crashed down on her. Her chest tightened as she watched the girl disappear down the hallway, the faintest echo of her sobs lingering in the air.

The sense of finality was growing, stronger now. Families were being split apart in the most brutal way possible. Brothers to the left and sisters to the right, children old enough to understand what was happening cried in protest. 

Imogen’s heart clenched as she turned back to the group. And then, through the haze of her thoughts, she heard a voice—weak, pleading.

“Please… please, don’t separate them. Let the siblings stay together, at least the young ones” came the desperate cry of Xaden. His voice cracked as he pushed himself forward, his face pale and drawn with concern. “I’ve already taken responsibility for them. Let them stay together.”

The guards paid him no mind, their eyes cold and unfeeling. Xaden was ignored, his words falling on deaf ears. It was as if he wasn’t even there. His plea was met with nothing but indifference.

Imogen’s throat tightened as she watched him, his plea hanging in the air like an unanswered question.

Imogen’s name was called next, a sharp, biting sound that cut through her thoughts. Imogen stiffened, the finality of it echoing through her bones. She hadn’t expected it to come so soon. She hadn’t been ready. But the guards’ impatient stares left no room for hesitation. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, to cling to whatever resolve she had left. Then, without another word, she nodded and began walking.

She could feel their eyes on her, but she kept her focus forward, eyes trained on the door at the end of the hall. The guard who awaited her outside stood with his arms crossed, his expression one of barely concealed contempt. She hated the way he looked at her, like she was nothing but a thing to be moved and discarded.

The light that poured from the hall was blinding, its harsh brightness cutting through the fog in her mind. She squinted, pulse quickening, as she stepped into it. The walk seemed endless, each step dragging her further away from the only thing she knew. Her mind raced, but nothing made sense anymore. It was all happening too fast.

The door at the end of the hall creaked open, and she was ushered into a room beyond. The bright light inside was almost too much for her to handle. She squinted as her eyes slowly adjusted, the harsh fluorescent bulbs making everything seem sterile and cold. White walls, impersonal furniture, a table, two chairs, and an empty shelf. It looked like a waiting room, but Imogen knew better than to hope for comfort. It wasn’t a place for comfort. It was a holding cell.

Imogen stood in the sterile room, the air thick with tension. The walls, unyielding and cold, seemed to close in around her as she sat on one of the hard chairs. The harsh fluorescent lights above flickered intermittently, casting an eerie glow that made the space feel even more oppressive. She couldn't help but feel utterly alone, as though the entire world had moved on without her.

Her mind raced, the thoughts too fast to catch. Why had they brought her here? Where would she go next? The silence in the room seemed to stretch on for hours, though it had only been moments since the door had closed behind her. Every second felt heavier than the last. She tried to focus on her breathing, tried to calm the gnawing anxiety that swirled in her chest, but it was futile. Nothing could take away the creeping feeling that she was doomed. 

A sudden, sharp noise broke the quiet. Imogen tensed, every muscle in her body tightening in anticipation. She hadn’t heard anyone approach, but she wasn’t sure how she could’ve missed them. The sound of heavy boots echoed down the hallway, growing louder with each passing second, and then the door was flung open, its hinges protesting with a screech.

For a split second, Imogen expected it to be a guard but to her surprise, the figure that stumbled into the room wasn’t one of the guards. 

It was Garrick.

He was thrown into the room with a force that made Imogen’s breath catch in her throat. His body hit the floor with a sickening thud, and for a brief moment, he lay there, stunned. As he slowly lifted himself up, she could see the bruise already beginning to form on his face—a dark, angry mark on his cheek. His clothes were disheveled from when she’d last seen him moments ago, his hair messy, and his eyes were wide, though they weren’t filled with fear but instead rage. 

She rushed to her feet, her heart hammering in her chest. “Garrick?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, a mix of confusion and concern bubbling to the surface. “What—what are you doing here?”

Garrick glanced up at her, his expression distant for a moment before it softened with a flicker of recognition. He slowly got to his feet, his movements sluggish but determined, as though the pain in his body wasn’t enough to stop him. When his gaze met hers, Imogen’s heart skipped a beat.

“I tried to fight them,” he said, his voice rough, though it held a defiance that Imogen hadn’t expected. “When they separated me from Xaden and Bohdi... I couldn’t let them do it without a fight” He winced, his hand brushing the bruise on his face, as though the memory of the guards’ rough treatment still stung. 

Imogen’s confusion deepened. “But why?” she asked, her mind racing. “Why are you here?” 

Garrick sighed, a bitter edge to the sound. “I don’t know,” he muttered, shaking his head.

The silence stretched out between them, thick and suffocating, the weight of unanswered questions pressing down on both Imogen and Garrick.

Then, the door to the room suddenly creaked open, and Imogen’s heart skipped in her chest. Two guards stepped inside, their cold, emotionless eyes scanning the room before settling on the pair. The metallic clang of their boots against the floor reverberated in the space, sending a fresh wave of tension through the air. The guards were imposing figures—one tall and broad, the other shorter but stockier—both exuding an unspoken authority, as though the very act of entering the room meant the decision had already been made.

“Get up,” one of the guards barked. His voice was firm, and the harshness in it made it clear there was no room for disobedience.

Imogen and Garrick exchanged a brief glance, but neither of them moved. They both knew this moment was coming, the moment when they would be told their fates, but that didn’t make it any easier. Imogen’s heart raced.

The taller of the two guards stepped forward, his hands gripping the back of a chair as he leaned in with a condescending smile. “You two will be together,” he said, the words coming out coldly, as though he was delivering a simple fact. “It seems we couldn’t find enough placements for all the marked ones, no one wants you so doubling up is necessary.”

Imogen’s chest tightened. She didn’t understand. She opened her mouth to speak, but the guard raised a hand to silence her.

“It’s simple enough,” the second guard spoke, his tone clipped and matter-of-fact. “We can’t have too many of you together. The rebellion your families tried to start was... unfortunate, but you two—" he paused, his gaze lingering on Garrick’s bruised face, "—you two are old enough to understand the importance of keeping your toes in line. No more... threats.”

“And you,” the first guard continued, glancing at Garrick, his expression shifting into something more calculating, “you’ll be joining Basgiath soon anyway and then she will be alone. In the meantime, we figure we can trust the two of you to behave... appropriately. There’s no need for any more trouble.”

Imogen’s mind reeled at the words. Before she could form another question, the guards motioned for them to follow. Imogen’s heart pounded. She glanced at Garrick but his face was trained on the guards, scowling. 

Without another word, the two of them were pushed out of the sterile room and into the hallway. The guards led them through the winding corridors. The sound of their footsteps echoed through the stone hallways, marking their departure, their journey to whatever awaited them.

At the end of the hallway, a wooden door creaked open, revealing a small, dingy lit wagon. The air outside was chilly, the fog thick in the distance. The wagon sat waiting, a mere vehicle for their fate.

“Get in,” the taller guard ordered, giving them a shove toward the wooden vehicle. They climbed in, the cramped space doing little to offer comfort. There was no soft bedding, no kindness in the air—just the faint smell of hay and the cold wood beneath their feet.

Garrick looked to Imogen, his gaze hard, but there was something softer there now, a quiet understanding between them. 

As the wagon jolted to life, the sound of the wheels creaking over the cobblestones filled the air. The two guards stood outside, watching as the wagon slowly rumbled down the dirt path, the door to their fate now closed behind them.

Chapter Text

The wheels of the wagon rumbling over the uneven road as it clattered through the quiet landscape. Imogen sat quietly across from Garrick, both of them staring out of the small, narrow window as the landscape passed by. 

Imogen’s thoughts swirled, but she didn’t speak. There was nothing to say. The events that had led to this moment had been set in motion long before their separation from the others. They were being sent away—separated from any chance of rebellion, far away from Xaden, Bohdi, and the others. She could feel the heavy weight of their situation pressing on her chest, her hands folded in her lap, unsure of what else to do but sit still.

As they crested a hill, the driver, who had been silent and focused on the road ahead, suddenly jerked the reins to the side, pulling the wagon off the main path and onto a dirt trail that led into the trees. The wagon creaked to a stop, the horses snorting as they slowed.

Imogen craned her neck as the driver dismounted with a grunt. His boots thudded heavily against the dirt as he made his way to the back of the wagon. For a brief, fleeting moment, she thought they might be stopping to stretch their legs, or to take a rest, but when the driver swung the door open, she saw no kindness in his eyes.

“Well, it’s time,” he said curtly, his voice low and rough. He didn’t wait for them to speak or acknowledge him before stepping inside the wagon.

The man had a hard, unyielding face, and his presence filled the small space with a sense of authority that left Imogen and Garrick tense, stiff with uncertainty. The door swung shut behind him, trapping them in the small, dim space, and the air grew thicker as he reached into his bag.

Without a word, he pulled out a heavy set of iron chains, their cold metal links gleaming in the low light. Imogen’s stomach twisted in a tight knot. 

“You’ll be precious cargo, so I expect you to behave. Got that?” The driver announced, his tone gruff and dismissive. 

Garrick opened his mouth to say something, but the driver cut him off with a look, his eyes narrowing as he stalked toward Imogen.

“You’re gonna be quiet now, both of you,” the driver continued, his voice growing colder. “I’m responsible for getting you two to your new foster father. Safe and sound. So I expect you to cooperate. If you try anything stupid, I won’t hesitate to make sure you stay put.”

Imogen’s heart skipped a beat as she watched him advance with the chains, each link thick and cold, gleaming in the low light of the wagon. 

The driver stepped forward, his boots scraping against the wooden floor as he looked at Imogen. “Let’s make this simple,” he said with a sneer. “Hands first.”.

Imogen stiffened, her heart racing. She wanted to protest, to scream, but she knew it was pointless. She barely had time to register the sharp clink of the chains before the driver was pulling them tight around her wrists, the cold metal biting into her skin as he fastened them into place. Her hands were locked together, and before she could even process it, he was moving on to her ankles, fastening the heavy chains there as well. The weight of them was almost unbearable, dragging her down and making every movement feel like an effort.

Garrick’s hand shot out, his voice angry and protective. “What the hell are you doing? You can’t just chain her like that!”

The driver’s gaze flicked to Garrick, and without hesitation, he raised a hand. “You’ll be next, boy. And if you don’t keep quiet, I’ll make this worse for her.”

Garrick bristled, his fists clenching, but he stayed silent. His anger was palpable, his frustration burning in his eyes, but even he knew there was no point in making the situation worse. The driver moved back to Imogen’s feet, tightening the chains around her ankles before finally standing up and moving toward Garrick.

“I don’t care if you’re upset,” the driver muttered as he knelt to do the same to Garrick. The chains clinked as they were fastened around his wrists, followed by his ankles, rendering him immobile as well. “You’re both in my care now. You’ll be quiet, and you’ll stay in line.”

Imogen watched, her chest tightening as Garrick’s face darkened with barely contained fury. But he didn’t fight. He knew better than to risk making things worse.

“Don’t worry,” the driver said in a voice that oozed mock sympathy as he stood up. “You’ll get food and water once a day. Three days of travel, and then you’ll be there.”

The pair watched the driver as he left muttering without looking at them, his boots hitting the ground with heavy thuds as he made his way toward the side of the road.

Imogen exhaled slowly, the brief reprieve from his oppressive presence offering little comfort. The chains that bound her wrists and ankles dug into her skin with every shift, the metal cold and unforgiving. She tried to adjust, but every movement only made the discomfort worse, pulling at her muscles and dragging on her body.

The journey ahead felt endless, and the chains on her limbs were a constant reminder of how little control she had over her own life. She wished she could just close her eyes and block it all out, but the ache in her body wouldn’t let her.

Garrick shifted next to her, muttering under his breath. “This is bullshit,” he said, his voice laced with frustration.

Imogen couldn’t help but let out a soft, shaky breath, her hands curling into fists as she fought to hold back tears. She didn’t want to cry. Not over this. But as the wagon lurched forward again, the chains scraping against her skin, she felt a sob escape her throat, a sound that felt foreign and raw.

She hated how weak she felt, how helpless. She wiped her eyes quickly, not wanting Garrick to see, but it was too late. His gaze softened as he glanced at her, his expression full of quiet concern.

“I’m sorry, Imogen,” he murmured, his voice low. 

Imogen let out a shaky breath, trying to control the emotions that were rising inside her. “I... I shouldn’t be crying about this. It’s just chains. And... after what Xaden went through, after everything... I feel so stupid. Why am I so upset by this? Our families—”

Her voice broke, and she stopped herself, biting her lip hard enough to taste blood. She couldn’t cry like this. Not now. Not over something like chains when so much worse had happened to them. To everyone they’d lost.

But the chains hurt. They hurt more than she’d anticipated, and the weight of the situation, the helplessness of being dragged across the land like livestock—it all came crashing down.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, her face buried in her knees, her breath shallow and ragged, before she heard Garrick shuffle to sit beside her.

Garrick’s awkward shuffling reached her ears before he awkwardly cleared his throat. "Hey... Imogen?" His voice was soft, uncertain, like he didn’t really know how to handle the situation.

Imogen kept her face hidden, hoping he would just leave her to her moment of solitude. She didn’t want to be weak in front of him, not when they’d just met, not when she felt like such a fool for being upset over something so trivial in the grand scheme of things. But the clinking of chains around her wrists and ankles, the relentless ache of the metal digging into her skin, reminded her of how powerless she was. How utterly out of control.

“Hey,” Garrick said again, his tone hesitant but trying to sound reassuring. He reached out, and she flinched slightly at the sound of the chains scraping. He probably hadn’t realized how close he was until she reacted, and when he did, his hand froze in midair, unsure of what to do.

Imogen’s heart clenched, and she fought to steady her breathing. She could feel him trying—awkward, but trying. She wanted to shrug it off, to tell him not to worry about her, to tell him that she could handle it on her own. That they didn’t need to be friends. But she just couldn’t muster the strength for it.

"I'm sorry," Garrick murmured again, his voice much quieter now. "I—I'm here. You’re not alone. It’s not stupid to feel like this. It’s—this is messed up. And you’re not weak for being upset, alright?"

Imogen took a shaky breath, his words somehow sinking in deeper than she wanted them to. She hated how comforting they were, how simple and real. He didn’t try to fix anything; he just... acknowledged it. Acknowledged her.

“I don’t want to cry about this,” she whispered, her voice breaking. "I just... I just feel like I should be stronger, you know? Like this is nothing compared to what Xaden went through. Or what... we’ve all lost. It’s so stupid. It makes sense they wouldn’t want us to escape."

Garrick didn’t say anything for a long moment, just let the silence settle between them. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he let out a soft, awkward chuckle. "Well, you’re not the only one who feels stupid," he said, trying to lighten the mood, though his voice was still low and hesitant. "I mean... I'm pretty sure I’m the world’s worst at comforting people. Like... I’m just sitting here being all... confused about what to do with my hands."

Imogen couldn’t help it. Despite herself, she let out a breathless laugh, though it came out shaky. It wasn’t funny, not really, but the fact that Garrick had somehow managed to make her smile, even just a little, was a comfort she hadn’t expected. It felt so bizarrely human, in the middle of the madness.

Garrick shifted beside her, and she could tell he was trying to figure out what to do next, his hands awkwardly twitching. "I don’t know... if you want me to stop, just... let me know. But if you wanna talk... or... I don’t know, whatever I’m good with whatever."

Imogen bit her lip, trying to keep the tears at bay. She didn’t want to lean on him, not after everything that had happened. They barely knew each other, after all. But something about his presence, his quiet, bumbling kindness, made it easier to just... exist in this moment.

“Thanks,” she whispered, still looking out of the window, her voice soft, barely audible over the rumbling wheels. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Garrick didn’t respond right away, but his hand shifted slightly, moving just close enough to her so that it felt like a gesture of comfort, even if he didn’t say another word.

They sat there for a while in silence, the road rocking as the wagon lurched forward again, the chains biting into their skin. Imogen didn’t want to rely on Garrick, but it was easier to let go of that feeling, even just a little, with him sitting beside her, as he offered comfort in his own, imperfect way.

Chapter Text

After what seemed like an eternity, the wagon suddenly lurched to a stop. The driver’s heavy boots thudded against the dirt as he dismounted, and for a moment, Imogen hoped that they were finally being let out of the wagon for a rest. But the door swung open, and the driver’s rough voice cut through the air like a cold wind.

“Water,” he muttered, tossing a leather flask through the open door. It landed with a thud next to Imogen’s feet, the water sloshing inside, but there was no sign of food. The driver wasn’t much for niceties.

Garrick immediately leaned forward, straining against the chains that kept him tethered. “You gotta be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath, clearly frustrated with their situation. His hands, bound together tightly with iron, made it impossible for him to grab the flask.

Imogen sighed, her own arms heavy with the chains. She reached for the flask, her fingers aching as they brushed against the cool leather, but she couldn't get a good grip. The angle of the wagon made it difficult to maneuver, and every jolt sent the flask skidding just out of reach.

“Just... hold on, I’ve got it,” Garrick said, gritting his teeth. He leaned over awkwardly, attempting to reach with his bound hands, but the movement was clumsy, the chains pulling taut and limiting his range.

Imogen couldn’t help but smile at his determination, even though the situation was anything but funny. She pulled her knees to her chest, trying to ease the strain on her arms. “You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep doing that,” she warned, but there was a soft note of amusement in her voice.

Finally, with a frustrated grunt, Garrick managed to tip the flask in her direction. “There. You try it,” he said, his voice strained.

Imogen grabbed the flask with both hands, twisting the cap open with difficulty before bringing it to her lips. The cold water was a welcome relief, even if it only quenched her thirst for a moment. She drank slowly, savoring the small comfort the water provided.

Garrick slumped back in his seat, his face twisted in annoyance. “This is so stupid,” he muttered, rubbing at his wrist where the chains had begun to chafe against his skin.

Imogen handed him the flask after taking one more drink. “It’s better than nothing,” she said, her voice softer now. She wanted to complain, to shout at the world for putting them in this situation, but somehow the simple act of sharing the flask with Garrick made it feel a little less hopeless.

The wagon lurched forward again, and they were both thrown back into their seats. The discomfort of the chains and the unrelenting bumps in the road made it difficult to relax, but they tried to settle as best they could. There was no way to get comfortable in such a confined space, not with the chains digging into their skin and the constant motion of the wagon.

The two days passed in a blur of hunger, thirst, and exhaustion. The stale bread and cheese the driver occasionally threw into the wagon only seemed to make the dryness in Imogen's throat worse, but it was the only sustenance they had. The crumbs clung to their mouths, leaving a bitter taste as they ate in awkward silence. They ate slowly, carefully, but it didn’t take long before they were both painfully aware of how much more water they needed. The more they ate, the thirstier they became, but there was nothing they could do but wait for the next meager offering from the driver.

Every bump in the road felt like it was shaking the very marrow from their bones, and the tightness of the chains gnawed at them both. Garrick had become increasingly irritable, his words short and clipped, while Imogen found herself retreating into the silence, holding onto whatever shred of control she could manage. There was nothing they could do but endure, and the more they endured, the more time seemed to stretch on.

On the third day, when the sun hung low in the sky and the shadows grew longer, the wagon came to a halt with a suddenness that threw them both against the side, and the harsh sound of the driver's boots hitting the ground rang in their ears. They barely had time to react before the door swung open with a force that made Imogen flinch.

“Stand up,” the driver barked, his voice gruff as he peered inside. Imogen’s heart raced in her chest, and for a moment, she hesitated. Her body felt weak from the days of travel. But the driver’s impatient growl spurred her into action.

As she tried to shift her legs, her feet tangled beneath her, and she stumbled, nearly toppling over. A sharp yank on her arm caused her to gasp, and the driver’s grip was unforgiving as he hauled her to her feet. Her knees buckled beneath the weight of the chains, but she steadied herself against the wall of the wagon.

“Get out,” the driver commanded, his hand gripping her arm tightly.

Imogen’s chest tightened, but she didn’t resist as he forced her out of the wagon. She stumbled down the back stairs, her feet tripping over themselves, and the sharp bite of the cold air hit her like a slap to the face. Her breath fogged in the air as she tried to steady herself, the ground beneath her unsteady.

Before she could collect herself, she heard the clatter of chains behind her and looked over her shoulder to see Garrick following, his face set in grim determination. His shoulders were tense, his eyes narrowed as he glanced toward the driver.

“Don’t try anything,” the driver warned, the venom in his voice clear. “I’ll shoot an arrow through your heart before you can take a single step.”

Imogen’s breath caught, and she glanced nervously between the driver and Garrick. The tension in the air was palpable as the driver reached for the chains around her wrists. He fumbled with the locks for a moment, then with a quick twist, they were undone, leaving her hands and ankles sore and raw from the pressure.

Garrick immediately stepped in front of her, his body stiff and his stance protective. “Don’t touch her anymore,” he warned, his voice low but unwavering.

The driver’s eyes flicked to Garrick, assessing him with a cold, calculating look. Imogen saw the brief flicker of hesitation in his eyes, and she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of relief. The driver might have been cruel, but Garrick was no weakling. The driver probably understood that.

The driver simply sneered and shoved them both back toward the wagon. Tossing the key after Imogen, clearly not bothering to undo Garrick’s chains himself. 

“Get back in,” he barked, his voice dripping with disdain. He shoved Garrick first, then Imogen, with no care for their balance or comfort. They tumbled back into the cramped space, the door slamming shut behind them with a finality that left no room for protest.

The key for Garrick's chains felt foreign in her hand, but she didn’t hesitate as she moved to unlock them. The wagon lurched and swayed with every bump in the road, making the task harder than it should have been. Imogen’s fingers fumbled around the lock, twisting the key in her hands, but the motion was so shaky from the uneven ground that she had to force herself to focus.

“Easy there,” Garrick said, his voice more teasing than concerned. “If you drop that key, I'll be stuck like this forever.”

Imogen shot him a look, one eyebrow raised, though the smallest smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I’ll try to avoid making things worse,” she replied, her voice dry. 

She finally heard the satisfying click of the lock giving way, and she quickly pulled the chains off his wrists. The relief on his face was immediate, but when Garrick pulled his arms free, Imogen couldn’t help but notice how bloody and chafed his skin was. 

Garrick yanked his hands away from her, as if the touch had been too much, though she didn’t miss the brief flash of discomfort in his eyes. “I’m fine,” he muttered quickly, his tone a little too sharp. But Imogen could see the way he clenched his fists afterward, the silent way he was pushing through the pain.

“Garrick, your wrists…” she began, reaching toward him again without thinking, but he quickly pulled his hands into his lap.

“I said I’m fine,” he repeated, more softly this time. He was looking out the window now, but there was a momentary crack in his voice. Imogen bit her lip, but she didn’t press him further. She quickly moved to free his ankles, figuring some things were better left unsaid.

“So,” Imogen said after a long stretch of silence, her voice a little lighter than before, “when we get to this foster father of ours, you think we’ll get a nice warm meal?”

“I don’t know about warm,” Garrick said, still glancing out the window. “But a meal sounds good.”

Imogen raised her eyebrows. “Really? You’re not just gonna survive on your charming personality alone?”

Garrick laughed, a deep, genuine sound that filled the small space of the wagon. “I’m afraid I’ll need more than that to survive.” He leaned back slightly, a comfortable ease settling between them, as if they’d already shared countless moments like this.

And for a brief moment, with the evening sun casting its long shadows across the horizon, Imogen let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, things could get better.

Chapter Text

The village was small, just a cluster of modest homes with slate roofs, surrounded by dense forest. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the faint smell of burning wood hung in the air, Imogen doubted she would ever be able to smell smoke without being reminded of the murder of her family. 

Imogen’s stomach churned as they approached the largest house at the edge of the village. It was a grim structure, the wood weathered and gray, with shutters that hung askew and a front door that looked more like a barrier than a welcome.

A man stood on the porch, waiting for them. His broad shoulders and thick frame were intimidating enough, but it was the expression on his face that chilled Imogen—a mixture of annoyance and disdain, as if their very presence offended him.

As the driver pulled the wagon to a stop, the man stepped down, his boots thudding heavily against the porch.

“About time,” he grumbled, his voice like gravel. “Get down.”

Imogen climbed out of the wagon, her legs stiff from the ride. Garrick was right behind her, his hand brushing her arm briefly, a silent gesture of reassurance.

The man eyed them both, his lip curling. “I am Thane Morhold, you however will address me as sir. You’ll work for your keep,” he said flatly. “No one eats for free in my house. I am doing a great service to this nation by taking you both in. Do not let me regret my generosity. The way I see it I owe you nothing.”

“Yes, sir,” Garrick replied evenly, though his jaw was tight.

Imogen nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Morhold gestured for them to follow him inside. The house was as unwelcoming as its exterior—dimly lit, with sparse furnishings and a lingering smell of damp wood. The floor creaked underfoot as they walked down the narrow hallway.

“This is your room,” Morhold said, throwing open a door. Inside was a small space with two thin cots pushed against opposite walls. A single window let in what little light remained.

“No talking after dark,” Morhold added, his tone sharp. “And don’t think about sneaking out. You’ll regret it.”

He turned on his heel and left without another word, the sound of his boots fading down the hall.

Imogen sat on the edge of one of the cots, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Garrick remained standing, his arms crossed as he surveyed the room.

“This is better than the wagon,” she offered weakly.

“Barely,” Garrick muttered. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I don’t trust him.”

“Neither do I,” Imogen admitted, her eyes darting to the door as if Morhold might burst in at any moment.

They would soon learn just how right they were.

The first time Morhold struck Garrick, it was over nothing.

It happened the next morning, while Garrick was chopping wood outside. Morhold had barked something about him moving too slowly, and before Garrick could even respond, Morhold’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him stumbling backward.

Imogen froze in the doorway, her breath catching in her throat. She wanted to run to Garrick, but something in his eyes stopped her. He didn’t want her to get involved.

“You’ll work faster,” Morhold growled, standing over Garrick with his fists clenched. “Or I’ll make sure you do.”

Garrick nodded silently, wiping the blood from his split lip as he got back to his feet.

That night, Imogen whispered to him in the dark. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he said, though his voice was tight.

But Imogen noticed the way he flinched when he touched his jaw.

It didn’t take long for Morhold’s temper to reveal itself fully. He was quick to anger, and his punishments were harsh. A plate dropped during dinner earned Imogen a sharp slap across the face. A missed chore had Garrick cleaning the stables well into the night.

But Garrick never let Morhold’s wrath touch Imogen for long. He found ways to shield her, taking blame for mistakes he didn’t make or stepping in when Morhold’s fury turned toward her.

Days turned into weeks, and the weight of their new reality settled on them both. Morhold’s abuse became a part of their routine, a constant threat that hung over their heads. 

They didn’t speak of Basgiath or the future. That felt too far away, too abstract. All they could do was survive each day, one at a time.

But in the back of Imogen’s mind, a single thought kept her going.

They had survived the rebellion. They had survived the loss of their families. They would survive this too. 

__________________________________________

Imogen didn’t hear Morhold approach. She was in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes in the cold basin, her hands numb from the icy water. The house was quiet—Garrick was out tending to the horses, and the only sound was the faint whistle of the wind slipping through the cracks in the walls.

The air shifted behind her, and suddenly, she felt him there. Too close.

“Doing a good job, girl,” Morhold said, his voice low and rough.

Imogen froze, her hands still submerged in the water. “Thank you, sir,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

She hated how small she sounded, how powerless.

He stepped closer, so close she could feel the heat of his breath on her neck. “You’ve got a good shape to you,” he murmured. “A girl like you could be useful for more than just chores.”

Her stomach twisted violently, but her body refused to move. She was rooted in place, the cold of the water contrasting sharply with the heat of her rising panic.

Morhold’s hand brushed her shoulder, then slid down her arm.

“Stop,” she managed to choke out, but her voice wavered, and it sounded more like a plea than a command.

He didn’t stop. His hand gripped her waist, pulling her back against him.

Imogen’s mind screamed for her to fight, to push him away, but her limbs felt heavy and unresponsive. She was trapped in a fog of terror, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

“You’ll learn to like it,” Morhold said, his tone sickeningly casual as his hand moved to her hip.

The door slammed open, and Garrick’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

“What are you doing?” 

Morhold whipped around, his face twisting with fury. “You’ve got some nerve, boy,” he snarled.

But Garrick didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in a few strides and shoved Morhold back, placing himself between him and Imogen.

“I’ll kill you,” Garrick growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Morhold’s eyes narrowed. “You think you’re a man, boy? You’re just another useless brat with a mark on your neck.”

Before Garrick could respond, Morhold swung a heavy fist, catching him across the jaw. Garrick stumbled but didn’t fall.

“Out back,” Morhold ordered, his voice cold. “You’ll learn what happens when you disrespect me.”

Garrick glanced at Imogen, his eyes filled with something she couldn’t quite name—fear, anger, guilt. Then he turned and followed Morhold out.

The quiet house felt even more oppressive with the weight of the events that had unfolded. Imogen’s hands still trembled as she wiped them on her apron, though the dishes were long finished. Her eyes couldn’t help but flicker to the door every few seconds, waiting for Garrick to return, her stomach twisted with worry.

When he finally walked back into the room, Imogen’s breath caught at the sight of him. Blood smeared across his face, his lip split, and his movements sluggish as he hobbled in, clearly struggling to hide the extent of his injuries.

“Garrick...” Her voice cracked, and she rushed to his side, her heart pounding in her chest. 

He waved her away, trying to act unaffected, though she could tell he was lying. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” she shot back, her tone firm despite the panic rising within her. She knelt beside him, her hands hovering over his bloodied face, unable to bring herself to touch him yet. “He hurt you.”

Garrick let out a quiet, humorless laugh, his gaze hard. “It’s just a few punches, Imogen. He doesn’t scare me.”

Imogen’s heart tightened at the stubbornness in his voice. “This is my fault,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. Her eyes darted away from him, unwilling to meet his gaze. 

“No,” Garrick’s voice cut through her thoughts, sharp and insistent. He stepped closer, despite his obvious pain, his hand reaching out to grab her wrist, pulling her attention back to him. His touch was gentle, but the firmness in his voice left no room for argument. “This is not your fault, Imogen.” His eyes held hers with such intensity that she felt the heat of his words settle deep within her chest. “I chose this. I chose to intervene. If I’m hurt, that’s on me— not you.”

She shook her head, tears threatening to spill from her eyes, but she fought them back, refusing to show weakness in front of him. “You don’t understand. If I had given in, you wouldn’t be here right now. You wouldn’t have been hurt. You—”

He shook his head firmly, cutting her off before she could spiral further. “Imogen, stop.” His voice was low, but the command was unmistakable. “You don’t control what happens to me. I make my own choices. I wanted to protect you. You deserve to be protected. You didn’t make me do anything.” His hand grasped her wrist. 

Imogen shook her head, feeling the sting of his words in her chest. “You’re going to get yourself killed, Garrick,” she snapped, her tone edged with anger. “You shouldn’t be taking these risks. You—” She paused, swallowing hard, trying to keep her emotions in check. “You’ve got your own battle to fight, your own future. Don’t throw it all away on my account.” 

Garrick’s grip on her wrist tightened as if he could ground her with his touch, pulling her out of the spiral of guilt that threatened to drown her. She could feel the warmth of his hand, even as it shook slightly from the pain he was clearly trying to suppress. He wasn’t fooling her, though—she saw the way he winced, the way he struggled to keep himself upright. His physical pain was too much to ignore, but she couldn’t stop the storm of thoughts raging inside her.

He let out a harsh breath, his frustration clear. “I don’t care about my future. Not if you’re stuck in this mess” His voice softened slightly, a trace of something like regret in his words. 

Imogen’s eyes burned, the helplessness overwhelming her. “You can’t protect me forever,” she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re going to have to leave soon, Garrick. When you go to Basgiath... I’ll be alone. I won’t have you there to stop him, and I won’t be able to fight back.” The words felt like a weight pressing on her chest, but she didn’t hold them back. It was the truth, and it needed to be said.

Garrick looked away, his jaw clenched, and for a moment, the room was silent, heavy with the truth of her words.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Garrick turned back to her, his eyes serious. “We’ll learn,” he said quietly. “Both of us. How to fight.”

Imogen’s eyes widened, her breath catching. “What?”

“We’ll train. We’ll make sure neither of us is helpless. I’ll teach you what I know, and you’ll teach me to be smarter about it. If Morhold—or anyone—tries anything again, we’ll be ready.”

Imogen felt a spark of something inside her, something she hadn’t realized she’d been craving: control. Power. The ability to defend herself, to never feel vulnerable again.

“I can’t... I can’t promise I’ll be any good at it,” she said softly, almost hesitantly.

Garrick’s lips twitched, almost a smile, but the sincerity in his gaze was undeniable. “You’ll be better than good. I know you Im.”

She met his eyes, her heart swelling with an unfamiliar warmth. 

The silence between them stretched as Garrick’s words hung in the air, filling the space with a tentative promise. Imogen could feel the weight of what he was offering, of the future he was so desperately trying to carve out for them both. She swallowed hard, trying to steady her breath as the thought of training, of learning to protect herself, began to settle in her chest.

She glanced at him, seeing the way he winced as he shifted his weight. He had offered her strength, but she knew he needed it just as much. Slowly, the realization settled that neither of them would be able to keep going the way they had. They had to adapt, to become something more than they’d once been. 

“I’ll do my best,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. 

Garrick’s eyes softened, and he nodded. 

The conversation trailed off as they made their way back to their shared room, the weight of the day hanging heavily on their shoulders. Neither of them spoke, their tired footsteps echoing softly on the floor as they entered the small, dimly lit room. The single light above cast long shadows on the walls, and the quiet of the room felt like a balm, even if it wasn’t the peace either of them truly craved.

Imogen sat down on the edge of her cot, staring blankly at the ground for a moment before glancing at Garrick. He had already moved toward the door, fiddling with something beyond her eye line. He wasn’t looking at her, but she saw the way his hands moved with quiet precision as he began to work.

For a moment, she didn’t understand what he was doing. Then, it clicked. He was crafting something—a lock, a makeshift barrier to the outside world. The kind of thing that would give them a modicum of safety, of protection, even if it wasn’t foolproof. It was the kind of thing he would do without a second thought, without a word spoken about it, because he was still thinking about her well-being.

Imogen’s chest tightened at the sight, and she held back the lump in her throat. He hadn’t said a word about it, hadn’t needed to. The fact that he was doing this—quietly, without even looking at her—was enough to tell her that he cared more about her safety than he had ever let on. He didn’t want her to worry. He didn’t want her to feel vulnerable, even for a second. The lock was his way of ensuring that, even when he couldn’t be on guard, she would still be as safe as possible.

Without a word, she watched as Garrick finished his task, securing the makeshift lock in place with a final twist of his wrist. The small click echoed softly in the room, a subtle promise of the protection he had just created. He didn’t glance up, didn’t say anything, but Imogen’s heart swelled with gratitude—gratitude for the unspoken care he was showing her, for the quiet way he ensured that she wouldn’t have to face this world alone, even in their shared vulnerability.

Imogen moved slowly, laying back down on her cot. She was drained, every fiber of her being screaming for rest, but she couldn’t quite shake the weight of the day, of the emotions swirling inside her. She glanced at Garrick once more, watching as he settled onto his cot, his eyes already beginning to droop. 

She pulled the blanket around her shoulders, the warmth of it offering only a slight comfort as she lay back, her thoughts swirling still. But despite everything—the danger, the uncertainty, the battles ahead—there was something else now, too. The sense that they weren’t alone in this fight anymore. That, somehow, they could face whatever came next, together.

Chapter Text

The next evening, after dinner and chores were finished, Imogen and Garrick waited. As expected, Morhold drank heavily before eventually slumping over at the table with his head resting on his arm. His snores filled the small house, rattling through the walls like a beast at rest.

"Let’s go," Garrick murmured.

Together, they moved toward the door, careful to avoid the floorboard that creaked underfoot. 

The barn stood at the far end of the property, its weathered wooden frame illuminated by the faint glow of moonlight. They crossed the yard quickly, keeping to the shadows, though they doubted Morhold would wake anytime soon.

Garrick pushed the barn door open just enough for them to slip inside, then secured it behind them. "Alright," he said, shaking out his hands. "Let's start."

Imogen rubbed her arms, the chill seeping into her skin. "What do we do?"

Garrick flexed his fingers, wincing slightly as he touched his bruised knuckles. "We start with the basics. Footwork, balance, how to throw a punch." He eyed her, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Have you ever hit anyone before?"

Imogen huffed, crossing her arms. "Do I look like I go around punching people?"

Garrick smirked. "You look like you should know how."

She rolled her eyes. "I've never needed to."

"Never? Not even a little shove?"

"Shoving isn’t punching. And no, I’ve never hit anyone." She hesitated. "Not really."

He raised a brow. "Not really?"

She sighed. "Alright. I’ve never hit anyone. Happy?"

He chuckled. "Not yet. Let’s change that."

Garrick took her hands, guiding them into fists. "Thumb on the outside. Always. Otherwise, you’ll break it when you hit someone."

Imogen adjusted her grip, tightening her fingers. He nodded in approval. "Good. Now, stand like this—feet apart, weight balanced."

She mimicked his stance, shifting slightly as he nudged her foot into place. It felt awkward, unnatural.

Garrick raised his hands, palms open. "Hit me."

She hesitated. "What if I hurt you?"

He barked a laugh. "Trust me, you won’t."

Taking a breath, she pulled her arm back and threw a punch. The impact against his palm sent a dull shock up her arm, and she shook out her fingers, wincing.

Garrick snorted. "Not bad, but you’re holding back. Again."

She hit him again. Harder.

He grinned. "Better."

They continued, Garrick correcting her form, showing her how to dodge, how to brace for impact. The barn echoed with the sound of fists meeting flesh, their whispered instructions breaking the quiet of the night.

Imogen wasn’t sure how long they trained, but by the time Garrick called it, her knuckles throbbed, her muscles ached, and for the first time in weeks, she felt something other than fear.

The walk back to their shared room was slow, both of them sore from the night’s training. The house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old wooden floors and the distant sound of Morhold’s drunken muttering. They slipped inside their room without a word, each collapsing onto their cots with exhausted sighs.

Imogen lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling, her muscles aching in ways she hadn’t known were possible. Despite the discomfort, she felt something new—something steady inside her, like she had reclaimed a small piece of herself. She turned her head toward Garrick, who was rubbing at his knuckles absentmindedly.

“I’m glad we got paired together,” she admitted softly, breaking the silence.

Garrick huffed a quiet laugh. “I bet you wouldn’t be saying that if I’d let you break your thumb on your first punch.”

She rolled her eyes, though he couldn’t see it in the dim light. “I mean it.”

Garrick was quiet for a moment, then turned his head toward her, his expression unreadable. “Me too.”

Imogen hesitated, her fingers gripping the thin blanket draped over her. “Do you think about it? About when you’ll have to leave for Basgiath?”

Garrick exhaled heavily, staring at the ceiling. “Not much choice but to think about it.”

A lump formed in Imogen’s throat. She hadn’t let herself dwell on it too much, but the thought of being left behind gnawed at her. “What happens to me when you go?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You’ll be fine,” Garrick said, too matter-of-fact for her liking. “I’ll make sure of it.”

She turned onto her side to face him fully. “How?”

“By the time I leave,” he said, still staring at the ceiling, “you’ll be lethal.”

The certainty in his voice unsettled her, but she didn't acknowledge it. 

Garrick finally turned to look at her, his expression serious. “You’re not going to be defenseless, Imogen. I won’t let that happen.”

She swallowed hard, nodding, though she wasn’t sure she agreed.

Imogen let her eyes drift shut, exhaustion pulling at her limbs. The ache in her knuckles and muscles was a dull, constant thrum, but she welcomed it. It was proof that she wasn’t helpless. Proof that she could fight.

She assumed the conversation was over—Garrick had said all he needed to say, but then she heard the rustling of fabric and the soft creak of his cot as he sat up. Curious, she cracked one eye open to see him pulling something crumpled from his pocket.

“I was going to read this alone,” he muttered, smoothing out the wrinkled letter between his fingers. “But after today... I forgot about it.”

Imogen sat up slightly, blinking away sleep. The dim moonlight from the window barely illuminated the words, but she could make out the spidery scrawl of someone else’s handwriting. Garrick hesitated before handing it to her.

She took it carefully, scanning the brief message:

Garrick,
I hope this finds you well. There isn’t much to report from my end—I’m alone, as always, but I’m managing. My foster ‘family’ in Trivainne is more than happy to parade me around as the reformed rebel leader’s son. I don’t know when or if I’ll see you again, but I wanted you to know that you’re not forgotten. Write if you can.
Stay strong.
- Xaden

Imogen traced the letters with her fingers, her chest tightening. “He’s alone?” she whispered.

Garrick nodded, his jaw clenched. “They didn’t place him with anyone. Just dumped him somewhere and left him to fend for himself.”

She handed the letter back, her heart heavy. “It’s not fair,” she said, her voice trembling. “None of this is fair.”

Garrick exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He hesitated, staring down at the letter like it was something fragile. “Xaden is my best friend, my brother.” His voice was quieter now, tinged with something almost raw. “Before everything. Before the executions, before Basgiath was even a thought. We grew up together.”

Imogen frowned. She’d known they had a history—anyone could tell from the way they interacted —but she hadn’t realized just how deep their connection ran. “You never told me that.”

Garrick gave a half-shrug. “I’d never considered that there would be a world where people wouldn’t know.”

Imogen studied him, noting the way his fingers curled tightly around the letter, like letting go of it would make the last piece of Xaden slip away. “You should write back,” she urged.

He let out a quiet laugh, humorless and tired. “I’ll try.” But there was doubt in his voice, like he wasn’t sure what he would even say.

She didn’t push him. Instead, she lay back down, curling under the thin blanket, exhaustion finally creeping in. Garrick stayed sitting for a while, staring at the letter in his hands. Eventually, though, he sighed and folded it carefully before tucking it back into his pocket.

As he lay back down, the room settled into silence again and Imogen let sleep take her.

Chapter Text

Xaden,

I got your letter. I don’t know if this will reach you, but I’ll try.

Things aren’t good here, but I doubt they are where you are, either. I won’t waste time on what we already know.

What you need to know is this—trust Imogen. Implicitly. She’s one of us, and when the time comes, she’ll prove it.

Stay alive.

—G

__________________________________________

The room was cold when Imogen woke, the early morning air seeping through the cracks in the wooden walls. Her muscles ached from the night before, bruises forming along her knuckles, but she didn’t mind. The soreness was a reminder of the steps she was taking to protect herself.

She turned her head toward Garrick’s cot. He was still there, lying on his back, one arm slung over his face to block out the thin light spilling through the window. His breathing was slow, even, but she could tell he wasn’t fully asleep.

Imogen stretched, wincing slightly. “You awake?”

His arm shifted just enough for her to see one eye crack open. “Guess so.”

A smirk tugged at her lips. “Good. I was thinking we could train again tonight.”

Garrick exhaled through his nose, a sound that was almost a laugh. “Already trying to kill me?”

She grinned. “I have to catch up somehow.”

Rolling onto his side, he propped himself up on an elbow. “Fine. But we’re working on defense this time. You’re getting better at hitting, but you still leave yourself wide open.”

Imogen huffed, flopping back onto her cot. “Yeah, well, I haven’t exactly had years of practice like you.”

Garrick didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the cot. The movement was slow, careful—like something weighed on him. “That’s why I’m making sure you do now,” he said finally, his tone matter-of-fact.

Imogen rolled her eyes but couldn’t ignore the warmth in her chest. As much as she hated to admit it, there was something comforting about Garrick’s unwavering certainty. He said things like they were facts, not possibilities.

She sat up, rubbing her sore knuckles before swinging her legs over the cot. “Come on,” she said. “If we’re late, Morhold will find an excuse to make today even worse than usual.”

Garrick groaned dramatically but stood, running a hand through his hair. “Pretty sure he does that anyway.”

They dressed quickly and made their way outside, the crisp morning air biting at their skin. The house already stirring. 

“You two—come here.” Morhold’s sharp voice cut through the morning stillness.

The pair exchanged a quick glance before trudging toward him. Morhold stood by the main house, arms crossed over his chest, his beady eyes filled with their usual distrust.

“You’re going to town,” he said, blunt as ever.

Imogen blinked, certain she’d misheard. Behind her, she felt Garrick tense.

“Town?” she echoed cautiously.

Morhold sneered at her hesitation. “What, you hard of hearing? I need supplies. And seeing as I’m occupied, you two will do it.”

It took every ounce of self-control not to react. They had never been to town—not once. 

Morhold’s lip curled, like he could read the thoughts racing through her head. “Don’t get any ideas,” he warned. “You’re walking. I wouldn’t trust either of you with a wagon or horse even if my life depended on it.”

That wasn’t a surprise. Of course, he assumed they’d run the second they had the chance. He wasn’t wrong.

He jabbed a crumpled piece of parchment toward Garrick, who took it without a word. “That’s the list. The market vendor at the south end of town has everything I need. You’ll tell him I sent you and come straight back. If you’re not here by dusk, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

The threat lingered in the air, but Imogen barely heard it over the rapid pounding of her heart. 

They didn’t ask questions, didn’t dare risk Morhold changing his mind. Instead, they nodded and turned on their heels, setting off down the dirt road that led away from the house.

It wasn’t until the house was out of sight that Imogen let out a slow breath, shaking her head in disbelief. “What the hell just happened?”

Garrick glanced down at the list in his hands, his expression unreadable. “No idea,” he admitted. 

The road stretched endlessly ahead, packed dirt giving way to scattered stones, the morning sun climbing higher with each step. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and early autumn leaves. It was the first time Imogen could remember walking without feeling watched, without the weight of Morhold’s cruel eyes on the back of her neck.

Garrick walked beside her, the parchment list crumpled in his grip, his long strides slow enough for her to keep up without effort.

“Do you even know where we’re going?” she asked, glancing at him.

Garrick shrugged, unbothered. “Town.”

She snorted. “Brilliant.”

He smirked. “Well, it’s not like we had a map lying around.”

She looked ahead, squinting at the horizon where the road curved slightly downward. “I mean, we know it’s that way,” she said, gesturing vaguely. 

They walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the sounds of the morning settling around them—birds calling from the trees, the rustle of dry grass swaying in the breeze. It was strange, feeling something almost like peace. The road stretched wide and empty ahead, and for once, there was no one barking orders, no threat looming over them.

Imogen took a deep breath, tilting her head back to soak in the sky. “I can’t believe he actually let us go.”

A thought struck her, and she slowed her pace slightly. “Wait. What if we get lost?”

Garrick sighed dramatically, shoving the list at her. “Then I guess we die out here, doomed to wander forever, all because you refused to trust my impeccable sense of direction.”

Imogen snatched the parchment from him. “You don’t have a sense of direction.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely do.”

Garrick chuckled, shaking his head, and Imogen realized how rare it was to hear him laugh—actually laugh, not just scoff or smirk.

She glanced at him, watching the way the tension in his shoulders seemed lighter, the usual sharpness in his features softened just a bit. He looked… normal. Like any other boy on a walk with a friend.

The realization sent an unexpected warmth through her chest.

“If we get lost, I’m not going back.”

Imogen’s voice was light, teasing, but the words hung between them like a challenge. She kicked at a loose stone in the road, watching it bounce ahead before turning to see Garrick’s reaction.

His jaw tightened. “We won’t be late.”

It wasn’t a reassurance. It was a fact.

She sighed, shaking her head with a smirk. “Relax. I’m joking.”

Garrick didn’t laugh. He didn’t even roll his eyes the way he usually would. Instead, his grip on the strap of the satchel tightened, his knuckles white against the leather.

The humor in her chest dimmed.

He was still thinking about it.

Imogen didn’t have to say what —she knew. 

She watched him now, the tension in his shoulders, the way his mouth pressed into a firm line. He hadn’t let himself think about it out loud, hadn’t spoken a single word about what happened after that night. But she knew it hadn’t left him, not really.

Imogen swallowed and forced her voice to stay light. “Seriously, Garrick. I was joking.”

He didn’t look at her, but after a long moment, his grip on the strap loosened just a fraction. “Good,” he said, voice flat.

They had been walking for nearly an hour when Imogen finally spoke.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Garrick didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed fixed on the dirt road ahead, his shoulders squared, his steps measured. “Talk about what?”

She huffed. “You know what.”

He was silent for a long moment, long enough that she almost let it go. Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose. “What’s there to talk about?”

Imogen stopped walking. “Garrick.”

He took a few more steps before realizing she wasn’t beside him anymore. When he turned back, his expression was unreadable.

“You haven’t said a single real word about it since it happened,” she said.

“Neither have you.”

“That’s different.”

His brows pulled together. “How?”

Imogen crossed her arms over her chest. “Because it happened to me , Garrick.”

The words hung in the air between them, sharp and unflinching. She wasn’t angry—at least, not at him—but there was something raw in her voice, something vulnerable she hated showing.

Garrick’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He looked away, jaw tightening. “I should’ve—”

“Should’ve what ?” she cut in, stepping closer. “Stopped it sooner? Gotten there faster? You did stop it, Garrick. That’s what matters.”

His nostrils flared, but he didn’t argue.

Imogen sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Look, I know you’re angry. I know you’re blaming yourself, but I need you to hear me when I say this— you didn’t do anything wrong. ”

Garrick’s eyes flicked up to hers, and for the first time, she saw something crack beneath the surface—something raw, something vulnerable.

“It’s not about me, ” he muttered. “I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “It’s just—”

She waited.

He clenched his fists at his sides, struggling to find the words. “I hate that you ever had to be afraid.”

Imogen’s chest tightened.

It was so simple, so direct. But coming from Garrick it was everything.

She swallowed hard. “Why do you care so much?”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, like he was weighing the risk of saying too much. Then, with a resigned sigh, he turned his gaze back to her. “After the war I figured I’d be on my own. His mouth twisted bitterly. “No one’s looking out for us. Sorrengail made that very fucking clear.”

Imogen nodded, taking his words in. 

“But then we got paired together,” he continued, voice quieter now. “And you understood. You saw your family burn too.” He let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “You were just you, and that seemed good enough for me.” 

Imogen swallowed, her throat suddenly tight.

Garrick shrugged, gaze drifting toward the horizon. “I care because I do, Imogen.” His voice hardened. “And because I've seen what happens when no one steps in.”

Imogen didn’t realize she was holding her breath until it left her in a slow exhale.

She had spent so much of her life being wary of others, of assuming the worst, that she hadn’t considered this—that maybe Garrick cared simply because he did. No ulterior motive, no hidden agenda.

Just him.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, the weight of his words settled heavily in her chest.

She could have said something sarcastic, something to lighten the mood. But instead, she just met his gaze and said, “I care about you too.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “I know.”

That should have annoyed her—the certainty in his voice, the way he said it like it was an indisputable fact.

Instead, a laugh escaped her—unexpected and real—as she kicked a rock ahead of her and kept walking. “Come on,” she called over her shoulder. “I wasn’t joking about not wanting to be late.”

Chapter Text

As they neared the town, the landscape around them shifted. The road narrowed, leading into a cluster of thatched roofs and low buildings. The smell of smoke from hearths, the earthy scent of market stalls, and the occasional bray of a donkey filled the air. It was a comically normal town. But for Imogen and Garrick, it was a stark contrast to the quiet, isolated world they'd come from.

Imogen forced a small, tight smile, but it faltered as she took in the icy glares that seemed to follow them with every step. “Well, this wasn’t quite the warm welcome I was hoping for,” she murmured, trying to lighten the mood, though the unease in her voice was palpable.

Garrick glanced at her, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he shrugged, a slight movement that didn’t quite break the tension in his posture. “What did you expect? A parade?”

As they passed a stall selling cloth, the vendor—a young woman with braided hair—shot them a look of disdain, her hand subconsciously clutching the edge of her display as if to protect it from contamination. The weight of the woman’s judgment hung between them, making the air feel thicker.

Garrick’s voice was low, just loud enough for her to hear over the murmur of the town. “They’re scared,” he said flatly, but there was a bitterness to it, as if the weight of that truth had worn him down too.

“Scared?” Imogen echoed, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Of what? Us?”

“Of everything we represent,” he answered, his gaze sharp as he took in the people around them. “The revolution. The destruction.” 

Imogen opened her mouth to respond, but the words died on her tongue as a group of older men passed by, their eyes lingering on her marked arm. She knew they could see it, the faint glint of the rebellion relic that wound its way up her forearm like a snake, a constant reminder of what she was—and who she would always be to them.

The men exchanged glances, whispering under their breath, and one of them muttered something too low for her to catch, but the tone was clear enough. A sneer spread across his face, and for a moment, she thought he might approach them, but he simply turned away and continued down the street.

Still, as they walked on, the reality of how people saw them—how they were seen—settled over her like a cold blanket. Being a "marked one" was more than just a title. It was a sentence, an accusation, something they could never escape, no matter how far they ran.

Imogen glanced over at Garrick, finding the mask on his face unchanged, but she could tell—he felt it, too. The weight of the town, the looks, the silence. It was almost too much to bear, and they hadn’t even reached the end of the market yet.

Garrick’s voice broke the silence again, low and steady. “Let’s get the supplies, and get out.”

Imogen nodded, but her heart was already pounding in her chest. 

Finally, they reached the vendor at the south end of the square, the one Morhold had mentioned. He was an older man with graying hair and a weathered face, but there was a glint of something sharp in his eyes. He looked at them with a brief flicker of recognition, then back at the crates of goods on his stall, avoiding eye contact. 

“Morhold sent us,” Garrick said quietly, handing the list to the vendor, his tone flat.

The vendor took it, his fingers brushing against Garrick’s. For a moment, neither of them moved. The world around them seemed to pause. Then the vendor nodded curtly, turning to gather the supplies. He didn’t meet their eyes as he worked, but Imogen didn’t miss the way his hands fumbled, his every movement stiff with unease.

As they waited, Imogen felt it—the weight of the eyes on her back again. The quiet murmurs began, just whispers at first, barely audible, but they were enough to make her skin crawl. She couldn’t hear the words, but she knew what they were saying. Marked ones. Traitors. 

Garrick was stone-faced, but his jaw tightened, his hands at his sides, fists clenched. He was holding it together, but only just. Imogen felt the urge to touch his arm, to ground him somehow, but she kept her hands to herself. If they gave anything away—any sign of weakness—it would be worse.

The vendor returned moments later, arms laden with various tools—iron hammers, heavy coils of rope, a rusted but sturdy pickaxe, and a bundle of thick canvas. Each item thudded onto the wooden stall, one after another, the weight of them making the counter creak. He barely looked at them as he placed the last item down, stepping back as if eager to distance himself from them.

Imogen stared at the pile, already feeling the strain in her muscles just imagining carrying it all back. “That’s… more than I expected,” she murmured.

Garrick didn’t hesitate. Without a word, he reached for his pack and started loading the supplies inside with methodical precision. He moved quickly, stuffing the tools into the limited space, adjusting straps.

She watched as he slung the heavy canvas over his shoulder before shoving the coiled rope inside, his movements stubborn and sharp. But as he reached for the hammers, his fingers trembled slightly, and Imogen could see the tension creeping into his frame.

“Garrick,” she started, stepping forward.

“I’ve got it,” he muttered before she could finish, his voice tight.

He grabbed the last of the tools, forcing them into the overstuffed pack. The strain in his shoulders was visible now, the way his body swayed slightly under the effort of lifting it onto his back.

Imogen clenched her fists. She knew that look, the hard set of his jaw, the way his eyes locked straight ahead like he was daring his body to betray him. 

She turned to the vendor, her voice quiet but firm. “Do you have another pack?”

The old man finally met her gaze, his expression unreadable. For a moment, she thought he might refuse, but after a beat of silence, he sighed and reached beneath the stall. A moment later, he pulled out a smaller, worn-out satchel and tossed it onto the counter.

Imogen didn’t wait for Garrick to protest. She grabbed a portion of the supplies—some of the heavier tools he’d packed—and stuffed them into the extra bag. The weight was immediate, pressing against her shoulders, but it was manageable.

Garrick glared at her, his brows drawing together. “I said I’ve got it.”

“And I said you don’t,” she shot back, not missing a beat. 

For a second, it looked like he might argue, his lips parting as if to snap back. But then his expression flickered—anger giving way to something else. Something raw.

He didn’t stop her.

Instead, he exhaled sharply through his nose, dropping his gaze. He adjusted the straps of his backpack, muttering, “Fine. Whatever.”

Imogen nodded, satisfied, and turned back to the vendor. “We’ll be going now.”

The man only grunted in response.

They didn’t need to speak. There was nothing left to say.

As they moved through the square, the feeling of being watched didn’t dissipate. The whispers were louder now, more insistent. They followed the rhythm of their steps, growing closer, sharper. Imogen kept her head down, her shoulders hunched, but she couldn’t block it out. It was impossible.

Garrick’s arm brushed hers, a small comfort. Without looking at her, he spoke in a low voice, his words almost drowned by the hum of the crowd around them.

“Don’t give them a reason to come after us.”

Imogen didn’t respond. She couldn’t. The weight of the town, the eyes, the whispers—it all pressed down on her chest, making it harder to breathe.

As they reached the outskirts of town, they could see the edge of the forest ahead. Imogen’s heart surged with relief at the sight of the trees, the open space where they could breathe again, where they could leave the weight of the town behind.

But before they could reach it, a voice called out.

Imogen’s muscles tensed as she heard the shout, a harsh, mocking voice cutting through the murmurs of the market. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was—she could feel the weight of their gaze, the predatory way they sized her and Garrick up.

“You two— Morhold’s slaves ,” the voice jeered, followed by a burst of laughter. 

Imogen’s stomach twisted. The words hit like a slap. She kept walking, her eyes fixed on the distant tree line, trying to block out the taunts, trying to push through it. But it wasn’t enough. Another voice rang out, closer this time.

“Did you really think you could hide in plain sight?” a boy shouted, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’re marked, just like the rest of ‘em. You think we don’t know who you are?”

Before Imogen could even react, something hard struck her shoulder—a rock, thrown with enough force to make her stumble slightly. The laughter grew louder.

“They’re sending you to Basgiath,” another boy spat. “You’ll die for what you did—for what you represent.”

The words struck like a blade. Imogen’s fists clenched at her sides, but she didn’t dare raise them. 

Garrick’s posture stiffened beside her, his body a rigid line of tension. His hands were balled into fists, his knuckles white, but he didn’t say a word. 

Another rock came flying toward them, and this time it hit Garrick in the arm with a dull thud. He didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened, and his eyes flashed with something dangerous. Imogen knew him well enough to see it: the barely contained fury. He was about to snap.

She quickly stepped forward, placing herself between Garrick and the group of boys. “Just keep walking,” she whispered, though she didn’t even know if she was talking to him or herself.

Imogen’s heart pounded in her chest, the taunts echoing in her ears, but she forced herself to remain calm, to keep walking.

As they neared the town’s edge, the boys’ laughter faded, but the sting of their words lingered, curling like smoke in her mind. Imogen wasn’t sure if she felt more angry or afraid. All she knew was that they were right about one thing—there was no escape from their past.They were marked, no matter how much they wanted to forget it.

“Let’s keep going,” Garrick muttered, his voice tight. 

Imogen didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The thought of Basgiath—of being sent there to die for something they hadn’t chosen—pressed heavily on her chest. They hadn’t played a role in the revolution. But it didn’t matter. They were the children of traitors, the children of those who had been marked for death.

Imogen didn’t speak. Neither did Garrick. They simply moved forward. Every so often, Garrick would glance at her, but there were no words to offer. None that would ease the ache, the weight of what they’d just experienced, what they continued to experience. None that could erase the stares, the whispers, or the rocks.

Imogen’s breath came in short bursts as they trudged along, the weight of her pack pressing down on her shoulders like an iron yoke. She refused to let it show, keeping her pace steady, her jaw locked tight against the burn in her muscles. But every step made it harder to ignore the way the straps dug into her shoulders, the way the heavy tools inside jostled against her spine.

She could feel Garrick’s eyes on her, sharp and assessing.

“You’re struggling.”

“I’m fine,” she shot back, not missing a step.

He snorted. “And I’m the King of Navarre.”

She clenched her teeth, willing herself not to react. But the weight was getting worse, and no matter how much she adjusted the straps, it wasn’t helping. She could feel her shoulders screaming in protest, her back aching. Still, she wouldn’t admit it. Couldn’t.

They walked in silence for a few more moments before Garrick finally sighed.

“Give it to me.”

She snapped her head toward him, her brow furrowing. “What?”

“Your pack.” He reached for the strap, but she twisted away from him. “Imogen.”

“I can carry it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I can.”

Garrick rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and I can punch a dragon in the face. Doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”

She shot him a glare, but he was undeterred. He moved closer, reaching again, and this time, he didn’t give her a chance to protest. With an easy tug, he pulled the pack from her shoulder. Imogen stiffened, twisting to take it back, but he was already slinging it over his own, the added weight barely making him flinch.

“Garrick—”

“Don’t.” His tone was firm, but there was no mockery in it. No challenge. Just certainty. “I can carry both.”

She stared at him, frustration simmering in her chest. “You’re not invincible, you know.”

He smirked, adjusting the straps like it was nothing. “Never said I was. But I’m taller. Stronger.” He tilted his head, a teasing glint in his eye. “Better looking.”

Imogen huffed, exasperated. “Shut up.”

His grin widened, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. She could see it, the way the weight of everything—not just the packs—settled over him. The tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curled slightly as if itching for something to fight. He was tired, just like she was. But he carried it anyway. Just like always.

She swallowed, forcing herself to look ahead. “I could’ve kept going. I can keep going.”

“I know.” His voice was softer now. “But you don’t have to.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were their boots crunching against the dirt path, the rustling of leaves in the wind. The road stretched around them, endless and quiet.

Finally, Imogen sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “This is pathetic.”

“What is?”

She gestured vaguely around them. “This. Us. Being treated like we’re criminals when we didn’t do anything. Knowing we’re being sent to Basgiath to—” She cut herself off, shaking her head.

To die. That’s what the townspeople thought. What they wanted.

Garrick didn’t respond right away. When he finally did, his voice was quiet, careful. “We’ll survive it.”

Imogen scoffed. “That’s optimistic.”

He exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “Well, one of us has to be.”

She stared at him for a second, then shook her head with a dry laugh. “That’s new.”

He smirked, but it faded quickly. His gaze flickered to the distance, thoughtful. “I just… I won’t let them decide what happens to us.”

Imogen swallowed hard, her throat tight. She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that Basgiath wouldn’t be the end of them. But the weight of the world—their past, their names, their marks—was heavy. 

As the hours passed and the shadows of the trees lengthened, she could see that Garrick’s pace had quickened, too. They both knew they were on borrowed time. Morhold had set a deadline for their return—dusk. If they didn’t make it before the light dipped below the horizon, there would be consequences. They didn’t talk about the consequences. They both understood them all too well.

The path grew narrower revealing Morhold’s home in the distance.  

Garrick’s voice broke the silence, his tone strained but steady. “We’re almost there.”

Imogen nodded. The last stretch of the journey felt longer than it should have. Her legs were sore from the trek, and the cool air nipped at her skin, but it wasn’t the physical fatigue that weighed on her. It was the suffocating sense of having no place to belong. No real home.

When the rickety home came fully into view, the flickering lights from the windows seemed to beckon them, but it felt more like a cage than a sanctuary. Still, they had to get there. They had to be inside before the deadline.

Garrick pushed ahead, taking the lead as they neared the gate. Imogen followed closely, her footsteps steady, though her mind was far away. 

“Made it with minutes to spare,” Garrick murmured, his voice low.

Imogen managed a small, tight smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Lucky us.”

They entered the courtyard, the heavy wooden doors closing behind them with a finality that made Imogen’s chest tighten. They were inside. Safe, for now.

The moment Garrick stepped through the door with both packs slung over his shoulders, Morhold’s eyes locked onto him with sharp disapproval. The dim candlelight of the house cast long shadows over the men sprawled around the room, their laughter and the clinking of ale mugs creating an oppressive backdrop to the tension that settled thick in the air.

Morhold’s gaze then shifted to Imogen, who had just stepped in behind Garrick, her face flushed from the evening air.

“You’ve got arms, don’t you, girl?” Morhold’s voice cut through the noise like a knife. The conversation in the room didn’t stop, but some of the men turned their heads, watching with mild amusement.

Imogen stiffened, glancing at Garrick, who had frozen in place. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak.

“She’s perfectly capable of carrying her own things,” Morhold continued, his lip curling in distaste as he took a swig from his mug. “What, you think you’re some kind of prince, carrying her pack like she’s a bloody noblewoman?”

Garrick dropped the packs unceremoniously onto the floor, his shoulders rigid. “It’s not a big deal.” His voice was tight, controlled, but Imogen could hear the anger beneath it.

Morhold sneered, leaning back in his chair as he waved a hand toward the men around him. “Hear that, boys? Not a big deal, he says.” Laughter rumbled through the room, low and cruel, and Morhold’s gaze settled back on Imogen, sharp and assessing.

“You got yourself a good little servant there, girl,” he mused, his words thick with ale. “Shame it won’t last. Soon enough he’ll be gone, off to Basgiath. And what will you do then, hm?” He dragged his eyes down her frame in a way that made Imogen’s stomach turn. “You’ll be nothing but a girl with no one left to carry your burdens. And out here, well…” He chuckled, taking another slow drink. “You won’t last a week.”

Imogen swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep her chin lifted even as her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.

Morhold leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make it seem like the words were meant only for her. “Maybe I’ll be generous, though. Make sure you’re taken care of. A girl like you needs… protection.”

Garrick moved before he could stop himself. The chair in front of him screeched against the floor as he shoved it aside, the sound cutting through the noise of the room like a blade. Before he could move further Imogen’s fingers curled around his wrist, a small, firm pressure that grounded him.

Not here. Not now.

Wordlessly, Imogen turned on her heel and walked toward the hallway that led to their small room. Garrick hesitated only a second before following. They left without a word, without a backward glance, without waiting for permission.

The silence that followed in the main room was brief before Morhold let out a dark chuckle. 

Garrick’s fists clenched at his sides, his shoulders stiff as they disappeared down the hall.

The rest of the evening passed quietly, too quietly for Imogen’s liking. She sat in the small, dimly lit room they had been assigned, her legs drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. She stared out the small window, watching the last remnants of the sun disappear behind the trees. 

Garrick was across the room, sorting through their meager possessions. It was a routine, something to do to fill the silence that often filled the spaces between them. The weight of the day—of the market, of the taunts—still clung to Imogen, a constant reminder of how little had changed, how little they were seen as anything more than relics of the Revolution. Traitors. Children of the damned.

Her fingers absentmindedly traced the marks of the relic on her arm. It was a constant companion, this visible reminder of her past, her role in something much bigger than herself. Something she had never chosen, but had been dragged into all the same.

“You all right?” Garrick’s voice cut through her thoughts, rough and quiet.

Imogen didn’t answer immediately. She wasn’t sure how to. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she felt, but every time she tried to put it into words, it just slipped away, leaving behind a gnawing emptiness.

“I’m fine,” she finally said, though it was a lie. She wasn’t fine. Not by a long shot.

Garrick didn’t press. Instead, he walked over and sat next to her, the weight of his presence a quiet comfort. They didn’t need to talk to understand the weight they both carried. They had lived through it together—the Revolution, the losses, the fear. 

“I don’t know how much longer we can keep doing this,” Imogen whispered, the words barely audible.

“Don’t think about that now,” Garrick murmured, his gaze drifting toward the door as if he could hear the movement of people outside, the soft footsteps of those who didn’t quite understand. “Just... just get some rest.”

Imogen nodded, but the idea of sleep felt impossible. Her mind was too noisy, too full of what had happened in the town and what was coming next. She could hear the whispers, even now, in the quiet of the room. Marked ones. Traitors. Her pulse quickened, her breathing shallow. She had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable.

“We should rest,” Garrick said again, his voice softer this time. 

Imogen nodded, but sleep still felt like a far-off dream. She lay down on the cot beside him, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the weight of everything pressing in on her chest. The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, just... heavy. Both of them knowing they couldn’t avoid what was coming forever. 

Chapter Text

Imogen wiped the sweat from her brow, scowling at Garrick as he circled her, his stance looser than usual. "You're enjoying this way too much."

Garrick smirked, though there was a tightness to it. "Of course I am. You’re finally listening to me for once."

She rolled her eyes, shifting her weight lightly on the balls of her feet. "I listen."

"No, you take risks," he corrected, stepping forward—slower than usual. She dodged easily, twisting around him before he could correct. He huffed, clearly frustrated, but didn’t let up, throwing another feint. She avoided that too.

Imogen grinned. "Feeling your age?"

He let out a sharp breath, rolling his shoulders. "I carried half the damn market back here, so forgive me if I’m not at my best." He lunged again, but she sidestepped effortlessly, his fingertips barely grazing her sleeve. "See? This is exactly why you need to learn defensive strategy. One day, you’ll be exhausted, and instincts won’t be enough."

She blocked his next strike with her forearm. "I’m not—"

"You are," he cut in smoothly, aiming for her ribs. She twisted away, but he was already shifting, sweeping a leg toward her feet. She leapt back before it could make contact. Garrick cursed under his breath, clearly feeling the strain.

Imogen arched a brow. "You sure you don’t want a break?"

His dark eyes narrowed. "You wish. Again."

This time, when he lunged, she didn’t just dodge. She redirected his momentum, spinning out of reach before tapping his shoulder in mock victory.

He swayed slightly, catching himself with a grimace. Then, begrudgingly, he grinned. "Better."

She smirked. "I hate you."

"No, you don’t." He struck again, but this time she met him halfway, forcing him off balance. He stumbled a step, catching himself with a low curse.

Imogen crossed her arms, triumphant. "You’re learning."

Garrick exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his sweat-damp hair. His stance faltered for just a second, but Imogen caught it. She arched a brow, smug.

"Alright, that’s enough," he declared, straightening. "Fight’s over."

She blinked. "You’re calling it?"

Garrick huffed, then without warning, dropped onto the barn floor with a dramatic groan. "Yes. I am officially too sore to keep pretending I have the energy to keep up with you."

Imogen snorted, shifting her weight. "So, what I’m hearing is—I win?"

He cracked one eye open, scowling up at her. "I’m hearing you’re insufferable, but sure. Enjoy your tiny, insignificant victory while it lasts."

She grinned, stretching out her arms. "Oh, I will."

Garrick rolled onto his back, staring up at the wooden beams of the barn’s ceiling. His breathing slowed, his body finally allowed to feel the weight of hauling Morhold’s tools. He didn’t regret it—not really—but his muscles were making a damn strong case against his choices right now.

The pair let the silence settle between them, the steady sounds of the barn filling the space—soft rustling from the hayloft, the occasional creak of old wood. It was peaceful in a way they rarely allowed themselves.

After a moment, Garrick exhaled. "You really are improving, you know."

Imogen glanced at him. His tone wasn’t teasing, wasn’t goading. Just matter-of-fact. "I have a good teacher," she admitted.

He let out a short laugh. "Damn right you do."

A pause. Then, quieter: "You’re going to need it."

Imogen’s fingers curled into her knee. She didn’t need to ask what he meant. Basgiath was coming. Real fights. Real consequences.

She could outrun him, outmaneuver him, but if she made the wrong move against the wrong opponent, speed wouldn’t be enough.

Garrick shifted beside her, staring at the ceiling again. "I know you like taking risks. That’s fine. Just make sure they’re calculated ones."

She smirked faintly. "That almost sounded like a compliment."

"It was," he admitted, closing his eyes. "But don’t get used to it."

She huffed a laugh, leaning back onto her hands. "Duly noted."

The quiet stretched between them, the barn settling into a hush as their breathing evened out. Imogen let the stillness linger for a moment before she broke it.

"We need to figure out what we can about Basgiath," she said, voice low but firm.

Garrick didn't react at first. He stayed on his back, staring up at the rafters as if they held answers. Finally, he exhaled, shifting onto his elbows. "You know what we’re up against."

"Not enough," she admitted, frowning. "Just the basics—what we grew up hearing. That it’s brutal. That it doesn’t matter how strong or fast you are if you can’t keep up."

Garrick nodded, pushing himself into a seated position with a wince. "Survival of the fittest. The weakest get weeded out fast."

"Which means we need to know more than just the stories."

She looked at him then, meeting his gaze. There was no point in pretending they weren’t both terrified. They could joke, train, act like they had a plan—but neither of them had a real grasp on what awaited them beyond those walls.

Garrick rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly. "I know there are squads. Flight leaders. Challenges. You win, you climb ranks. You lose…" He trailed off, the implication clear.

"You die," Imogen finished for him.

He nodded once.

She chewed the inside of her cheek nudging Garrick’s boot with hers. "We need to train harder. Smarter. We go in prepared."

"Prepared for what?" His voice was sharper than before, frustration creeping in. "Fighting people who are just as desperate as us? Trying to survive while second-years pick us off for fun? Figuring out how to bond with a dragon that might just decide to incinerate us instead?"

She didn’t answer right away. Because he was right. They couldn’t prepare for everything.

But they could prepare for some of it.

Imogen leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees. 

"We find out everything we can," she said. "Morhold has a private library, doesn’t he?"

Garrick scoffed. "Yeah. And you think he’s just going to let us waltz in and borrow a book on Basgiath like we’re in some village schoolhouse?"

She smirked. "Of course not. But he’s usually passed out by nightfall."

Garrick groaned, running a hand down his face. "Imogen."

She held up a hand. "Listen. He’s always drunk by late evening. We just have to wait until he’s out cold and slip in. Find something—anything—that gives us more than we know now."

He shook his head. "I doubt he has anything."

Imogen leaned in, eyes gleaming with determination. "It’s our best shot. We can’t go in blind. You said it yourself—one wrong move, and we’re dead."

His jaw tightened. He hated this plan. Hated sneaking around Morhold’s house, hated taking risks that could get them both punished. But he also knew she was right.

After a long silence, he exhaled sharply. "Fine. But if this goes sideways, I’m blaming you."

Imogen grinned. "Wouldn’t have it any other way."

Chapter Text

The house was silent save for the occasional groan of the old wood settling. Moonlight filtered through the warped glass windows, casting faint silver lines across the stone floors. Imogen moved carefully, placing each step with deliberate precision, while Garrick followed close behind, his expression tight with wariness.

Morhold’s snores rumbled from the other side of the house, deep and steady.

Imogen glanced back at Garrick and smirked. "Told you."

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, shifting his weight as they reached the hallway leading to Morhold’s private library. The door loomed ahead—thick oak, iron hinges, an old lock that had been broken long ago. She pressed her palm against the wood and pushed, wincing at the soft creak that echoed through the stillness.

Garrick tensed, his hand instinctively clenching at his side. They waited, listening. The snores didn’t falter.

The library was small but crowded, shelves stretching to the ceiling, packed with books that smelled of dust and parchment. The air was thick with the scent of old ink and leather. Dim moonlight slanted through the single high window, illuminating narrow aisles and casting elongated shadows against the walls.

“Let’s be quick,” Garrick murmured, shutting the door behind them. He moved toward the nearest shelf, fingers trailing over the spines. Imogen did the same, scanning titles.

Most were histories of Navarre, records of trade agreements, books on military strategy—useful, but not what they needed. The longer she searched, the more her pulse quickened. What if Morhold didn’t have anything? What if all they had to go on were rumors and fear?

Then, near the bottom shelf, her eyes snagged on something promising. A thick, worn book, its spine cracked from use.

“Here.” She crouched, pulling it free and brushing dust from the cover. A Study of Basgiath War College and Its Traditions.

Garrick moved beside her, peering over her shoulder. “Looks promising.”

She set the book on the desk and flipped it open. The pages were yellowed, the ink slightly faded but still legible. Her stomach twisted as she skimmed the table of contents.

Garrick read over her shoulder, his expression shifting from wary to downright grim. “I already hate this.”

Imogen ignored him, flipping to the first section.

The entrance into Basgiath War College is not merely an enrollment process but a brutal test of endurance and wit. Cadets must traverse the parapet—a hundred-foot-high stone bridge barely a body’s width across, with no railing to prevent falls. Many do not make it across.

Garrick let out a soft, incredulous breath. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Imogen’s mouth went dry. She’d heard whispers, of course, but seeing it in ink made it real.

She turned the page.

Once past the parapet, cadets are divided into squads. Physical and strategic challenges begin immediately, designed to weed out those unfit for war. Duels are encouraged. Fatalities are common.

“Encouraged?” Garrick hissed. “That’s not training—that’s culling.”

Imogen swallowed, her fingers tightening on the edge of the page.

Dragons do not bond with the weak. A cadet who fails to attract a dragon’s interest will be removed from the college or forced to repeat a year. Those who anger a dragon may not live to see another day.

Garrick pulled back, dragging a hand through his hair. “We’re dead. We’re absolutely dead.”

Imogen arched a brow. “Oh, don’t start.”

He gestured wildly at the book. “Did you not just read the same thing I did? We have to cross some death bridge before we even set foot inside. Then we’re thrown into a pit of knife-happy lunatics. And if we somehow survive that? The dragons might just decide to roast us on sight.”

She shut the book with a decisive snap. “Good thing we’re not weak, then.”

He gaped at her. “You cannot seriously be—”

“Knowledge is power, Garrick.” She met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “Now we know what we’re up against. That’s more than most cadets get before they step through those gates.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You really think we can prepare for this?”

She tapped the book. “I think we have to.”

A beat of silence stretched between them.

Garrick blew out a slow breath, raking his fingers through his hair before grabbing the book off the desk. “Let’s get out of here before Morhold wakes up and skins us alive.”

Imogen nodded, easing the library door open and slipping into the hallway. The house was still silent save for the rhythmic rise and fall of Morhold’s snores. They crept back through the shadows, their footsteps light against the old wooden floors.

By the time they reached their room, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving only the weight of what they’d read.

Garrick dropped onto his cot, rubbing his temples. “This is so fucked. The parapet alone—” He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Do they want to lose cadets?”

Imogen sat cross-legged on her own cot, pulling the book toward her and flipping idly through the pages. “Maybe they figure if you can’t cross a bridge, you can’t survive a war.”

Garrick snorted. “That’s a shit philosophy.”

“Maybe,” she allowed, running her fingers over the faded ink. “But it means we have to be ready.”

Garrick sighed, leaning back against the wall, his gaze fixed on the low ceiling beams. “I don’t have time to prepare.” His voice was quieter now, the weight of reality settling in. “You know Xaden and I are almost eighteen, and when we’re twenty, we go.”

Imogen stilled, meeting Garrick’s gaze. “We’ll train. That's enough time to train.”

He shook his head. “Imogen—”

“No. You don’t get to give up before you even try.” Her voice was sharp, cutting through the thick air between them. “We figure out how to cross that bridge. We’ll learn. We’ll survive. We have no one left besides each other and the other marked ones. We have to do this together.”

Garrick studied her for a long moment before exhaling through his nose. “Okay.”

As Garrick lay back against his pillow, the weight of exhaustion settling over him, Imogen remained upright, staring at him—her only ally since the death of her mother and sister.

She had always known survival meant sacrifice. That was the first lesson the revolution had taught her. The second was that no one would save her. 

But Garrick had always been there. When the fires died and the bodies were nothing but charred remains, when they were marched to new homes that were never really homes, when they were forced to swallow their rage or be punished for it—he had been beside her. He was the only constant in a world that had taken everything else.

The thought of losing him twisted something deep inside her, something sharp and aching that she hadn’t let herself examine too closely before now.

She had told herself that knowledge was power, that training was necessary. And that was true. But it wasn’t just for her own sake. It never had been.

She wanted to keep Garrick alive.

Not just because he was her friend. Not just because he was the closest thing to family she had left. But because without him, she wasn’t sure who she would become.

She had seen what loss did to people. She had seen what it did to her.

If he fell from that parapet—if he was cut down in a duel, burned alive by a dragon, shattered against the stone floor of Basgiath—she didn’t know if she would survive it. Not in any way that mattered.

Imogen exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of her hand against her sternum as if she could force the unease from her chest. No. She wouldn’t let that happen.

She would train. She would fight. She would make sure they were ready.

Because if the world had taught her anything, it was that death came for everyone. But it would have to go through her first.

Chapter Text

The sun was barely cresting the horizon when Morhold kicked open the door to their room. "Up. Now."

Garrick groaned, rubbing sleep from his eyes as Imogen swung her legs over the edge of her cot, already reaching for her boots. Morhold didn’t wait to see if they obeyed—he never did. He knew they would follow. Instead, his heavy steps receded down the hall, leaving behind the unspoken promise of punishment if they delayed.

They dressed quickly, neither speaking as they made their way outside. The morning air was damp with lingering mist, the scent of wet earth thick as the sun cast long shadows across the barn and surrounding fields. Morhold was waiting, arms crossed, scowling as they approached.

“You two need to start acting like you're worth the generosity I've shown you."" His voice was a rasp, sharpened by years of shouting orders. ""I've seen other Marked Ones who know how to be grateful—who know their place."

The day stretched into an endless series of grueling tasks. They hauled sacks of grain that dug bruises into their shoulders, chopped wood until their arms trembled, and scrubbed the kitchen floor until their fingers ached. Morhold watched, occasionally barking corrections, but mostly letting the labor speak for itself.

By the time the sun dipped below the tree line, their bodies screamed with exhaustion. Imogen rolled her shoulders, wincing at the deep-set ache that had settled there. Garrick groaned, rubbing at a blister forming along his palm.

Morhold cast them a long, measuring look before jerking his head toward the house. "Get out of my sight."

They didn’t need to be told twice.

Once inside, they downed what little food they could stomach and slipped away to the barn. They walked in silence, the weight of the day pressing heavy on their limbs. Every inch of the property belonged to Morhold but the barn was the one place he never followed them, the one place his shadow didn’t stretch.

The scent of hay and old wood filled the space as they stepped inside, the thick planks creaking underfoot. The familiar quiet settled around them, a brief, fragile sense of peace. 

But there was no time to rest. They had work to do.

They set about gathering supplies, pulling old planks and spare beams from the storage loft. It was crude, a makeshift balance beam raised off the dirt floor, but it would have to do. Imogen tested the structure with a firm push before stepping back, hands on her hips. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to start.

Garrick nudged the beam with his foot. "If I break my neck, I’m haunting you."

Imogen smirked. "Get in line."

She climbed onto the beam first, arms outstretched for balance. The wood wobbled beneath her weight, and for a terrifying moment, she felt the phantom sensation of a hundred-foot drop beneath her feet. Her pulse pounded, but she forced herself to move. One step. Then another.

Garrick watched, tense and alert, before stepping up behind her. His movements were slower, more deliberate.

"Shit," he muttered as the beam shifted.

Garrick let out a slow breath, steadying himself as the beam shifted beneath him. Imogen had already taken three steps forward, arms outstretched, her balance wavering but holding. He forced his legs to move, muscles stiff from exhaustion, but on his second step, the beam wobbled violently. His foot slipped, and before he could catch himself, he crashed to the dirt floor with a sharp grunt.

Imogen winced. “That was graceful.”

“Fuck off.” Garrick pushed himself up, brushing dust from his arms. “This thing’s shoddier than I thought.”

“We’re not going to get better by giving up.” Imogen stepped off the beam, offering him a hand.

He eyed her skeptically but took her hand anyway, letting her haul him to his feet. They reset their positions, Imogen stepping onto the beam first. Her breath was measured, eyes locked ahead as she took one step, then another. Garrick followed a beat later, moving more cautiously this time.

The beam wobbled, but he adjusted, planting his foot firmly before taking another step. They inched forward, neither speaking, their focus absolute. By the time they reached the end, Imogen let out a breathless laugh. “Told you.”

Garrick rolled his shoulders. “Let’s see if we can do it without looking like we’re about to fall on our asses.”

They kept going, each attempt sharpening their movements. The first few rounds ended in failure—wobbles too unsteady, steps too rushed—but gradually, they improved. Their bodies, though exhausted, adjusted to the rhythm of movement, learning to counterbalance.

"Who do you think Morhold was talking about when he said he’d seen another marked one?" Garrick asked, his legs dangling from the side of the beam.

Imogen shrugged but offered no answer.

They hadn’t seen another Marked One since they’d been separated. Since Xaden received his scars. They knew they were out there, Xaden’s letter had confirmed as much, but they remained in the dark on all other issues of importance.

Garrick clenched his jaw. He had spent months picturing Xaden and Bodhi, wondering where they were, what hell they had been thrown into. If they had been tossed to the mercy of some stranger the way Morhold had claimed them. If they were even still alive.

The only comfort—the only certainty—was that he would see them again.

At Basgiath.

“If they survive,” he said quietly, “I’ll see them there.”

Imogen glanced at him, expression unreadable. “You will.”

“If we survive the parapet.” His voice was hollow, the weight of it settling between them like a stone.

“That’s why we have to keep practicing.” Imogen stood, shaking out her limbs before stepping back toward the beam. “No point dreaming about reunions if we don’t live long enough to have them.”

Garrick let out a humorless chuckle. “Optimistic”

“Pragmatic.” She smirked, stepping onto the beam. “Now, are you going to keep up or not?”

Garrick sighed but pushed himself up, falling into step behind her.

Chapter Text

The barn door slammed open with a force that rattled the walls.

Imogen and Garrick froze.

The scent of ale hit them first—thick, pungent, clinging to the man who staggered into the barn. Morhold’s silhouette was unsteady in the dim lantern glow, but his eyes, glazed as they were, found them instantly. A slow, ugly smile stretched across his face.

“Well, well,” he slurred, taking a few swaying steps forward. “What do we have here?”

Garrick’s pulse spiked.

Imogen froze, her hand brushing the edge of a splintered board. Garrick’s jaw clenched, and he gave her a brief, almost imperceptible nod, silently signaling her to stay calm. They’d both learned to read the subtle cues of danger over the past months.

“You think you can hide out here?” Morhold’s voice boomed, slurred and laced with alcohol. “That no one would notice you two little runaways?”

Morhold’s gaze landed on the parapet, and then—he laughed.

The sound was wet and cruel, breaking into a coughing fit before he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “You think this—” He gestured wildly at the parapet, nearly losing his balance. “—is going to help you survive? You really think a couple of bastard brats can train their way into Basgiath?”

Garrick forced himself to stay still. He could feel Imogen beside him, tense, unmoving. 

Morhold took another step forward. 

Imogen’s stomach churned. They were used to his cruel words, but something in his tone felt off tonight. “We haven’t done anything wrong,” she replied, her voice steady despite the flutter of panic in her chest.

“Wrong?” Morhold scoffed, swaying slightly in the doorway. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing in this barn, practicing to defend yourselves? Newsflash, girl—no one’s gonna come to your rescue. No one gives a damn about you two, and I can do whatever I want with you.”

Garrick shifted, stepping fully in front of her. “We were just finishing up.”

Morhold’s eyes snapped to him, narrowing. “I wasn’t talking to you, boy.”

Garrick didn’t move.

Morhold rolled his shoulders, his grin returning. “Look at you. Playing the hero. Thinking you can protect her.” His voice turned mocking. 

Garrick knew what was coming before Morhold even moved.

The blow cracked across his cheekbone, whipping his head to the side. Pain exploded behind his eye, radiating down his jaw. He staggered but didn’t fall, didn’t raise a hand to stop it.

Imogen inhaled sharply behind him, but Garrick kept his feet planted.

Morhold wanted a reaction. Wanted him to fight back.

Because then he would have an excuse.

Garrick swallowed the coppery taste of blood and lifted his chin, leveling his gaze.

“Done?” His voice was even. Steady.

Morhold’s nostrils flared. His knuckles were still clenched, but he didn’t swing again—not yet. Instead, his gaze flicked back to Imogen, and something in his expression darkened.

Garrick took a half-step back, just enough to block her completely.

That did it.

Morhold’s face twisted in something ugly. “You think you can keep her from me?” He barked another laugh, but there was no humor in it. Only something sharper. Meaner. “You think she’s yours to protect?”

Garrick didn’t answer.

There was no right answer.

Morhold let the silence stretch before his smile returned, slow and knowing. “You’ll both see soon enough,” he murmured. 

Garrick’s fingers curled into fists.

Morhold took a slow step back, eyeing them both as if they were nothing more than a nuisance. “I’m leaving for a while,” he muttered. “I don’t trust you two enough to leave you alone. My aunt’s coming to stay with you.”

Morhold swayed in place, a lopsided grin stretching across his face as he wiped a hand over his mouth. The scent of ale clung to him, thick and pungent, nearly choking the air between them.

“You know,” he slurred, bracing himself against the barn door, “my aunt doesn’t think it was such a great idea—me taking you two in.” He let out a wet laugh, shaking his head as if the very thought was ridiculous. “Says I should’ve left you where you were. That brats like you don’t learn no matter how much they’re given.”

Garrick stayed perfectly still.

Imogen could feel the heat of him beside her, the rigid tension in his frame as he absorbed every word.

Morhold snorted, stumbling forward. “She thinks you’re a waste of space. Says I shouldn’t bother feeding you. That I should toss you into the street, let the world deal with you.” He laughed again, louder this time, as if the idea was genuinely amusing. “She’s a mean old bitch, my aunt. Always looking down her nose at me like she’s got any right.”

His head lulled to the side, eyes narrowing at nothing. “Always going on about how I’m reckless. How I don’t know how to take care of what’s mine.”

The words sent a sharp chill down Imogen’s spine.

Morhold’s gaze drifted lazily over to her then, and her stomach twisted.

“But I told her,” he continued, his grin turning sluggish. “Told her I knew exactly what I was doing. That I was keeping things…under control.” He took another step closer, movements unsteady but deliberate. “You believe me, don’t you, Imogen?”

Garrick shifted—just enough to block the space between them.

Morhold’s nostrils flared.

He ignored Garrick entirely, his glazed focus never leaving her. “I’m leaving for a while,” he murmured, voice turning almost soft. “Important business. But I don’t have to go alone.”

Imogen felt her breath stutter.

He reached out suddenly, fingers brushing a strand of hair that had fallen over her shoulder.

“You could come with me,” he said, his voice dropping lower.

Her stomach churned.

She forced herself not to recoil, keeping her breathing even, her face impassive. Any reaction would only make it worse.

Garrick, however, was a different story.

The moment Morhold’s fingers touched her, Garrick moved. Not aggressively, not fast enough to be considered a challenge—but enough to put himself fully in the way.

Morhold’s eyes snapped to him, the brief flicker of warmth in his expression vanishing.

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence.

Then, Morhold scoffed, shaking his head. “Always in the way,” he muttered, voice thick with irritation.

His fist lashed out without warning.

The punch caught Garrick in the cheekbone, sending his head snapping to the side. But he stayed upright, body steady even as the blow echoed through the barn.

Imogen clenched her fists.

Morhold let out a breath, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off his own drunken frustration. “No fun,” he muttered, stepping back with an unsteady sway. “No fun at all.”

He turned abruptly, stumbling toward the door.

“You two behave now,” he slurred over his shoulder. 

The barn door slammed shut behind Morhold with a final, jarring thud, and for a long moment, all Imogen could do was stand there, her fists clenched at her sides. The air was still thick with the scent of alcohol that clung to his retreating figure, and a bitter, cold knot twisted in her stomach. The feeling of his hand brushing her hair—his touch, his presence—was suffocating, and she could feel the weight of it pressing down on her chest like a vice. It was as if every breath she took was somehow heavier, laden with the memories of his disgusting gaze and that infuriating sneer.

“Fucking creep,” she muttered under her breath, her voice tight with anger. “I can’t stand him.”

“Fuck that guy,” Garrick muttered, rubbing his jaw. 

Imogen leaned back against the barn wall, her body aching from the tension. Her heart pounded in her chest, and all she could think about was getting out—getting away from this life, from Morhold, from everything that felt like a noose around her neck. 

“I hope his aunt’s not a bitch,” Imogen muttered, her words tinged with bitterness as she glanced at the door, still half-expecting Morhold to come storming back in with some new threat or demand. 

Garrick didn’t immediately respond, but she could sense the storm brewing in him. She had always known he cared about her—more than perhaps she deserved—but sometimes it was hard to understand how far he would go to protect her. 

“Don’t worry about his aunt,” Garrick finally said, his voice low and steady, but there was a faint edge to it—something guarded, something that hinted at deeper thoughts. 

Imogen glanced at him, the unspoken weight of his words hanging between them. 

The barn seemed to grow quieter the longer they stood there, the tension palpable, heavy. Imogen’s body was rigid, her muscles sore from the strain of holding herself together. Always bracing for the next blow, for the next insult, for the next threat.

“I can’t be stuck here forever, Garrick,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, as though the very words might summon Morhold’s return. “I can’t live like this.”

Her eyes flicked to the barn door once more, her thoughts racing.

“You won’t be,” Garrick said finally, his voice soft but strained. He turned toward her, meeting her gaze for the first time since Morhold left, and in his eyes, she saw the weight of everything they had endured together.

Garrick sighed, a long, drawn-out exhale that seemed to release some of the tension he had been holding. He stepped closer to her, his hand briefly resting on her shoulder in an unspoken gesture of reassurance. It was a rare moment of tenderness, and Imogen felt it like a balm against the rawness of everything that had happened.

Without a word, Garrick pulled her into his arms. The sudden warmth of his embrace enveloped her, and for a heartbeat, everything else disappeared. There was no Morhold, no fear, no impossible decisions. Just the quiet steadiness of Garrick’s presence, anchoring her in the storm.

Imogen didn’t realize how much she needed it until she was there, in his arms, feeling the beat of his heart against her own. She buried her face against his chest, her hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as if she might fall apart if she let go.

Garrick’s arms tightened around her, his chin resting on the top of her head. Eventually, he let his hands gently cup her face, tilting her chin up so that she met his eyes. The intensity of his gaze softened her, and for a moment, she saw not just the anger and the protectiveness, but the vulnerability that he rarely let anyone see. “We’ll figure this out.”

And in that moment, in the quiet of the barn, with Garrick’s arms around her, Imogen believed him wholeheartedly.

Chapter Text

Morhold’s aunt was a bitch.

Imogen didn’t need to say it aloud, but the thought burned through her mind like acid.

She stood in the doorway like a storm cloud, thin and sharp, her gaze sweeping over the house with open disdain. Deep lines cut into her face, her graying hair twisted into a severe knot at the nape of her neck. She carried no luggage—only a walking stick with a knotted handle that she gripped like a weapon.

“So,” she said, her voice rough as gravel. “You’re the brats.”

Garrick stiffened beside Imogen, clearly fighting the urge to say something stupid. Imogen, however, merely straightened, meeting the old woman’s stare with careful neutrality.

Morhold had never spoken of his aunt before, but her presence made one thing clear—if he was harsh, she was worse.

The woman stepped forward, her boots thudding against the wooden floor. “Morhold tells me you’re trouble.”

Imogen lifted a shoulder. “That depends on who you ask.”

Wrong answer.

The cane came down hard against the floor, the crack of it making Garrick flinch. “You’ve got a smart mouth, girl,” the woman muttered. “That’ll be the first thing to go.”

Imogen’s fingers twitched at her sides, a familiar prickle of anger crawling up her spine. “And you are?”

A slow smirk curled the old woman’s lips, though there was no humor in it. “You’ll call me Aunt Edine.”

Imogen’s stomach turned. Not a chance.

Edine turned her gaze to Garrick, looking him over like she was assessing the weight of a sack of flour. “And you? You look stronger than I expected. You do any real work, or just follow her around like a lost dog?”

Garrick’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond.

Edine snorted. “Thought so.”

She turned away, moving toward the kitchen, her sharp eyes darting over every inch of the house as if searching for evidence of wrongdoing. “I don’t care what Morhold promised you, I don’t care what schemes you’ve got in that head of yours. You’ll follow my rules while you’re under this roof, or you’ll regret it.”

Imogen didn’t doubt it.

She had met women like Edine before—the kind who wielded control like a blade, who relished cruelty for the sake of it. If Morhold had left her here to keep them in line, he’d chosen well.

Edine glanced back at them, her lips curling into something cruel. “Starting now. Outside, both of you.”

Garrick hesitated. “For what?”

The cane slammed against the floor again. “Because I said so.”

Imogen exhaled slowly, biting down the urge to snap back. They had no choice. Not yet.

She shot Garrick a warning look before stepping toward the door.

This wasn’t about keeping them company.

It was about keeping them in check.

And Imogen had no intention of playing by Edine’s rules.

The afternoon sun was harsh, beating down on the yard as Imogen and Garrick stood stiffly, waiting. Edine watched them from the porch, leaning on her cane like a queen surveying her servants. Her eyes were sharp and cold, full of something that went deeper than dislike.

Resentment.

She had barely spoken since dragging them outside, only barking orders—haul water, chop wood, scrub the front steps as if dirt itself was a personal insult to her. She didn’t care about the work. She cared about making them do it. About control.

And every time she looked at them, Imogen could feel the weight of it.

“You two don’t deserve this,” Edine muttered finally, breaking the silence.

Garrick, breathless from carrying the last of the water buckets, glanced up warily. “What?”

Edine scoffed, her lips curling. “A roof. A warm meal. Morhold is soft, letting you stay here.” She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with something cruel. “After what your kind did to our country, you should be rotting in the streets.”

Imogen’s grip tightened on the brush she was using to scrub the steps. She forced her hands to keep moving, but her breath came sharper now, the heat rising beneath her skin.

“Ah.” Garrick wiped sweat from his brow, his voice too casual, too even. “So that’s what this is about.”

Edine sneered. “Of course it is. You think I don’t know what you are? Your families started a war they couldn’t win. You burned cities, killed good men. And now look at you. Orphans of traitors, begging for scraps.”

Imogen swallowed back the burn in her throat. She wouldn’t give Edine the satisfaction of a reaction.

Still, the old woman wasn’t done.

“Morhold should have thrown you out the moment they dragged you here,” she continued, stepping closer, her cane tapping against the ground with each step. “But he’s got a soft spot for lost causes. Thinks he’s doing you a favor.” She snorted. “You should be grateful.”

Grateful.

Imogen’s fingers dug into the wooden steps, the coarse bristles of the brush pressing against her palm.

Imogen lifted her head, locking eyes with the old woman.

“We didn’t beg for anything,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.

Edine’s smile was slow and ugly. “No, I suppose you didn’t. But that won’t change what you are.”

Imogen held her gaze, unflinching. “No,” she agreed. “It won’t.”

A challenge.

For a moment, Edine only stared at her, something unreadable flickering across her face.

Then she turned away. “Finish your work.”

Imogen let out a slow breath as Edine disappeared back into the house, her shoulders tight with restraint.

Beside her, Garrick sat back on his heels, rubbing a hand over his face. “She almost makes me miss Morhold.”

Imogen exhaled through her nose. “Almost.”

__________________________________________

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows along the walls of the cramped sitting room. Imogen and Garrick sat stiff-backed on the worn wooden chairs across from Edine, who sipped at a chipped mug of tea as if they weren’t prisoners in her company.

She hadn’t spoken in several minutes, simply watching them, the weight of her gaze like a blade against their skin.

Then, with a slow exhale, she set her mug down and leaned forward.

“I’ll be honest with you,” she said, her voice too calm, too casual. “I don’t think Morhold should have brought you here.”

Garrick huffed a quiet, humorless laugh. “We gathered.”

Edine ignored him, her gaze fixed on Imogen. “You, especially.”

Imogen arched a brow. “Me?”

Edine’s lips curled, her eyes narrowing in something almost like pity. “He’s taken a liking to you, hasn’t he?”

A chill scraped down Imogen’s spine. She didn’t let it show. “I wouldn’t call it that.”

Edine hummed as if unconvinced. “I know my nephew. I know the way he looks at things he thinks he owns.” She tilted her head, voice dropping into something softer, almost conspiratorial. “And you are a very pretty thing.”

Garrick stiffened beside her.

Imogen kept her expression unreadable, though her hands curled into fists against her lap. “I don’t know what you’re suggesting.”

“Oh, I think you do.” Edine leaned back, tapping her fingers against the arm of her chair. “Men like Morhold don’t do things out of kindness. You think he’s sheltering you? Feeding you? Letting you play house under his roof for free?” She shook her head. “No, girl. He’s waiting.”

A sick, creeping nausea twisted in Imogen’s stomach, but she refused to look away.

Edine exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “It’s a disgrace, really. If he takes you for a wife—” She practically spat the word. “Or worse, if you end up pregnant—that would be the real stain on this family.”

The chair scraped against the floor as Garrick stood abruptly. “That’s enough.”

Edine barely glanced at him. “Oh? Struck a nerve, did I?”

Garrick’s fists clenched at his sides. His breath was heavy, controlled only by sheer force of will. “She is not his.”

Edine raised a brow, unimpressed. “And you think Morhold cares about that?”

The words hung in the air like poison.

Imogen forced her breathing to stay steady, forced her pulse to slow. She had always known Morhold was dangerous, that his patience with them was thin. But Edine was confirming something darker, something unspoken.

Morhold had power here. More than he should.

And Edine wasn’t warning them because she cared. She was warning them because she didn’t want the embarrassment of it.

Garrick’s voice was lower now, colder. “If he tries anything, he’ll regret it.”

Edine snorted, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, boy.”

Garrick took a sharp step forward, forcing Edine to look up at him. “Say whatever you want about me. Insult us all you like. But if you ever suggest again that he can just take her—” His voice dropped into something deadly. “I will make sure you regret it.”

For the first time, Edine actually looked surprised.

She studied him, her eyes narrowing, as if recalculating. Edine only chuckled, shaking her head as she reached for her tea again.

The conversation was over.

But the weight of it lingered long after Imogen and Garrick left the room.

By the time they reached their shared quarters, the firelight casting their shadows long against the walls, neither of them spoke.

Imogen sank onto her cot, pressing her fingers against her temples. “She was just trying to scare us.”

Garrick didn’t sit. He stood at the window, jaw tight, arms crossed over his chest. “It’s not just a threat.”

She swallowed. “I know.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

Imogen sat on the edge of her cot, elbows resting on her knees, fingers twisted together so tightly her knuckles ached. Across from her, Garrick paced, his boots scuffing against the old wooden floor, each step sharp and restless.

“She wasn’t lying.” His voice was low, edged with something dangerously close to panic.

Imogen inhaled through her nose, steadying herself. “I know.”

He stopped pacing, turning to face her. “Imogen.”

She lifted her gaze to his, already knowing what he was going to say.

“We can’t stay here.”

“I know.”

His jaw clenched, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “Then why do you look so—” He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Why aren’t you more upset?”

Imogen’s stomach twisted. She was upset. More than that—she was furious. But anger wouldn’t help them. Fear wouldn’t help them.

They needed a plan.

“I’ve survived worse,” she said simply.

Garrick swore under his breath. “That doesn’t mean you should have to.”

Imogen looked away.

Because the truth was, Edine’s threat—Morhold’s intentions—weren’t a shock. They had been an inevitability she hadn’t wanted to name.

And now, they had no choice.

“He hasn’t done anything yet,” she said quietly, forcing herself to sound rational. “If we leave now—”

“If we leave now, we stay alive,” Garrick cut in, voice sharp.

Imogen flinched. Not because he was wrong. But because hearing it said aloud made it all the more real.

Imogen met Garrick’s gaze, forcing herself to push past the fear, past the dread curling around her ribs. “We’ll leave,” she said.

He nodded, but his hands were still shaking.

Imogen stood, crossing the small space between them. She reached out, curling her fingers around his wrist, grounding him. “We’ll leave,” she repeated, softer this time.

Garrick let out a breath, nodding again. “Okay.”

They didn’t know how, not yet. But they would figure it out.

Because staying wasn’t an option.

Not anymore.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t until that night, as Imogen lay curled in bed, that the true horror of Morhold’s aunt became apparent.

The darkness was heavy, pressing against the old house like a living thing. Outside, the wind howled through the trees, rattling the loose shutters, but inside all was silent. Still.

Until the hands closed around Imogen’s wrists. 

She jerked awake, confusion thick and suffocating as she was yanked roughly from her cot. Her feet tangled in the blanket, sending her stumbling forward as cold hands clamped around her arm, dragging her across the room. 

Sleep dulled her reflexes, and for one disorienting second, she didn’t understand what was happening.

Then she heard Edine’s voice. Low. Hushed. Furious. 

“You filthy little whore.” 

Imogen thrashed, but Edine’s grip was iron. She wasn’t particularly strong, but she was determined — her bony fingers digging into Imogen’s skin with bruising force.

“Let go of me,” Imogen hissed, her voice still thick with sleep. She dug her heels into the wooden floor, trying to wrench herself free. 

Edine didn’t answer. She only dragged harder. 

The hallway was dim, moonlight spilling in faint slants through the warped windows. Imogen twisted, looking toward Garrick’s cot, but he didn’t stir. The bastard slept like the dead. 

Her pulse thundered. 

 “Edine—” 

A sharp yank cut her off as he was pulled into the bathroom at the end of the hall. The door shutting behind them, the sound swallowed by the storm outside. 

Then she was thrown forward. 

She barely caught herself on the edge of the rusted bathtub, her palms scraping against the cold metal. Her heart slammed against her ribs. 

“You think you can stay here?” Edine’s voice was quiet, but no less deadly for it. “You think you can wrap my nephew around your little fingers, let him ruin himself over you ?”

Imogen whipped around, chest heaving. “I don’t want him. I never have.” 

Edine’s eyes were dark, wild with something furious. “I know what kind of girl you are.” Her voice was a bitter whisper. Before saying more she moved. 

Imogen saw the blow coming, but not fast enough. The iron candleholder swung in a vicious arc, cracking against the side of her head. 

Pain exploded behind her eyes. Her knees buckled, the world tilting. 

Then cold. 

A rush of it, swallowing her whole. 

The water in the tub was freezing, submerging her shoulders as Edine shoved her down, hands tangling in Imogen’s hair, pressing her under. 

Instinct took over. She thrashed, kicking, clawing, but Edine was desperate. 

Imogen’s lungs screamed. Her vision blurred. 

Then—air.

Imogen surfaced with a desperate gasp, coughing up water as her body convulsed against the cold. The room swam, the warped ceiling above her bending and shifting as though the walls themselves were alive.

Edine was panting, her bony hands still twisted in Imogen’s hair, but her grip had loosened just enough. Just enough for Imogen to wrench herself free, slipping sideways in the tub and crashing onto the hard floor.

She choked, the taste of iron and bile thick in her throat.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The wind rattled the windowpanes, rain hammering against the glass in a relentless rhythm.

Then Edine took a step back. Another. Then she straightened like she was brushing off dirt. “You won’t last long,” she murmured, her voice filled with cold certainty. “Not here. Not anywhere.” 

Then she turned and left, the door creaking softly behind her. 

Imogen stayed where she was, soaked and shivering on the stone floor. 

Her heart pounded in her ears. 

Garrick hadn’t woken. No one would come. 

She was alone. 

And the worst part? 

Edine was right about one thing, she wouldn’t last long. 

Time unraveled.

Imogen drifted in and out of consciousness, the cold burrowing deep into her bones. The stone floor beneath her was slick with water, her soaked clothes clinging to her skin like a second, suffocating layer.

She tried to move. Her limbs wouldn’t cooperate.

Her head lolled to the side, and the room spun violently. Pain pulsed behind her eyes, sharp and relentless. The faint, metallic scent of blood lingered in the air, mingling with the damp, musty stench of the old house.

She couldn’t stay here.

She knew that.

Knew she needed to get up, to find warmth, to make sure Edine hadn’t changed her mind and come back to finish what she started. But her body refused.

At some point, her vision darkened.

At some point, she stopped fighting the pull.

Then—

A voice.

Far away at first, muffled by the haze of exhaustion, then closer, sharper, cutting through the darkness like a blade.

“Imogen?”

It was the panic in his tone that made her stir. The unmistakable terror laced between the syllables.

A touch—warm, shaking—on her shoulder.

“Holy shit. Imogen, wake up.”

A new kind of dizziness took hold as strong arms scooped her from the floor, cradling her against a firm chest. The heat of him was unbearable, a stark contrast to the ice that had settled beneath her skin, but she made no move to pull away.

“Stay with me,” Garrick murmured, voice raw. “You’re freezing.”

She wanted to answer, to tell him she was fine, that she just needed a minute. But the words tangled on her tongue, her throat too tight, her body too weak.

“Shit—Imogen, open your eyes.”

She tried. Stars burst behind her eyelids, the pain in her skull a living thing, clawing at her from the inside out. A choked sound escaped her throat, but that was all she could manage.

“Fuck,” Garrick gasped, his breath ragged against her damp hair. His grip tightened—too tight, almost painful, like he needed to convince himself she was real, that she was still here.

Then he was moving, carrying her through the house, his breathing uneven, ragged.

“I’ve got you,” he swore, almost to himself, his breathing too fast. “Stay awake. Stay—just stay with me.”

His voice shook. So did his hands.

“I’m getting you out of here,” he swore, his grip tightening. “I’ll find you a healer. I promise.”

She didn’t know if he was talking to her or himself.

Didn’t care.

Because for the first time since she hit the floor, she wasn’t alone.

Chapter Text

The storm had passed, leaving the world drenched in the pale hush of early morning, but Garrick barely registered it.

His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts as he guided the stolen horse and buggy down the muddy road, the reins clutched so tightly in his fists that his knuckles ached. The wagon jolted violently over every rut and stone, but he didn’t slow down. He couldn’t.

Imogen lay slumped beside him, barely stirring.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered, flicking the reins harder. The horse, a massive black gelding from Morhold’s stables, snorted and pushed into a faster trot, hooves kicking up wet earth.

Garrick barely remembered stealing it. He had stormed into the barn in a blind panic, grabbing the first thing he saw that could get them to town. He hadn’t even bothered saddling up—just thrown Imogen into the buggy, wrapped her in the driest blanket he could find, and took off into the dark.

He hadn’t cared about the theft. He still didn’t. All that mattered was getting her help.

She hadn’t woken. Not fully.

“Imogen,” he tried again, his voice raw from cursing, from pleading. He pressed a hand against her cheek, cursing again at how cold she was.

No response.

The only sign of life was the faint rise and fall of her chest beneath the damp blanket.

Garrick’s heart slammed against his ribs. He had seen people die before—had lost his family right before his eyes—but this was different. This was her.

And he was losing her.

He forced his gaze back to the road, urging the horse faster. Town wasn’t far—another mile, maybe less—but it felt like forever, the distance stretching unbearably between them and whatever hope still existed.

The wheels of the buggy skidded over wet gravel as he veered onto the main road, the flickering lanterns of town just visible beyond the mist.

“Hold on,” he whispered, barely able to hear himself over the pounding of his own pulse. “Just a little longer, Imogen. Please.”

She didn’t answer.

The weight of Imogen in his arms made his steps heavier, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he spotted a healer’s shop—a narrow, aging building with a faded sign creaking above the door. He didn’t hesitate. He kicked it open, the bell above the frame clattering wildly as he stumbled inside.

The scent of dried herbs and sharp tinctures filled the air, but the woman behind the counter barely reacted. She was older, her face lined with deep-set disapproval, and the moment her gaze landed on him—on the dirt streaking his clothes, the blood drying on his hands—her mouth curled in distaste.

“I need help,” Garrick said, his voice tight, his grip on Imogen firm. “She’s hurt. She needs a healer.”

The woman didn’t move. Her sharp, assessing eyes flicked over Imogen’s limp form before settling back on him with a slow, deliberate shake of her head.

“I don’t treat marked ones,” she said flatly, her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. “Take her elsewhere.”

Garrick’s pulse roared in his ears. “She’s dying.” The words scraped his throat, raw and desperate. “She—she’s barely breathing. I don’t care about your politics. I care about saving her. Help her.”

But the healer only turned away, resuming her work with infuriating calm. “I can’t help you.”

Rage flared hot and fast in Garrick’s chest. His grip on Imogen tightened, as if he could shield her from the cruelty of it, from the way this town had already decided her life wasn’t worth saving.

“Please.” His voice cracked, something breaking inside him. “Please, just—”

“I said good day.”

The finality in her tone hit like a blow. The world around him wavered, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs.

Garrick’s jaw locked, his breath shaking.

Garrick didn’t have the time to argue. He turned, the door slamming behind him as he stormed out into the cold streets again.

Garrick’s breath came in ragged gasps as he continued barreling through the muddy streets of town, Imogen’s limp body clutched against his chest. She hadn’t stirred in minutes—not since they hit the first stretch of cobbled road—and the sickening silence from her had panic clawing up his throat.

She was too light in his arms. Too cold.

“Stay with me, Imogen,” he murmured, brushing wet strands of hair from her clammy face. “Just hold on a little longer.”

But she didn’t respond.

Each second felt like an eternity.

His vision blurred with fury and desperation as he stumbled to the only other healer in town, barely able to feel the pain in his own freezing limbs over the sheer terror of losing her.

A younger woman stood in the shop, her dark eyes widening at the sight of them.

“Please,” Garrick choked out, his voice raw. “She’s dying.”

The woman hesitated, her gaze flickering to the mark on Imogen’s skin.

Garrick saw it—that moment of doubt, of calculation.

And he broke.

“I will beg if I have to,” he said, his voice cracking. “I will do anything. Just—please—help her.”

The woman inhaled sharply.

Then she stepped aside.

“Bring her in.”

__________________________________________

Garrick sat on the floor with his back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, hands buried in his damp hair. His fingers were ice-cold, his entire body shaking, though he wasn’t sure if it was from the wet clothes clinging to him or the sheer terror still gripping his chest like a vice.

The healer worked in silence, her hands moving with practiced efficiency over Imogen’s still form. She had placed her on a cot by the fire, stripping away the soaked clothing and wrapping her in warm, dry blankets. Steam curled from the heated cloths she pressed against Imogen’s frozen skin.

Garrick couldn’t breathe.

Imogen hadn’t woken up. Not once.

“Will she live?” His voice barely made it past his lips. It wasn’t the first time he had asked.

The healer—who had introduced herself as Calla—gave no immediate answer. She had been focused, her brows drawn in concentration as she checked Imogen’s breathing, her pulse, the ugly bruise forming at her temple where Edine had struck her.

“She’s in bad shape,” Calla said finally, squeezing a damp rag over a bowl before pressing it against Imogen’s forehead. “Cold like this—.”

His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. He should have woken up. She have made sure the lock on their bedroom door worked. Should have protected her in the first place.

“This wasn’t just the cold, was it?” Calla asked, not looking up from her work. “That bruise—”

“No.” Garrick’s voice was flat. He didn’t elaborate.

Calla hummed in acknowledgment, but if she had suspicions, she kept them to herself.

Garrick’s gaze fixed on Imogen’s face, pale and slack, her lips barely parted as she took shallow, rattling breaths. He had never seen her like this before. She was Imogen—sharp-tongued, stubborn, always ready to bite back at the world that had tried so hard to break her.

But now?

Now, she looked breakable.

The sight of it made something inside him twist so violently he thought he might be sick.

“Talk to her,” Calla said suddenly.

Garrick blinked at her. “What?”

“She needs to hear something familiar,” Calla explained, adjusting the blankets. “She’s not gone yet, but she’s close. Give her a reason to stay.”

Garrick swallowed hard, his throat raw. His limbs felt stiff as he pushed himself forward, kneeling beside the cot.

Imogen’s face was inches from his own, her breath barely warming the space between them. He reached for her hand beneath the covers, startled by how small and cold it felt in his own.

He cleared his throat.

“I—” His voice cracked, and he clenched his jaw, inhaling shakily through his nose. “You’re really pissing me off right now, Imogen.” His grip on her hand tightened. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to leave me like this.”

No response. No flicker of awareness.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

“You’re the strongest person I know.” His voice was barely above a whisper now, thick with something he couldn’t afford to name. “You’re too damn stubborn to let some bitter old hag take you out.” He huffed a wet, humorless laugh, his throat tightening. “I need you to fight, Imogen. I need you to come back.”

He bowed his head, forehead nearly touching hers.

“Please,” he whispered.

The fire crackled beside them, casting flickering light across the room. Calla continued her work, murmuring something under her breath, but Garrick barely heard her.

He just held Imogen’s hand and waited.

Chapter Text

Imogen drifted between dreams and reality, the weight of exhaustion pressing her deep into the mattress. Her body felt sluggish, heavy, as if she were floating just beneath the surface of consciousness, unable to fully break through.

The first thing she became aware of was warmth.

Not the harsh, biting heat of fever or the sharp sting of firelight against chilled skin, but something steady, something solid—something safe.

Garrick.

She blinked sluggishly, her lashes sticking together, her vision unfocused in the dim glow of the room. Her head throbbed, her limbs ached, but she was alive. She swallowed, her throat dry and sore, her body still trembling faintly beneath the weight of the blankets.

And then she realized—Garrick wasn’t just near her.

He was wrapped around her.

His arms, strong and firm, were locked around her waist, holding her tightly against his chest. His warmth seeped into her, his breath slow and deep against the back of her neck. His body was curled protectively around hers, like he had fallen asleep mid-guard, unwilling to let go even in unconsciousness.

Her heart twisted.

She shifted slightly, testing the strength of her body, only to find that every movement sent pain lancing through her skull. She barely managed to suppress a groan, but it was enough—Garrick stirred.

A low, tired grumble rumbled from his chest, and then she felt him tense. His grip on her tightened briefly before he suddenly jerked awake, his body going rigid against hers.

“Imogen?” His voice was rough with sleep, but the panic in it was immediate. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his face hovering over hers, eyes dark with exhaustion and something else—something raw and unguarded.

She blinked up at him, lips dry and cracked, her voice barely more than a whisper. “You’re crushing me.”

A choked laugh burst from him—half relief, half disbelief. He exhaled sharply, his forehead pressing briefly to hers before he pulled away completely, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he muttered.

She swallowed, the memories hitting her all at once—Edine’s hands on her, the cold water dragging her under, the suffocating darkness. Her fingers curled weakly into the blanket, and suddenly, the warmth of Garrick’s body wasn’t just comforting—it was the only thing tethering her to reality.

“I almost—” she started, but the words stuck in her throat.

“I know,” he said, his voice hoarse. 

Silence stretched between them, thick with things neither of them could say.

Then, because the weight of it all was too much, she forced out, “You stink.”

Garrick let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. “You’re welcome, by the way. I did just save your life.”

She managed the ghost of a smirk. “And you managed to fall asleep on me. Is that part of your master plan?”

He arched a brow, glancing down at where he had been curled around her. “You were freezing,” he said simply. “I had to keep you warm.”

Something in her chest tightened, a feeling she wasn’t ready to face.

“Well,” she murmured, closing her eyes briefly. “Don’t get used to it.”

His voice was softer when he answered, his fingers brushing lightly against her wrist.

“Too late.”

Calla stood near the hearth, arms crossed, her sharp gaze sweeping over the two of them. “Where did you come from?” she asked finally, her voice level but firm.

Garrick exhaled, raking a hand through his still-damp hair. He hesitated for only a moment before answering. “Morhold’s estate.”

Calla’s brow arched slightly, though her expression remained unreadable. “And you left at the ass crack of dawn? With her half-dead?”

Garrick let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “I left the second I found her. I didn’t have time to wait around and make polite conversation.”

Calla’s gaze didn’t waver. “Explain.”

He ran a hand over his face, the weight of the past several hours pressing down on him all over again. 

Calla studied him, her gaze sharp, but there was something softer beneath it now. “So you stole that horse and buggy.”

Garrick huffed. “Yeah. Took the first one I could find.” His voice turned dry. “Not like they were going to lend me one.”

Calla muttered a quiet curse under her breath, then sighed. “You can’t go back.”

“We know,” Garrick snapped, his frustration bleeding through. “We have nowhere else to go.”

Calla studied them for a long moment, then, without another word, strode toward the door, grabbing a thick wool cloak from a peg on the wall.

“Where are you going?” Garrick asked, his body tensing again.

Calla shot him a pointed look. “To move the damn horse and buggy before that wretched family comes looking for it.”

Garrick exhaled, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. He hadn’t even considered that Edine might send someone searching for the stolen property.

Imogen stirred slightly, her voice hoarse. “You’re helping us?”

Calla sighed as she fastened her cloak. “I didn’t support the rebellion,” she admitted. “But I don’t condone cruelty either.” She fixed them with a steady look. “You’ve both had enough of that already.”

Garrick swallowed, nodding stiffly. He wasn’t used to kindness from strangers.

Calla opened the door, letting in a rush of cold air before stepping out into the night.

Silence stretched between Garrick and Imogen.

The door shut with a quiet click, leaving Garrick and Imogen alone in the dimly lit room. The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the walls, but it did little to ease the weight in Garrick’s chest.

Imogen shifted beneath the blankets, attempting to sit up. The effort barely lasted a second before she winced and let out a sharp breath. Garrick was on his feet instantly, steadying her with careful hands. “Easy,” he muttered, his voice gruff. 

She huffed, but let herself sink back into the pillows. “I hate feeling this weak.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah, well, I hate watching you nearly die.”

The bluntness of his words made her freeze. He wasn’t looking at her, his gaze fixed on the fire, jaw tight. His hands had curled into fists at his sides.

Guilt twisted in her stomach. “Garrick…”

He exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his still-damp hair. “I thought I was too late.”

She swallowed, shame creeping in. “I’m sorry.”

Garrick turned his head slightly, eyes still fixed on the fire, his expression unreadable. “That’s not why I said it.”

Imogen frowned, shifting uncomfortably beneath the blankets.

Garrick’s jaw clenched. “You scared me, Imogen.”

The admission was quiet but raw, the kind of truth she knew Garrick didn’t give up easily. Her stomach twisted, shame creeping up her spine. That wasn’t what she had wanted. She had never wanted to be a source of fear for him.

“Garrick…” Her voice was hoarse, thick with exhaustion and guilt. “I didn’t mean to—”

He finally turned to look at her, and the weight of his gaze held her still. “I know. But that doesn’t change the fact that it happened.” He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “I’ve seen a lot of shit, Imogen. I’ve lost people, watched things I can’t ever forget. But I have never felt the kind of fear I did when I saw you like that. When I pulled you out of that bathroom and you weren’t moving.”

She swallowed, her throat aching, her hands curling into the blankets as if they could anchor her against the swell of emotions rising inside her. “I’m sorry,” she said again, softer this time, but no less sincere.

Garrick sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before dragging the nearby chair closer to the bed. He sank into it heavily, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together. “I don’t want you to feel bad for me, Imogen. That’s not why I’m saying this.”

Imogen swallowed hard, her fingers curling weakly against the blanket as she tried to gather her thoughts. Garrick’s words lingered between them, heavy and unshakable.

“I don’t feel bad for you,” she said finally, voice rough with exhaustion. “I feel bad that I scared you.”

Garrick scoffed, shaking his head. “Same thing.”

She frowned, struggling to sit up again. This time, Garrick didn’t stop her, though his hands twitched like he wanted to. She managed to prop herself against the headboard, the effort leaving her breathing heavier than she would have liked. He was watching her too closely, his jaw still tight, like he was trying to will himself into patience.

“We need to think about what comes next,” she said.

Garrick’s expression hardened. “What comes next is getting as far away from this place as possible.”

Imogen shook her head. “That’s not a plan, Garrick.”

His eyes flashed with frustration. “And staying here is what? A strategy? You nearly died, Imogen.”

She flinched. He didn’t soften at the reaction, didn’t apologize.

She let out a slow breath, meeting his gaze. “We can’t just move without a destination. We need to figure out our next step.”

Garrick’s fingers curled into fists. “We need distance.”

Imogen wanted to argue, wanted to tell him that running without direction wasn’t a solution, that they needed allies, information, something more than just the hope that if they kept moving, their past wouldn’t catch up. But before she could speak, the door creaked open.

Calla stepped inside, stamping mud from her boots. She didn’t look at them right away, instead busying herself with fastening the lock behind her. She walked past them without a word, disappearing into the back room before returning with a worn leather satchel.

She dropped it on the small table beside the fire. “There’s a map in there,” she said. “You’ll need it if you’re smart enough to listen to me and leave before they come looking for you.”

Imogen stared at her, his jaw tightening. “You want us to just run?”

Calla scoffed. “You think you have a better option?”

The room went silent.

Imogen swallowed, looking away. Garrick’s hands curled into fists.

Calla softened, just slightly. “You don’t owe him your lives,” she said. “Get as far from here as you can.”

Imogen looked up at Garrick. He met her gaze, something unspoken passing between them.

Then, he turned back to Calla and gave a sharp nod.

“We leave at first light.”

Chapter Text

Imogen drifted again between sleep and wakefulness, her body still sore, but at least now she felt warm. Safe, even. But safety was a fragile thing, and the memories still clawed at her mind.

Water, filling her lungs. The cold bite of it wrapping around her limbs, dragging her down into the abyss. Hands gripping her, pushing her deeper, nails digging into her skin. She tried to kick, to scream, but her voice was swallowed by the dark, her struggles weakening. Panic burned in her chest, screaming for air, for escape. She was drowning. The surface was too far. The light too distant.

Then, a voice. Garrick’s voice, cutting through the murk. Fight.

She gasped awake, her lungs straining as if she'd really been holding her breath. Her eyes shot open. The fire still crackled in the hearth, casting flickering light across the small room. The blankets were heavy over her, grounding her, and Garrick sat close, elbows on his knees, watching the flames with intensity.

She swallowed, her throat raw. "Garrick."

His head snapped toward her immediately, eyes sharp and alert despite the exhaustion in them. "You okay?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "Can you do something for me?"

"Depends."

She licked her lips, steadying herself. "Cut my hair."

Garrick blinked. "What?"

"Cut it." Her fingers found the tangled strands at her shoulders, and her stomach twisted. It felt wrong. Heavy. Like a reminder of everything that had happened—everything she couldn't wash away. "Please."

Garrick sat up straighter, his brows furrowing. "Im—what the hell are you talking about?" He shook his head. "We have bigger problems than your style choices right now. We’re leaving town at first light."

"I know," she said, her voice tight.

"Then why—?" His gaze flicked to her hair, then back to her eyes, confusion clouding his features. "I—Imogen, I like your hair." His tone softened, a rare crack in his usual sharp edges. "Why does this matter right now?"

"I don’t care about my hair," she snapped, then winced as pain lanced through her skull. She took a breath, forcing herself to calm down. "I just... I don’t want it."

Garrick studied her carefully, clearly trying to piece together why this was suddenly so important. "You just nearly died. Maybe this isn’t the time to be making style choices."

"This isn’t about style."

"Then what is it about?"

She opened her mouth, then shut it again. The words wouldn’t come. Her hands trembled as they curled into the blanket. Edine had held her beneath the water, bony hand tangled in her hair. No weapon, no training, no sheer force of will had saved her. Just dumb luck. Garrick finding her in time.

But next time? Next time, she might not be so lucky.

She forced herself to meet his gaze. "She used it against me."

Realization dawned in his eyes. His jaw tightened. "Edine."

Imogen nodded, swallowing hard. "She grabbed it. Pulled me under with it. I couldn’t—" Her breath hitched, the ghost of phantom hands in her hair making her skin crawl. "I couldn’t get away."

Garrick’s entire body went tense, like he was physically restraining himself from breaking something. Or someone. His hands curled into fists before slowly relaxing. He exhaled sharply through his nose, then stood, crossing the room without a word. He rummaged through Calla’s satchel, pulling out a small knife.

He turned back to her, expression unreadable. "You sure?"

She nodded. "Do it."

He sat beside her on the bed, his movements careful, reverent. "Sit up."

She tried, but her body was still too weak. Garrick sighed, then shifted, moving to sit behind her, his knees bracketing her sides. One of his hands slid around her waist, steadying her against him. The heat of him was grounding, solid.

"Hold still," he murmured.

The blade whispered through her hair, strands falling over her shoulders, onto the blankets. He worked methodically, with a precision that spoke to his training. She closed her eyes, each soft snip of the knife a weight lifting from her shoulders. With every strand that fell, she felt lighter. Freer.

When he finished, he set the knife aside and ran a careful hand through the shortened strands, his fingers brushing against the nape of her neck. "There."

She reached up, fingers ghosting over the jagged ends. It was uneven, a little rough, but it was hers. No one would ever use it against her again.

"Thank you," she whispered.

The fire burned low, casting only the faintest light across the cramped room. Outside, the wind howled against the walls, rattling the wooden shutters like a restless spirit. Imogen lay still beneath the heavy blankets, her body exhausted but her mind unwilling to let go. Sleep had teased her, pulling her into half-formed nightmares before spitting her back into wakefulness. Across from her, Garrick shifted in his chair, his arms crossed, eyes fixed on the dying embers.

"You’re not sleeping either," Imogen murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Garrick huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Didn’t really expect to."

Silence stretched between them for a moment before Imogen turned onto her side to face him fully. "So, what’s the plan? Where are we going?"

Garrick didn’t answer right away. His fingers drummed against his bicep, his thoughts a world away. Finally, he exhaled sharply and looked at her. "We find Xaden."

Imogen snorted. "You make it sound easy."

"It’s not," he admitted. "But Calla gave us a map. A damn good one. And we know exactly where he is."

Imogen frowned, her exhaustion making her slow on the uptake. "We do?"

Garrick nodded and reached inside his jacket, pulling out a crumpled letter. He smoothed it against his knee before handing it over. "Xaden told us he’s in Trivainne."

She hesitated before taking the letter, her eyes scanning the familiar letter. “My foster ‘family’ in Trivainne is more than happy to parade me around as the reformed rebel leader’s son.”

Imogen rubbed at her temple, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her. "This is a fool’s mission."

"Maybe," Garrick admitted. "But it’s the only one we’ve got."

He met her gaze head-on, steady, sure. His conviction was a force of its own, pressing against her doubts, making them feel smaller than they had a moment before. He believed in this—believed in Xaden, in the map, in the faint hope of something more than just running until they dropped.

Imogen let out a slow breath and set the letter aside. "Trivainne’s far."

"We’ll manage."

"I’m hurt."

"We’ll be careful."

She huffed a dry laugh. "That would be a first."

A hint of a smile tugged at Garrick’s mouth, but it didn’t last. He leaned back against the chair, looking at the fire, the lines of tension still carved deep into his face. "I know it’s not perfect. But I need to believe there’s a next step. A direction. Otherwise, what the hell are we even doing?"

Imogen swallowed. She understood that better than she wanted to admit. Drifting with no purpose, no plan—it was worse than dying.

"Alright," she murmured. "We go to Trivainne."

Garrick’s gaze flicked back to hers, a flicker of relief in his eyes. "Yeah?"

She smirked, shifting slightly beneath the blankets. "On one condition."

He raised a brow. "Here we go."

"You have to be nice to me on the ride," she said, folding her arms as if she were striking a deal of great importance. "Or I’m not coming."

Garrick scoffed. "Nice? When am I not nice?"

She gave him a pointed look. "Should I make a list?"

"Please don’t."

She smirked. 

Garrick groaned and leaned his head back against the chair, muttering something about how he should have left her in the bathroom. Imogen only grinned, settling deeper into the blankets.

Eventually, her breaths evened out, her body giving in to exhaustion. Garrick stayed where he was, listening to the wind against the shutters and the steady rhythm of her breathing.

She looked small beneath the blankets, her face pale, her frame still weak from the near-drowning. But even now, after everything, she remained unyielding. Unbreakable.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face.

Garrick stared at the dying embers, listening to the wind batter the shutters. The room felt colder now, the fire too weak to chase away the chill completely. His muscles ached from exhaustion.

With a sigh, Garrick pushed himself up from the chair, his limbs stiff. He told himself he was just checking on her, just making sure she was warm enough. But when he pulled back the blanket and eased onto the narrow cot beside her, he knew that was a lie.

She barely stirred as he settled in, her body naturally shifting toward the warmth he provided. He hesitated for only a moment before wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her close.

For warmth, he told himself.

For comfort, something quieter inside him admitted.

Her body relaxed against his, and he exhaled, letting his own tension bleed away as he rested his forehead against the back of her head.

This was nothing. Just survival. Just making sure she was okay.

But as sleep finally tugged at him, and the scent of her hair filled his lungs, he knew it was more than that.

Chapter Text

By midday, the cold had seeped deep into Garrick’s bones, but it was nothing compared to the gnawing unease twisting in his gut.

Imogen was leaning against him as they rode, her weight pressing heavily into his side. It wasn’t a conscious choice on her part—he could tell by the way her breath dragged, her body slumping forward. She was barely keeping herself upright, and every time he glanced at her face, the sight sent a fresh jolt of panic through him.

Her complexion, usually fair but lively, was ashen. Deep bruises had bloomed under her eyes, stark against the pallor of her skin. She hadn’t said much in the last hour, and that terrified him more than anything.

“We’re stopping,” he announced suddenly, adjusting his grip on her before she could protest. Not that she was in any shape to argue.

She made a weak sound of disagreement, but it lacked real fight. “We can’t afford to waste—”

“We’re stopping,” Garrick repeated, firmer this time. He didn’t give her a choice, guiding her toward a small clearing just off the road. There was a patch of grass beneath a mostly bare tree, its branches skeletal against the sky. 

She didn’t resist when he lowered her onto a thick earth. That was the worst part—Imogen always resisted.

Garrick crouched beside her, adjusting his cloak to drape over her shoulders. “You look like shit,” he muttered, hoping the tease would pull a reaction out of her.

She huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if she weren’t so exhausted. “Thanks.”

He frowned, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead. Her skin was too cold.

“You need to rest,” he said, more gently this time. “Just for a bit. We’ll keep going once you’ve got some strength back.”

Imogen blinked up at him, her gaze sluggish. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

He forced a grin. “Is it working?”

She hummed, eyes slipping shut. “Maybe.”

Garrick swallowed hard, shifting closer to brace her against him. She was too still, her body too limp. 

“We’re gonna be okay,” he murmured, more for himself than her. 

"You’re a terrible liar,” she mumbled, her lips barely moving.

Garrick let out a short laugh, adjusting his grip on her. “I am an excellent liar, actually. You’re just irritatingly good at reading me.”

A ghost of a smirk flickered across her lips, but it faded almost as quickly. “Lucky me.”

“Damn right, lucky you. You could’ve been stuck with someone far less charming.”

Imogen made a soft, breathy sound that might’ve been an attempt at a scoff. “Charming is not the word I’d use.”

“Oh? What word would you use?” He nudged her lightly, as if daring her to argue.

She hummed, her eyes still shut. “Stubborn. Bossy.”

“Rich, coming from you.”

Imogen cracked one eye open just enough to glare at him, but she was too tired to hold it. Her face slackened again, and her breath evened out.

Garrick’s chest tightened. Imogen was supposed to be unshakable—blazing with sharp wit and sharper instincts. Not barely conscious and pale as death.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. Moving her so soon after the attack had been a risk, but staying in that town had been a bigger one. If they’d lingered, Edine or Morhold would have found them. He knew he’d made the right choice.

That didn’t mean he had to like it.

The worst part was the silence. The absence of her usual fire. Imogen thrived on momentum, on action. But now she barely stirred, her breathing shallow, her body sagging into him.

Garrick clenched his jaw. He needed to get her somewhere safe. Somewhere she could actually recover.

Just a little longer, he told himself. Just until she wakes up. Then they’d keep moving.

__________________________________________

Garrick felt it before he heard it—the subtle shift in Imogen’s posture, the way her weight became just a little less burdensome against him. Then came the sigh, long and put-upon, followed by the smallest of movements as she straightened ever so slightly.

“If you keep looking at me like that,” she muttered, her voice hoarse but carrying a familiar edge, “I might actually start believing I’m dying.”

Garrick let out a breath that was somewhere between relief and exasperation. “Maybe don’t act like you’re dying, then.”

She gave him a weak glare, shifting under his cloak. “I was just… resting.”

“You were barely breathing, Imogen.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Dramatic.”

Garrick snorted. If she had the energy to be insufferable, she had the energy to keep moving.

Still, he didn’t rush her. They sat in the clearing for a little while longer, Imogen sipping from the water skin while Garrick forced some of their rations into her hands. She nibbled at the bread with all the enthusiasm of a child being force-fed boiled vegetables, but at least she was eating.

By the time they set off to the buggy, she was walking with more stability, her steps a little quicker, though he kept a hand hovering near her back just in case.

They made good progress, the miles rolling away beneath the steady clip of the horse’s hooves. Imogen was awake now, her gaze sharper, her occasional quips reminding him that she was still her.

At one point, she nudged his boot with her own. “So, tell me, horse thief, how exactly did you manage to steal this thing without getting caught?”

Garrick smirked, adjusting his grip on the reins. “I have my ways.”

“Uh-huh. You panicked and took the first horse you saw, didn’t you?”

Garrick scoffed. “That is slander, and I demand a retraction.”

Imogen smirked. “Bet it was the oldest, slowest one, too.”

Garrick glanced at the horse, who was looking a little winded, and scowled. “Shut up.”

Imogen let out a small laugh, the sound still weak but warm. It made something in his chest ease.

They rode in relative silence for a while, the steady rhythm of the horse’s hooves the only sound beyond the whisper of the wind. The sun did little to cut the cold, and though Garrick’s coat was wrapped tightly around Imogen, he could still feel the occasional shiver rack her body.

He hated this.

He glanced at her, pretending not to notice the way her eyelids fluttered, how she blinked sluggishly before forcing herself upright again.

Garrick exhaled slowly, focusing on the road ahead, but his mind was miles away. Every ounce of his attention was stretched between the reins in his hands and the woman beside him, her exhaustion a tangible weight pressing against his side.

“I have a question.”

Garrick blinked, glancing at her. Imogen’s voice was hoarse but carried that stubborn determination he was all too familiar with.

“What?”

She shifted slightly, grimacing as she adjusted her position. “Are you excited to see Xaden?”

Garrick hesitated. Excited? He hadn’t given himself the time to consider it. For so long, his mind had been occupied with survival, with protecting Imogen, with the constant fear gnawing at the edges of every decision he made. Xaden had been his best friend, once.

“I don’t know if ‘excited’ is the right word,” he admitted, gripping the reins a little tighter. “I haven’t had the time to think about it.”

Imogen hummed, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “That’s a very Garrick answer.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t let yourself want things. Not really.” She tilted her head, giving him a sidelong look. “But you do want to see him. You wouldn’t have called him your best friend if you didn’t.”

Garrick’s jaw tightened. “Things are different now.”

“Doesn’t mean you stopped caring.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “No. It doesn’t.”

Silence stretched between them for a few moments, the rhythmic clip of hooves filling the space where words should be. Garrick wasn’t sure how to explain what he was feeling—if he even understood it himself. Xaden had been a constant in his life, a brother in everything but blood. But now? After time apart, after everything that had happened? He didn’t know the man that would greet them.

Imogen leaned her head against his shoulder, her voice quieter now. “I think he’ll be happy to see you.”

Garrick swallowed hard, staring straight ahead. He hoped she was right.

As the sun began to set, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, Garrick felt the weight of the coming confrontation settle like a stone in his chest. They had made good time, but the last stretch of their journey felt endless. He could feel the unease gnawing at him—Xaden’s reaction, what his best friend would think when he saw him again. Would he still recognize the person before him, weighed down by guilt and loss? 

The wind picked up, biting into his skin, and he pulled the cloak tighter around both of them, trying to shield Imogen from the cold. She didn’t protest, barely moved, and Garrick felt his heart tighten again at the sight of her, so small against the vastness of their surroundings.

Imogen shifted slightly in the buggy, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’ll figure this out.” She paused, then added in a tone that was almost teasing, “You’re good at fixing things.”

Garrick chuckled softly, despite himself. 

The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the world in shadow. And as they rode into the night, Garrick made a quiet vow to himself. Whatever waited for them in the days ahead, whatever his reunion with Xaden brought, he would keep moving forward. He would keep fighting. Because, for better or worse, there was no turning back now.

Chapter Text

Xaden Riorson was not alone when they found him.

The town was livelier than Garrick had expected, given the biting chill in the air. Merchants called out their wares, townsfolk bustled through the narrow streets, and the scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the crisp breeze. It was almost easy to pretend things were normal.

But they weren’t.

Imogen swayed beside him, her steps uneven, and Garrick barely managed to keep his hand from reaching out to steady her. She would hate that. Hate looking weak, hate needing help. But the exhaustion written across her face told him she was already pushing herself too far.

He gritted his teeth and forced his focus ahead, scanning the crowded market for the familiar figure they had come to find.

It didn’t take long.

Xaden Riorson stood near a produce stall, flipping a coin between his fingers as he listened to an older vendor prattle on about crops. His presence was commanding, even here, surrounded by oblivious townspeople.

But he wasn’t alone.

Standing just behind him was a boy—lean, sharp-featured, and clearly younger than Xaden by at least a few years. He couldn’t have been much older than sixteen, but there was something in his stance that set him apart from the ordinary townsfolk. He held himself like a fighter, like someone who knew how to survive.

Garrick slowed his steps, his brows drawing together. Xaden’s last letter had explicitly stated he was alone. This was not alone.

As if sensing their approach, Xaden turned, his gaze locking onto them in an instant. Whatever amusement had been on his face before vanished the second he saw Imogen.

“Holy shit.”

Xaden closed the distance between them in three long strides, his sharp eyes raking over her. Imogen, to her credit, lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with the same stubborn fire she always had—but even that small movement nearly sent her toppling.

Garrick caught her elbow instinctively. She didn’t shake him off this time, which only made his concern grow.

“What the hell happened?” Xaden demanded, voice tight as he reached for her, but Garrick shifted subtly between them.

“You’re not alone,” Garrick said evenly, flicking his gaze toward the boy still standing behind Xaden.

Xaden followed his gaze and exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Not anymore.”

“Oh? Because you sent a letter saying you were alone, and yet here we are, and you are very much not alone.”

Xaden’s expression darkened. “I’ll explain later.”

Garrick scoffed. “That’s not good enough.”

“It’s going to have to be.” Xaden’s focus was already back on Imogen, who had gone worryingly quiet. “Because right now, we have bigger problems.”

Imogen’s lips parted as if to protest, but no words came. Her face had gone even paler, her breathing shallow. Garrick felt the shift in her balance before she fully lost it, and he barely caught her in time.

Xaden’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his dark gaze snapping to Garrick. “You want to tell me what the fuck happened to her?”

Garrick shifted Imogen’s weight in his arms, his own frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “I got her out.”

“Yeah? And nearly killed her in the process?” Xaden shot back, stepping closer, his presence towering. “She can barely stand, Garrick.”

Garrick let out a sharp breath, anger and guilt warring within him. “You think I don’t know that?”

Imogen made a weak noise of protest, her lips quirking into the ghost of a smirk. “I’m fine. I always look like this.”

Xaden swore under his breath, shaking his head before he turned back to her. Whatever rage he had been directing at Garrick a moment ago, he shoved it aside as he reached for Imogen. “You’re done walking.”

Before she could argue, he swept her up into his arms as though she weighed nothing.

Imogen tensed, her breath hitching. “Xaden—”

“Shut up,” he bit out. “Just this once, let someone help you.”

Her fingers curled into his jacket, but she didn’t fight him.

Garrick hesitated for half a second before falling into step beside him. “Where are we going?”

Xaden didn’t look back. “Follow me.”

The younger boy—who had been watching the exchange with sharp, assessing eyes—fell into step beside them. He kept close to Xaden’s right, a step behind but clearly familiar with him. The way he moved told Garrick he was more than just some stray Xaden had picked up.

“Liam,” Xaden said after a moment, nodding toward the boy. “He’s with me.”

Liam lifted his chin slightly in greeting. “And you’re Garrick.”

Garrick frowned. “You know me?”

Liam smirked faintly. “Xaden talks about you.”

Xaden let out a frustrated sigh. “Not the time.”

Garrick didn’t let it go. “You didn’t say anything about him in your letter.”

“And you didn’t say anything about dragging Imogen here half-dead,” Xaden shot back. “Seems we both left out some details.”

Garrick clenched his jaw but said nothing.

Xaden didn’t slow his pace, maneuvering through the streets as if he knew them well. “Liam and I are paired together.” He finally said after a stretch of silence. 

Garrick glanced at Liam again, something clicking into place. That’s why the boy carried himself like a fighter. Like a survivor. He was one of them.

Liam’s eyes flickered with something almost like amusement as he caught Garrick’s gaze. “Surprised?”

“More like wondering why Xaden conveniently forgot to mention you,” Garrick muttered.

Liam shrugged. 

Xaden ignored them both, his grip on Imogen steady as he led them through the winding streets, toward the outskirts of town.

“We’ll talk when we get inside,” Xaden said firmly. “For now, just move.”

The road ahead was lined with skeletal trees, their bare branches clawing at the overcast sky. The wind carried a sharp bite, but Garrick barely felt it. His focus remained on the two figures in front of him—Xaden, walking with unshakable purpose, and Imogen, still cradled in his arms.

Garrick should have been the one carrying her.

He swallowed the thought, forcing his jaw to unclench. It didn’t matter who carried her, as long as she made it inside somewhere warm. 

Beside him, Liam fell into step, his boots crunching against the frozen dirt. He walked with an easy stride, hands shoved into his pockets, but there was a sharpness to his gaze that Garrick didn’t miss.

“So,” Liam said, his voice cutting through the quiet, “have either of you heard anything about my sister?”

Garrick barely flicked his gaze toward him. “Who?”

“Sloane,” Liam said, his expression turning tight. “I was separated from her when they put us in different homes.”

Garrick exhaled sharply, his patience already wearing thin. He was exhausted. Imogen was barely hanging on. And now this kid was looking at him like he had answers to give.

“No,” Garrick said flatly.

Liam frowned. “Not at all?”

“No.”

A beat of silence passed before Liam tried again, this time directing his question at Imogen. “What about you?”

She didn’t respond—her head lolled slightly against Xaden’s shoulder. 

Liam sighed. “Right.”

Garrick cut him a glance. “What did you expect?”

Liam’s lips pressed into a firm line. “I’m expecting something. Anything. I figured someone might’ve heard a name, a whisper—”

“Well, we haven’t,” Garrick snapped.

Liam blinked at him, startled by the sharpness of his tone.

Garrick took a slow breath, reeling himself back in. Liam was just a kid looking for his sister. There was no reason to bite his head off.

But the stress, the exhaustion, the anger simmering just beneath the surface—it all felt like too much. Like if he didn’t direct it somewhere, he might drown in it.

Liam tilted his head, studying him in a way that made Garrick feel like an animal backed into a corner. “You always this pleasant, or am I just special?”

Garrick clenched his jaw. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“You deflect a lot of answers.”

Garrick almost laughed at that—almost. “Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”

Liam hummed. “Fair enough. I can take a hint.”

And yet, he didn’t walk away. He kept pace beside Garrick, persistent as ever.

Garrick found it… irritating. But not in a way that made him want to snap. Liam was annoying, sure, but he was trying all the same.

That didn’t mean he had any patience left, though.

“Look,” Garrick muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “I get it. You’re worried about your sister. You want answers. I just don’t have any to give you.”

Liam studied him for a long moment before nodding once. “Alright.”

Garrick huffed. “That easy?”

“That easy.”

Xaden’s voice cut through the moment. “Pick up the pace.”

Garrick’s irritation immediately flared again—not at Liam, but at Xaden. He hadn’t forgotten about that. About the secrets. About how Xaden had conveniently left out the part where he wasn’t actually alone.

“You’re not off the hook,” Garrick muttered.

Xaden didn’t slow down. “Never said I was.”

Garrick’s fingers curled into fists. He wasn’t about to let this go. Not after everything they had been through. Not after what had happened to Imogen.

He would get his answers.

Xaden carried Imogen as though she weighed nothing, his expression unreadable as he led them farther from the town and toward a worn, unassuming cottage tucked into the trees. 

Liam moved past Garrick, pushing the door open. Warmth and the scent of burning wood spilled out, the interior lit by the soft glow of firelight.

Xaden didn’t hesitate. He strode inside, and Garrick followed, shutting the door firmly behind him. The tension in his shoulders didn’t ease as he took in the space—sparse but functional. A sturdy wooden table stood in the center of the room, chairs scattered around it. A threadbare couch sat near the fireplace, the embers within casting flickering shadows across the walls. In the corner, a staircase led to what he assumed were bedrooms.

Xaden moved straight to the couch, kneeling to set Imogen down carefully. Her head lolled slightly before she forced her eyes open, taking in their surroundings with a sluggish, wary gaze.

“You going to stay conscious this time?” Xaden asked, voice quieter than before.

Imogen huffed weakly. “No promises.”

Garrick clenched his jaw, shoving down the worry twisting in his chest. Instead, he turned back to Xaden, crossing his arms. “Start talking.”

Xaden didn’t immediately respond. He was too busy adjusting a blanket over Imogen’s legs, making sure she was as comfortable as possible before he finally looked up. “Do we need to do this right now?”

Garrick scoffed. “You fucking serious?”

Xaden stood, his expression taut with frustration, but there was something else there too—exhaustion, maybe even regret. "I didn’t tell you about Liam because I didn’t know who would read my letter," he said, voice rough. "I was trying to keep everyone safe. It’s all I’ve ever done since the rebellion fell." His gaze flicked briefly to Imogen before snapping back. "I had to make sure you all survived, even if it meant keeping you in the dark."

Garrick’s jaw tensed, his pulse roaring in his ears. "You don’t get to decide that for me. For any of us." he bit out, stepping closer. 

Xaden’s expression flickered, but he didn’t respond. His hands curled into fists at his sides, like he didn’t know how to let go of a weight he’d carried for too long.

Imogen let out a weak sigh from the couch, drawing both their attention. Though exhaustion clung to her features, there was a clear frustration in her eyes. "This was supposed to be a happy reunion, you idiots," she muttered, voice hoarse. "Maybe save the brooding argument for later?"

Garrick exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. Xaden let out a slow breath, the fight draining from his shoulders.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the crackling of the fire. Then, begrudgingly, Xaden nodded. "Fine," he said, glancing at Imogen before meeting Garrick’s gaze again. 

Imogen rolled her eyes. "Good. Now let me sleep before I pass out just to escape the tension."

Xaden huffed a quiet laugh, adjusting the blanket around her again. "Fine. But only because I don’t want to deal with you being crabby when I have to introduce you to your new foster family."

Imogen managed the smallest of smirks before her eyes fluttered shut.

Chapter Text

Imogen remained on the couch, though she no longer felt like she needed to be there. The pillows propping her up were Garrick’s and Xaden’s doing, a compromise so they’d finally leave her be. Her body still ached, but she was far from the weakened state that had initially kept her confined to rest. Now, she was mostly staying put to avoid an argument.

Unfortunately, that meant she was at Liam’s mercy.

He sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch, talking without pause. 

“She’s going to be a rider, I know it,” he said, practically beaming at the thought. “She’s sharp and stubborn, way tougher than she looks. If I can make it through Basgiath, she’ll have no trouble at all.”

Imogen forced a small smile, though her chest tightened at his words. She envied the unwavering certainty in his voice, the pure, unshaken belief in his sister’s future. He had so much love for Sloane, so much hope. She swallowed against the bitter reminder that her own sister, Katrina, hadn’t been so lucky.

The memory of Katrina surfaced like a blade cutting through her thoughts. Katrina, who had been everything. Katrina, who had held her hand the night before the revolution turned to slaughter. Katrina, whose screams had been drowned by dragon fire.

Imogen swallowed, forcing herself to focus on Liam’s voice instead of the sharp pang in her chest.

“You’d like her,” Liam continued, oblivious to the storm raging inside Imogen’s head. “She’s got this way of looking at you like she already knows your worst secrets, but she won’t judge you for them. And she never gives up—just like you.”

Imogen scoffed, shaking her head. “I give up all the time, Liam.”

“No, you don’t.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You get knocked down. That’s different.”

She didn’t have the energy to argue with him, so she just rolled her eyes, which only made him smirk.

A beat of silence passed before Liam’s expression turned more calculating. “So… you and Garrick.”

Imogen groaned. 

Liam grinned, entirely unbothered by her exasperation. “You like him.”

“We’re friends.”

Liam gave her a skeptical look. “You like him.”

Imogen narrowed her eyes. “I do like him. As a friend.”

“You should tell him,” Liam pressed. “You know, if it’s more than that.”

She sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “There’s nothing to tell.”

Liam hummed, unconvinced. “Right. He’s just risking life and limb to make sure you don’t bleed out because of, what, friendly concern?”

Imogen shot him a glare, but he only grinned wider.

“Look, I’m just saying,” he continued, “if there’s something there, maybe don’t wait until it’s too late to figure it out.”

Imogen exhaled sharply. “You talk too much.”

“And you avoid things that make you feel too much.”

She had no retort to that, so she simply crossed her arms and scowled at him, which only made his amusement grow.

Liam shifted topics then, as if sensing he’d pushed enough. “Xaden asked about you, you know.”

She tilted her head. “About me?”

“Well, mostly about if you were resting or still being stubborn.”

She snorted. “I bet that was an interesting conversation.”

Liam grinned. “He’s hard on people, but he’s fair. And he cares a lot more than he lets on.”

Imogen nodded, already knowing that. Xaden might act like an unyielding force of nature, but he wasn’t heartless. He just couldn’t afford to be anything else.

__________________________________________

Xaden sat on the worn couch, elbows resting on his knees, eyes locked on the grain of the wooden floor. Liam sat across from him, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve, while Imogen and Garrick perched on the edge of their seats, waiting for someone to speak.

"They don’t bother us much," Xaden finally said, voice low but firm. "Long as we don’t bring trouble to the door, we’re free to do what we want. They aren’t looking to be parents, but they aren’t cruel either."

Liam nodded. "They just... exist. We exist. That’s the deal."

Garrick exhaled sharply. "So, we’re just supposed to keep our heads down and be grateful?"

"Better than some of the alternatives," Imogen muttered. They had seen the alternatives.

Xaden looked at her, gauging her expression before continuing. "They take the stipend and let us be. No curfews, no questions, just don’t screw up their arrangement. If we pitch you two staying, it has to be on their terms."

Liam straightened, eager to be helpful. "Which means making them think it’s easy. No extra work, no added risk. Just a bigger stipend for the same deal."

Imogen crossed her arms, skepticism evident in her posture. "And what happens if they say no?"

Xaden met her eyes without hesitation. "Then we find another way. But we start here."

"So how do we sell it?" Garrick finally asked, rolling his shoulders back as if preparing for battle.

Xaden leaned forward, strategy already forming in his mind. "We tell them it’s just two more people blending into the background. No trouble, no noise, just two more mouths at the table. We make it clear that nothing changes for them, except the money. If they push, we give them reassurances."

Liam hesitated before adding, "And if they push harder?"

Xaden’s jaw tightened. "They won’t. Because I won’t let them."

The weight of his words settled over them, thick and undeniable. He wasn't just talking about persuasion. He was making a promise. A threat, if necessary.

Imogen lifted her chin, strength flickering back into her expression. "I don’t need you to fight my battles for me."

Xaden's gaze was steady, unyielding. "I know. But I’m not letting either of you be thrown out just because some people can’t see past their own convenience."

Garrick scoffed, but there was no real malice in it. "So we’re a convenience now?"

"That’s exactly what we need them to think." Xaden tilted his head slightly. "Because if they see you as a problem, it’s over before we even start."

Imogen pushed off the chair and stood, eyes flashing. "I don’t like playing weak. I don’t like pretending I don’t take up space."

"Then don’t," Xaden countered. "But play smart. They don’t care about us—any of us. They care about what’s easy. So we make it easy.

Chapter Text

Xaden stood at the threshold of the small, dimly lit dining room, arms crossed, tension in every line of his posture. Garrick was at his side, his usual composed demeanor fraying at the edges. Behind them, Imogen remained propped up against the arm of the worn-out couch in the adjacent room, listening but keeping herself out of sight. 

Across the table sat their foster parents—Aidan and Marla Cadwell. Neither looked particularly interested in the conversation unfolding before them. Aidan, a man with graying hair and tired eyes, leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against the wood. Marla, sharp-featured and impassive, sipped her tea as though this discussion was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

“So,” Aidan drawled, gaze flicking between the two boys. “You’re asking us to take in two more strays.”

Garrick tensed beside Xaden, but he didn’t speak. They’d agreed Xaden would handle this.

“They wouldn’t be a problem,” Xaden said, voice steady. “They just need a place to stay. They’ll keep to themselves, follow the rules.”

Marla hummed, unimpressed. “And what’s in it for us?”

Xaden fought the urge to clench his fists. He had known this wouldn’t be easy, but hearing it phrased like a transaction still sent a bitter taste down his throat.

“The stipend would increase,” he said coolly. “Two extra mouths means more money for you. And they won’t step out of line.”

Aidan exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “You know the deal, Riorson. We don’t meddle. We keep our heads down, and in return, no one comes knocking. We don’t need more complications.”

“They’re not complications,” Xaden said, his voice dangerously close to a growl. 

Marla raised a brow, unimpressed. “And if one of them doesn’t make it? If that girl in there—Imogen, is it?—ends up being more trouble than she’s worth?”

Xaden’s expression darkened. Garrick stepped forward slightly, voice low and tight. “She’s not going to die.”

Aidan waved a hand dismissively. “We’re not saying no.” He leaned forward, his tired gaze locking onto Xaden’s. “We’re saying it’s your responsibility. You vouch for them, you make sure they don’t stir up any problems, and if this backfires, it’s on your head.”

Xaden’s jaw tightened, but he gave a curt nod. “Fine.”

Marla sighed, setting her cup down. “Then I suppose they can stay.”

The words should have felt like a victory, but instead, they sat heavy in the air, thick with unspoken conditions.

With that, Aidan and Marla left, clearly uninterested in anything further. The sound of the door shutting behind them echoed through the silence.

Garrick exhaled, but his shoulders remained tense. Xaden gave a single nod, then turned on his heel, walking back toward the living room without another word. 

Imogen watched them approach, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “So?”

“You’re in,” Xaden said. “For now.”

She nodded slowly, eyes flickering toward Garrick before settling back on Xaden. “And if they change their minds?”

Xaden’s voice was quiet but certain. “They won’t.”

Imogen sat propped against the pillows, frustration simmering just beneath her skin. The room felt too small, too stifling, filled with people who had already decided what she was capable of before she even had the chance to prove them wrong.

Xaden and Liam sat off to the side, deep in conversation.

"Aidan and Marla barely come around," Xaden was saying. "They live farther out on the property. As long as we don’t screw with their arrangement, they won’t bother with us."

Imogen barely listened. It didn’t matter. Whatever temporary roof they were under wouldn’t change the fact that she had to be ready for Basgiath. That they all did.

“We need to train,” she said, cutting through their conversation.

Garrick scoffed immediately, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. "You’re joking."

“I’m not.”

“You can barely sit upright on your own,” he shot back.

Imogen’s fingers curled into fists in the blanket draped over her lap. “I’m not asking to start sparring today,” she bit out. “But we need a plan. I need a plan. Basgiath isn’t going to wait for me to get better, and if you lot keep treating me like I’m made of glass, I won’t be ready when the time comes.”

Xaden rubbed at his temple, already looking exhausted with the brewing fight. “Imogen—”

“No, don’t start,” she cut him off, turning her attention back to Garrick. “You’re the one always talking about how we need to be prepared, how we can’t let anyone catch us off guard. But the second I say it, I’m the one being reckless?”

Garrick let out a sharp breath. “This isn’t about training, Imogen. This is about the fact that you almost died, and you need time to heal.”

She shot him a glare, anger rising like a wildfire. “And what happens when someone at Basgiath doesn’t give me time to heal? What happens when the second we step foot into that place, we’re fighting for our lives? Am I just supposed to hope they take pity on me? That they’ll give me a week to get back to full strength before they start pushing me off the parapet and attacking me in the hallways?”

Garrick’s jaw clenched, but she wasn’t finished.

“I know I’m not at full strength, but you’re acting like I’ll never get there. Like I’m incapable of pulling myself back up.” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “I need to be ready, Garrick. And I won’t be if you keep treating me like I need to be protected from everything, including myself.”

“You do need to be protected,” he snapped, voice sharper than before. “Because you won’t do it yourself.”

Her breath caught, but she refused to let it show.

Garrick ran a hand through his hair, clearly fighting to keep his emotions in check. “You keep pushing like this, and it’s going to kill you,” he said, softer now but no less intense. “You think I don’t know what Basgiath is going to be like? That I haven’t thought about it every damn day? You’re not wrong—we have to be ready. But pushing yourself into the ground before we even get there isn’t going to help you. It’s going to get you killed before you even have the chance to fight back.”

Imogen swallowed, her throat tight. “You’re not listening to me.”

“No,” he shot back. “You’re not listening to me.”

The room was thick with tension, neither of them backing down.

“I know you don’t want to feel weak, but letting people help you doesn’t make you weak, Imogen,” Garrick said, his voice low now, but raw with frustration. “You don’t have to do everything on your own.”

Her heart clenched, but she forced herself to keep her expression cold. “I won’t have a choice at Basgiath,” she said bitterly. “No one will help me.”

Garrick’s face twisted with something furious, something aching, and then—

“I will,” he roared, the words crashing into the silence like thunder. “Why can’t you see that I always will?” His chest heaved, his voice raw with something too sharp to name. “No matter the cost, no matter what happens, I will help you, Imogen.”

She sucked in a breath, her heart slamming against her ribs.

The anger in his voice wasn’t just anger—it was desperation, a plea she didn’t know what to do with.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the weight of his words hanging between them. Then, Garrick exhaled sharply and turned away, his hands braced on his hips like he was trying to rein himself back in.

Xaden sighed and stood. “Well. That went well.”

Liam shot him a look before glancing between Imogen and Garrick. “So… does this mean training is happening or not?”

Imogen hesitated, eyes flicking to Garrick. He didn’t look at her, but his shoulders were tense, his jaw locked tight.

“Yes,” she said finally, voice quieter than before. “It is.”

Garrick let out a low curse, shaking his head. But he didn’t argue.

And that was all the permission she needed.

Chapter Text

Garrick sat on the back steps of the house, elbows resting on his knees, staring out at the stretch of land before him. The sky was painted in the deep hues of dusk, the last remnants of daylight casting long shadows across the grass.

Xaden stepped out onto the porch, hands shoved into his pockets as he eyed Garrick. “You planning to sit out here all night?”

Garrick exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Just needed some air.”

Xaden hummed, stepping down to sit beside him. They stayed in silence for a moment, the air between them thick with unspoken things. Then, Xaden leaned back on his hands and said, “So. You and Imogen.”

Garrick tensed. “What about us?”

Xaden shot him a look. “Come on. You think I haven’t noticed?”

“There’s nothing to notice,” Garrick said, too quickly. “She’s like a sister to me.”

Xaden snorted. “That’s the biggest load of shit I’ve ever heard.”

Garrick frowned, his jaw tightening. “It’s not.”

Xaden turned fully to face him now, eyes sharp. “You don’t look at her like a sister, and you sure as hell don’t fight with her like one.”

Garrick let out a frustrated breath, rubbing his hands over his face. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters.”

“No,” Garrick snapped, turning to glare at him. “It doesn’t. Because if I—” He cut himself off, exhaling harshly, shaking his head. “It’s already bad enough that I almost lost her once. I can’t—” His voice faltered, and he swallowed hard before continuing. “I can’t risk getting close to her like that. If something happens to her, I—” He broke off again, hands clenching into fists.

Xaden studied him for a long moment before shaking his head. “You already are.”

Garrick’s brows pulled together. “What?”

“You’re already close to her like that,” Xaden said, voice even. “You’re already terrified of losing her. You think pretending it’s something else is going to make it hurt less if something happens?”

Garrick clenched his jaw, looking away.

Xaden scoffed. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but don’t expect me to believe it.” He pushed off the step, standing. “She means something to you. More than you’re willing to admit. And whether you want to face that or not, it’s not going to change the truth.”

Garrick stayed silent, his fingers digging into his knees.

Xaden turned to leave but paused at the doorway running his hands through his hair. “The reason I never mentioned Liam in my letter?” He exhaled sharply. “It’s because he’s not supposed to be here.”

Garrick’s stomach dropped. “What the hell does that mean?”

Xaden turned fully now, his expression unreadable. “He ran. From his last foster home. It wasn’t… good for him there.” His voice was tight, as if there was more he wasn’t saying. “He showed up here, and I couldn’t send him back.”

Garrick’s blood ran cold. “So what, you’ve just been hiding him?”

“It’s not hiding,” Xaden corrected, his voice firm. “It’s protecting him.”

Garrick let out a sharp breath, running a hand over his jaw. “Damn it, Xaden. What if they come looking for him?”

“They won’t,” Xaden said, steel in his voice. “And even if they did, I’m not letting him go back to that place.”

Garrick stared at him, trying to process the weight of what he’d just learned. Finally, he let out a slow breath and nodded. “Alright.”

Xaden’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say?” Garrick asked, shaking his head. “I get it. It’s the same thing Imogen and I are asking you to do.”

Xaden studied him for a beat longer, then nodded. “Good.” 

Garrick smirked faintly, shaking his head. “You’re not as heartless as you pretend to be, you know that?”

Xaden only nodded before heading back inside. 

The night air had cooled, but Garrick barely noticed as he stared out at the darkness swallowing the fields. Xaden had left him with too much to think about. 

Imogen.

The name sat heavy in his chest, pressing against his ribs like a weight he couldn’t shake. Xaden was right—he wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself. He didn’t see Imogen as a sister. He hadn’t for a long time.

But what was he supposed to do with that?

He couldn’t tell her.

Not when there was no future where it mattered. Not when Basgiath was waiting for them, when war was waiting for them. He might not make it through their first year, and the last thing Imogen needed was to carry the weight of his feelings with her.

It wasn’t fair.

Not to her.

And if he said the words out loud, if he let himself have even a moment of something more—what happened when he lost her?

Garrick ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. He needed to stop thinking like this. There was something else that mattered right now. Something she deserved to know.

Pushing himself up, he made his way back inside, moving on instinct toward the living room where Imogen had been staying. His knuckles rapped lightly against the door, and for a moment, there was only silence. Then, footsteps.

When the door swung open, Imogen stood there, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion lingering in them. “What do you want?”

Garrick hesitated. “Can we talk?”

Her brows pulled together slightly, but after a beat, she stepped back, letting him inside.

The room was dimly lit by the single candle on the small wooden table. Imogen folded her arms, leaning against the edge of the couch. “What is it?”

He took a breath. “It’s about Liam.”

Her stance shifted slightly, her expression tightening. “What about him?”

Garrick ran a hand through his hair, trying to find the right way to say this. “Xaden didn’t tell me about him in his letters because… Liam’s not supposed to be here.”

Imogen’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Garrick sighed. “He ran from his last foster home. It wasn’t—” He shook his head. “It wasn’t a good place for him. He showed up here, I guess, I’m not really sure about all the details.”

Imogen’s arms dropped, her face unreadable as she processed the information. Then, quietly, “Is he safe here?”

Garrick nodded. “As safe as we are.”

A beat of silence passed between them, heavy with things left unsaid.

Finally, Imogen spoke. “Why are you telling me this?”

Because you deserve to know. Because I trust you. Because I don’t want to keep things from you.

But none of those were the right answer.

Instead, he shrugged slightly. “Figured you’d want to know.”

Imogen studied him, her dark eyes searching his. He forced himself to hold her gaze, even as something twisted inside him.

Tell her.

The words formed, but he didn’t let them leave his lips.

Not now.

Not ever.

She didn’t need the burden of knowing how much she meant to him, how much he wished things were different.

So instead, he said nothing.

And after a moment, Imogen nodded. “Thanks for telling me.”

Garrick gave a short nod, stepping back toward the door. “See you in the morning.”

And before he could do something stupid, like stay, he walked out.

Chapter Text

Imogen lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her frustration simmering beneath her skin. Sleep was an impossibility with her thoughts spinning in circles, tangled up in the past, in Garrick, in the stupid hold he had over her. 

With a sharp exhale, she threw off the thin blanket and swung her legs over the side of the couch. If she wasn’t going to sleep, then she wasn’t going to sit here stewing in her anger either. Pushing to her feet, she moved with quiet purpose through the dimly lit house, the wooden floor cool beneath her bare feet. She knew exactly where she was going, knew she was making a mistake, but the need to confront him—to force him to see her, really see her—was stronger than her better judgment.

She reached his room and, without hesitation, pushed the door open. Garrick jerked awake instantly, muscles coiling as he sat up, his hand instinctively reaching for the knife he kept beneath his pillow. When his eyes landed on her, the tension in his body shifted from defensive to concerned.

"Imogen?" His voice came out hoarse, thick with sleep, but the edge of alarm cut through it like a blade. His gaze flickered over her—bare feet, arms crossed, a shadow of something unreadable in her eyes. "What’s wrong? Are you hurt?"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes like he was an idiot for even asking. "I’m fine."

The breath he’d been holding left him in a sharp exhale, relief giving way to irritation just as fast as it had come. He dragged a hand over his face, trying to shake off the lingering panic still clinging to his ribs. "Then what are you doing here?"

She stepped further inside, shutting the door behind her with a deliberate click. “We need to talk.”

Garrick narrowed his eyes. His pulse was still too fast, adrenaline still thrumming uselessly beneath his skin, and she was standing there like this wasn’t the middle of the damn night.

"Now?" he muttered, his voice thick with disbelief.

She lifted her chin in that stubborn way of hers. "Yes, now."

Garrick let his head fall back against the pillow with a groan, scrubbing both hands over his face this time. "Of course we do," he muttered, voice dripping with exasperation. "Because why wouldn’t you barge into my room at gods-damned midnight just to tell me I’m an ass?"

Imogen crossed her arms tighter, her glare cutting through the darkness. "I wasn’t going to say that."

Garrick rolled his head to the side to look at her, unimpressed. "No? Give it five minutes."

He watched her jaw tighten, watched the way her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeves. His irritation warred with the lingering instinct to check her for injuries anyway, just to be sure. Because this was Imogen—reckless, brilliant, infuriating Imogen—and no matter how hard she tried to act like nothing could touch her, he knew better.

Knew her better.

And that was the real problem, wasn’t it?

He muttered something under his breath but swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up fully. His hair was mussed from sleep, his shirt loose around his shoulders, and the sight of him like this—unguarded, real—made something twist in her chest. She shoved it down.

“I don’t want you to think you have to take care of me,” she said, forcing herself to keep her voice steady. “I can handle myself.”

His brows drew together. “I never said you couldn’t.”

“But you act like you have to be responsible for me.”

Garrick exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “What’s done is done, Imogen.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have,” he shot back, his voice taut with something she couldn’t quite place.

Her frustration boiled over. “You can’t just decide to carry this weight for me, Garrick. You don’t get to make that choice without asking me if I even want it.”

His eyes darkened. “You think I had a choice?”

They stared at each other, the air between them charged, crackling with something far more dangerous than anger. And then, suddenly, the space between them disappeared.

His hands were on her waist, pulling her to him, and her fingers fisted in his shirt as their mouths collided. It wasn’t soft or careful—it was desperate, reckless, years of unsaid things pouring into the kiss. His grip tightened, as if he was afraid she’d pull away, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Not now.

For once, there were no words, no arguments, no guilt.

Just them.

Just this.

Imogen pulled back abruptly, breathless, her fingers still fisted in Garrick’s shirt. Her wide eyes searched his, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths.

"You like me?" The words fell from her lips, more accusation than question.

Garrick just stared at her, stunned. He had thought it was obvious—painfully, infuriatingly obvious. Xaden certainly thought so. But now, faced with Imogen’s disbelief, he felt completely unmoored.

He swallowed hard, his voice rough when he finally spoke. "Are you serious?"

Imogen pulled away from him fully, pacing back toward the center of the room, arms crossing tightly over her chest. “No, you don’t get to act like this is obvious. You—you treat me like I’m a damn glass figurine about to shatter! You don’t even let me do anything!”

His frustration flared instantly. “You almost died, Imogen! What the hell do you expect me to do? Just—just act like that didn’t happen?”

“I expect you to let me fight for myself!” she snapped, spinning to face him. “I expect you to see me as more than some fragile thing you have to constantly protect. I expect you to—” She cut herself off, shaking her head like she didn’t even know what she was trying to say.

Garrick clenched his jaw, trying to reel himself in, but his chest ached with how unfair this was. “You think I don’t see you?” he asked, voice low. “You think I don’t know how strong you are? How stubborn and reckless and—” He huffed a sharp breath, running a hand over his face before looking at her again. “I see all of that, Imogen. But none of it changes the fact that I can’t—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “That I don’t want to lose you.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “You can’t protect me from everything, Garrick.”

His hands curled into fists. “I can damn well try.”

She stared at him, her frustration shifting into something else. Something almost vulnerable. “That’s the problem,” she murmured.

Garrick felt something crack inside him at the way she was looking at him, like he was breaking her heart without meaning to. He wanted to reach for her. He wanted to kiss her again, to stop this conversation from spiraling further into the mess of emotions they weren’t ready to face. But he didn’t.

Instead, he exhaled, his voice rough when he finally said, “I don’t know how to not protect you.”

Imogen’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. “And I don’t know how to live with someone constantly trying to.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Finally, Imogen let out a slow breath and shook her head. “I need to sleep.”

Garrick stepped forward before he could stop himself, voice sharp. “No. You don’t get to walk away from this.”

She froze, fingers twitching at her sides. When she turned back to him, her jaw was clenched, eyes burning with frustration. “Oh, I don’t?”

“No,” he said firmly, closing the space between them. “Because if you leave, we’re just going to pretend this didn’t happen. And I—” He swallowed, the weight of his next words making his chest feel too tight. “I don’t think I can do that.”

Imogen let out a sharp breath, running a hand through her hair. “You are so damn frustrating.”

Garrick scoffed. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black.”

She glared at him. “Why do you have to make this so complicated?”

“Me?” He let out a humorless laugh. “You’re acting like I’m out of my mind for having feelings for you.”

Imogen opened her mouth to argue, but then her face twisted like she didn’t even know what to say. Instead, she turned away from him, shaking her head. “I don’t know what you want me to do with this, Garrick.”

He let out a slow breath. “I want you to stop acting like it’s not real.”

Silence.

Imogen clenched her jaw, shoulders tight. “It doesn’t matter if it’s real.”

His heart twisted. “Of course it matters.”

She finally turned to him again, eyes flashing. “No, it doesn’t. Because what happens next, Garrick? Huh? We go to Basgiath and pretend this is something we can have? We act like it’s not going to get us killed? Like it’s not going to make everything harder ?” She huffed out a bitter laugh. “Because last I checked, we don’t get normal lives. We don’t get to—” She cut herself off, pressing her lips together.

Garrick took a breath, lowering his voice. “I don’t need normal, Imogen. I just need you.”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, her expression flickering with something unreadable. Then, quietly, she said, “You say that now. But what happens when it’s not enough?”

The question hit him like a punch to the gut.

She was afraid. Not of him. Not even of what was between them.

She was afraid of losing it.

But it didn’t change the fact that she was already everything to him.

Garrick exhaled, his voice quieter now. “We don’t have to figure out everything right now. But pretending it doesn’t exist? That’s not going to work.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes searching his. Finally, she let out a frustrated groan and pushed a hand down her face. “You’re an asshole.”

Garrick smirked faintly. “Never claimed otherwise.”

Imogen sighed, crossing her arms. “Fine. You want to fight it out? Then let’s fight.”

“You keep saying we can’t do this,” Garrick said, his voice low but edged with frustration. “But we have done this. We kissed, Imogen. That’s not nothing.”

Imogen rolled her eyes. “I never said it was nothing.”

“Then what the hell are we even fighting about?”

She threw up her hands. “You’re the one who demanded we fight it out, Garrick.”

“Because I’m not going to stand here and pretend I don’t want you!”

“Maybe you want me,” she snapped, stepping closer. “But I never said I liked you .”

Garrick barked out a laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Oh, come on.” He gestured between them. “That wasn’t just me in that kiss, Imogen.”

She folded her arms. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He let out a sharp breath, raking a hand through his hair. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re stubborn.”

“Yeah, because you’re making this harder than it has to be.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I didn’t realize I was supposed to throw myself into your arms and profess my undying love.”

Garrick’s mouth opened, but before he could get a word out, a new voice cut through the room.

“ Finally. ”

They both turned sharply to see Liam leaning against the now open door, arms crossed, looking far too pleased for someone who had clearly just rolled out of bed. His hair was sticking up in a dozen directions, and his shirt was askew, like he’d barely bothered pulling it on properly before making his grand entrance.

Imogen groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Garrick just pinched the bridge of his nose. “Liam.”

Liam smirked, stepping further into the room. “You two have been dancing around this since you rolled up . Do you have any idea how exhausting it’s been to watch?”

Garrick shot him a glare. “We’re in the middle of something.”

“Oh, I can tell,” Liam said, grinning. “And I, for one, think it’s hilarious. ”

Imogen scowled at him. “Go back to bed.”

“Nope,” Liam said cheerfully, leaning against the back of a chair. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Garrick let out a long sigh, shooting Imogen a look. “See? Even Liam knew.”

Liam nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, everyone knew.”

Imogen turned her glare on him. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Absolutely,” Liam said. “I’d even say this is better than sparring matches.”

Garrick shot him another warning look. “Not helping.”

“Not trying to,” Liam replied easily.

Imogen groaned again, rubbing her temples. “I hate you both.”

“No, you don’t,” Liam said smugly. “Especially not him.” He pointed at Garrick.

Garrick raised an eyebrow. “You’re really pushing it.”

Liam just grinned. “What? I’m just here to witness history in the making.”

Imogen muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like a string of very creative curses. Garrick smirked despite himself.

Liam clapped his hands together. “Well, I’ll leave you two to your very productive argument.” He gave them a pointed look. “But seriously. Figure it out. ” Then, with a dramatic yawn, he turned and walked out, leaving them alone again.

Silence stretched between them.

Garrick sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Look, can we just—” He exhaled, exhausted from the night’s fight. “Can we call a truce until morning?”

Imogen narrowed her eyes. “A truce?”

He nodded. “Yeah. No more arguing, no more throwing daggers with your eyes—just… stay. We can fight it out when we’re not dead on our feet.”

She hesitated, arms still folded, gaze flicking between him and the door. Part of her wanted to storm off, just to be difficult. But exhaustion was pressing in, and if she was being honest, the thought of leaving didn’t feel as satisfying as it should have.

Finally, she exhaled through her nose and rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

“Fine,” he echoed.

She pointed a warning finger at him. “But I will be winning this fight in the morning.”

He smirked. “Got it.”

With an exaggerated groan, Imogen flopped onto his bed, arms spread out like she was claiming it as her own. Garrick huffed a laugh but didn’t argue, just sat down beside her, leaning back until he was stretched out as well.

Silence settled over them.

Then, hesitantly, Imogen shifted, rolling onto her side. Garrick didn’t move—didn’t dare breathe—as she inched closer, testing some invisible boundary between them.

“This doesn’t mean I like you,” she muttered.

He chuckled, low and quiet. “Sure.”

Another pause. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, Imogen grabbed his arm and tugged it around her, nestling against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Garrick froze for half a second before letting himself relax, his other arm settling over her waist. “Comfortable?”

She made a small, sleepy noise of agreement, already drifting.

“Good,” he murmured.

And then, before he could overthink it, before she could find another reason to pull away, they both let sleep take them.

Chapter Text

Garrick woke first, blinking against the soft morning light that slipped through the curtains. The weight against his chest was unfamiliar, but the scent—wild air and something sharp, distinctly her—was not.

Imogen.

His arm was still wrapped around her, her breath warm where it ghosted over his collarbone. She was curled against him, one leg tangled with his, her fingers resting lightly on the fabric of his shirt like she’d held onto him in her sleep.

Garrick stayed still, unwilling to break the fragile quiet between them. This was the first time in as long as he could remember that he’d woken up without the weight of survival pressing down on him. No fights. No strategy. No knives hidden beneath his pillow, waiting for an attack that never came. Just this moment. Just her.

And for one, selfish second, he let himself wonder—could this be enough?

Could they stay like this, wrapped in the safety of an illusion, pretending that they weren’t standing on the edge of something dangerous? That Basgiath wasn’t waiting to claim them? That the ghosts of their pasts weren’t lurking just outside the door?

It was foolish. Reckless. And so achingly tempting it made his chest hurt.

Imogen shifted against him, murmuring something unintelligible before her body tensed. A slow inhale, a pause, then she stiffened completely.

She was awake.

Garrick braced himself, waiting for her to pull away, to snap at him, to pretend last night hadn’t happened. But she didn’t. Instead, she lay still, her breathing measured. And then—slowly, cautiously—she turned her head just enough to look at him.

Her green eyes met his, heavy with the same unspoken thoughts. The same unspoken want.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved.

We could have this.

The words hovered between them, unspoken but understood. They could choose to pretend, to carve out something soft in a world that had never allowed them softness.

But that wasn’t their reality.

Their future was already set, their path lined with war and duty and sacrifice. And no matter how much they wanted to ignore it, to chase the impossible, it would always catch up to them.

Imogen swallowed, her throat bobbing as she finally broke the silence. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

Garrick let out a quiet breath, something bitter curling in his chest. “No,” he agreed, though it tasted like a lie. “It doesn’t.”

Neither of them moved.

And then—

A loud bang against the door made them both jolt.

“Rise and shine, lovebirds!”

Liam. Of course.

Imogen groaned, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. “I am going to kill him.”

Garrick sighed, already resigned to whatever hell Liam was about to unleash. “You’ll have to get in line.”

The door creaked open just enough for Liam to poke his head in, his grin far too smug. “I see someone finally got a good night’s sleep.”

Imogen threw a pillow at him. Liam ducked, laughing. “Relax, I’m just here to deliver a message. Xaden made breakfast.”

Garrick sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. “Xaden cooked?”

“Apparently, he knows how to do more than just glower and sharpen knives.” Liam smirked. “Not that you two seemed like you were in a hurry to join us.”

Imogen grabbed another pillow. Liam took that as his cue to leave, calling over his shoulder, “Ten minutes before I start eating your share!”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving them alone once more.

Imogen exhaled slowly, running a hand through her hair. “This is a terrible idea.”

Garrick didn’t need to ask what this was.

“Probably,” he admitted.

She sat up, drawing her knees to her chest. “We should go.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

But neither of them moved.

Because this—the warmth, the quiet, the possibility—was something neither of them were ready to let go of. Not yet.

Not when it was the closest thing to peace they’d ever had.

The smell of something surprisingly appetizing pulled Garrick and Imogen toward the kitchen, though neither of them acknowledged the other as they walked side by side. The weight of the morning—of last night—still hung between them, but it was an unspoken agreement to not address it. Not here. Not yet.

Xaden was already at the table, arms crossed, watching Liam shovel food into his mouth with no regard for manners. Plates of eggs, bacon, and toast were set out—an actual, real breakfast, not just whatever scraps they could scavenge.

Imogen raised an eyebrow as she slid into a chair. “Did we get a new housemate, or am I hallucinating?”

Liam grinned, spearing a piece of bacon. “Right? Turns out Xaden’s been holding out on us.”

Xaden gave them both a flat look. “Don’t get used to it. I’m not your personal chef.”

Garrick smirked. “Yes, chef.”

Xaden ignored him, picking up his own plate. “I just figured, since it’s your first official day here, I’d make an exception.” His gaze flickered to Imogen briefly, and though he didn’t comment directly, his smirk was undeniable when he added, “Besides, you look… well rested.”

Imogen stilled, her fork hovering midair. Garrick didn’t move, but he could feel Liam’s grin from across the table.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Imogen muttered, stabbing her eggs with unnecessary force.

Liam laughed into his coffee.

Xaden, to his credit, didn’t push further. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and said, “Eat up. We’ve got work to do.”

Garrick glanced at him. “What kind of work?”

“Chopping wood,” Xaden answered. “And we need to go into town for supplies.”

Imogen nodded as if already bracing herself for the day. Xaden, however, leveled her with a look. “You don’t have to. You’re still recovering.”

Imogen scoffed. “I’m fine.”

“You were nearly dead on my floor a few days ago,” Xaden pointed out.

“I’m fine,” she repeated, her chin lifting defiantly. Then, eyes flashing, she turned to Garrick, daring him. “Unless you have a problem with it?”

Garrick met her gaze, the challenge clear. Before last night, before their fight, he would’ve argued. He would’ve pushed back, told her to rest, to stop being so damn stubborn.

But last night had changed something.

So instead of rising to the bait, instead of trying to control a fight that wasn’t his to fight, he simply shrugged. “Your choice.”

Imogen blinked. For a split second, she almost looked… surprised.

Liam choked on his coffee. “Wait. That’s it? No arguing? No ‘Imogen, you’re being reckless, let me save you’ speech?”

Garrick rolled his eyes. “Eat your damn breakfast, Liam.”

Liam smirked but didn’t press.

Xaden stood, pushing his plate away. “We leave in twenty minutes. Try not to kill each other before then.”

Imogen smirked at Garrick. “No promises.”

And for the first time that morning, Garrick found himself smirking back.

Chapter Text

The road to town was rough beneath their boots, the midday sun warming them. Imogen had insisted on carrying her own pack, walking with purpose despite the strain it clearly put on her still-healing body. She was good at hiding it—at masking the exhaustion in her limbs, the tightness in her movements—but Garrick saw. He always saw.

For the first half of the trip, he bit his tongue.

He let her stack small bundles of supplies in her arms when they visited the general store, let her stand in the sun for too long while haggling with a stubborn vendor, let her match their pace even when he could hear the faint hitch in her breathing.

He let her try.

And for the first time, he didn’t immediately push back. He wanted to see if she would stop herself before she reached the breaking point—if she could recognize her own limits without him constantly forcing them on her.

But by the time they were halfway through gathering their supplies, it was clear she was running on sheer force of will.

So when they reached the last stop—a small smithy on the edge of town—Garrick finally stepped in.

“You need to sit this one out.”

Imogen, busy adjusting the strap of her pack, barely spared him a glance. “I’m fine.”

“You say that,” he said evenly, “but you’re five seconds away from falling on your face.”

She frowned, clearly debating whether to argue, but then… she just sighed.

Garrick blinked. That was too easy.

“What?” she muttered when she noticed his confusion.

He tilted his head. “I expected more of a fight.”

She smirked faintly. “What, disappointed?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “A little.”

Imogen rolled her eyes but didn’t argue as she stepped out of the way, finding a shaded spot near the smithy’s entrance.

It wasn’t defeat.

It was trust.

Garrick nodded once before heading inside with Liam, resisting the urge to check over his shoulder.

She would be fine.

Imogen let out a slow breath, tilting her head back against the wooden bench. The shade cast by the smithy’s awning was a relief from the afternoon sun, but it did little to ease the exhaustion in her bones. She knew she’d pushed herself too hard. Knew that, for once, Garrick had been right to tell her to sit this one out.

That didn’t mean she had to like it.

Xaden sat beside her, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the street ahead. He hadn’t said much since the others disappeared into the smithy, just sat there, letting the silence settle between them.

She appreciated it.

Or, at least, she had—until she opened her mouth without really thinking.

“I feel bad.”

Xaden turned his head slightly, raising a brow. “For what?”

“For all of this.” She gestured vaguely. “For you having to take responsibility for me and Garrick. For getting us tangled up in your life, with your new foster family.”

He made a quiet, unimpressed noise. “You say that like I didn’t have a choice.”

She swallowed, hesitating. “Did you?”

Xaden exhaled, shaking his head. “Of course I did. And I chose you.”

Something about the certainty in his voice made her chest tighten.

Imogen shook her head. “I just—I regret it. That we made this harder for you.”

Xaden let out a slow breath, his expression unreadable. "You didn't make anything harder for me, Imogen. You were just… there. Like Garrick. Like Bohdi. Like Liam. It wasn’t a choice to take care of you—it was a choice to survive."

Imogen studied him, the steady way he spoke, as if he’d already made peace with it. Maybe he had. But it didn’t sit right with her. Not when she thought about the weight of those scars, of what they truly meant.

“You have one hundred and seven scars,” she said quietly, running her fingers over the edge of the bench.

Xaden didn’t move. He barely blinked.

Her throat tightened. “I watched.”

That got a reaction. A flicker in his expression, barely there before it was smothered by that same quiet control. He didn’t ask what she meant. He knew.

“I watched them drag you forward,” she continued, voice rough. “Watched the way your hands were bound, the way you fell to your knees.” Her fingers curled against the wood. 

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep going, forcing herself to say it out loud. “I counted every single one. I heard every single one.” Her voice turned into something raw, something bitter. “And you barely made a sound.”

Xaden let out a slow breath, but he still didn’t look at her.

She turned to him fully, anger and disbelief mixing into something thick and suffocating in her chest. “You didn’t even know most of them, Xaden.” She shook her head. “You took responsibility for people you barely spoke to. For kids who were just as terrified you, who would’ve crumbled if you hadn’t stepped forward.”

She clenched her jaw, remembering the way the other Marked Ones had stood frozen, unable to breathe, unable to move, while Xaden had held himself steady. "Seventeen, and you took all of it for us. How the hell do you make peace with that?"

Xaden exhaled through his nose, finally turning his head to look at her. His gaze was steady, unreadable. "Because someone had to."

Imogen scoffed. "That’s not an answer."

"It’s the only one that matters." His voice was quiet, but firm. "Would you have rather it been Garrick? Bohdi? Any of the others?"

Her chest ached. "No, but…" 

"Exactly." He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. "You say I didn’t know them, but I did. Maybe not by name, maybe not in the ways that mattered, but I knew what we were to them. I knew what that day would do to us if I didn’t take it." His jaw tensed. "They wanted us broken. I wasn’t going to let that happen."

Imogen studied him, trying to understand how someone could take on that kind of burden and not let it consume them. How he could still sit here, whole in ways none of them had any right to be.

“You shouldn’t have had to,” she murmured.

Xaden gave a small, humorless smile. “No. I shouldn’t have.”

After a while, he leaned back against the bench, tilting his head up toward the awning. “For what it’s worth, I don’t regret it.”

Imogen glanced at him. “No?”

He smirked faintly, but there was no humor in it. “I regret a lot of things. But not that.”

She didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know how to argue with someone who had already made peace with his own suffering.

So she didn’t.

Imogen stretched out her legs, letting her boots scuff against the dirt beneath the bench. The smithy doors were still closed, the rhythmic clang of metal on metal echoing from within as Garrick and Liam finished up inside. Xaden sat beside her, arms crossed, watching the street with that same unreadable expression he always wore when he didn’t want anyone knowing what he was thinking.

She let the silence linger for a bit before breaking it.

“You and Garrick,” she started, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “You were friends before all of this, right?”

Xaden didn’t look at her, but she saw the way his shoulders tensed just slightly. “Yeah. Since we were kids.”

Imogen tilted her head, studying him. “Neither of you talk about it much.”

“Not much to talk about,” he deflected, but she caught the way his fingers tapped against his arm, a subtle tell that he wasn’t as indifferent as he pretended to be.

She raised a brow. “You sure about that?”

Xaden finally turned his head, leveling her with a look. “You fishing for something, Imogen?”

She shrugged. “Just trying to figure out how someone like you ended up best friends with someone like him.”

A smirk tugged at Xaden’s lips, but there was something softer beneath it. “He’s an idiot, but he’s my idiot.”

Imogen snorted. “That’s almost sweet.”

“Don’t tell him I said it,” Xaden said dryly.

She considered him for a moment, the way his usual sharpness dulled just slightly when talking about Garrick. Imogen leaned her head back against the wooden bench, considering Xaden’s words. He had a way of brushing past things, of making them sound simple, when they were anything but. It frustrated her. She wondered if Garrick ever called him out on it. If he ever saw through Xaden’s bullshit the same way she did.

“You know,” she started, glancing at him, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you actually say it.”

Xaden raised a brow. “Say what?”

“That Garrick’s your best friend.” She smirked slightly. “Or your brother, or whatever it is you actually think of him.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “You’re really pushing this, aren’t you?”

“I just think it’s interesting,” she said, stretching her legs out. “You act like he’s just… there. But I see the way you watch his back. The way he watches yours. It’s more than just old friendship.”

Xaden was quiet for a moment, watching the street ahead. “I consider him family,” he admitted finally. “Always have.”

Imogen could only imagine. The lives they’d led before the rebellion, before the execution of their parents, had been shaped by war, by duty, by things children should never have had to carry.

“But it wasn’t just that,” Xaden continued, surprising her. “Garrick… he’s always been steady. Even when we were kids. Even when I was an arrogant little shit trying to prove myself. He never let me take myself too seriously. Never let me go too far down a path I couldn’t come back from.”

Imogen smirked slightly. “I bet you hated that.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Still do.”

She studied him, the way he spoke about Garrick with something almost like reverence. She had known they were close, had always understood that there was an unspoken bond between them. But this—this was something deeper. Something unshakable.

“I think he sees you the same way,” she said softly. “Like a brother.”

Xaden’s jaw flexed, but he nodded. “I know.”

A comfortable silence settled between them, the weight of unspoken things hanging in the air. Imogen let out a slow breath, feeling some of the tightness in her chest ease.

“You ever tell him any of this?” she asked after a while, glancing at Xaden from the corner of her eye.

He shot her a dry look. “What do you think?”

She snorted. “Right. Of course not.”

Xaden smirked faintly, but there was something softer in his eyes. “He knows.”

Imogen nodded, because she believed that. Garrick might not need the words, but she had no doubt he understood exactly where he stood with Xaden. That was just how they worked.

Xaden shot her a look, his smirk returning. “And speaking of Garrick…”

She groaned. “No. Don’t.”

His grin widened. “I’m just saying, I did notice that you two were particularly well-rested this morning.”

Imogen stiffened. “It wasn’t— We didn’t—” She clenched her jaw, glaring at him. “Shut up.”

Xaden outright laughed at that, shaking his head. “Relax. I don’t care what you two do. It’s just fascinating watching you squirm about it.”

“There’s nothing to squirm about,” she muttered, crossing her arms.

“Right,” Xaden drawled, amused. “So you’re not with Garrick?”

Imogen hesitated, pressing her lips together. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “We haven’t really… defined anything.”

Xaden raised a brow. “Do you want to?”

She looked away, staring out at the street. “I don’t know,” she repeated, quieter this time.

Xaden was silent for a moment before he said, “You know, not everything has to be a fight.”

She frowned, glancing back at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Xaden said, his tone pointed, “that you spend so much time bracing for things to go wrong, you don’t let yourself enjoy when something actually goes right.”

Imogen scoffed. “That’s because things do go wrong, Xaden. Always. You of all people should know that.”

His gaze was steady, unreadable again. “Maybe. But does that mean you never let yourself have nice things?”

She swallowed hard, something twisting inside her. “Maybe nice things aren’t worth the risk.”

Xaden sighed, shaking his head. “You really believe that?”

Imogen didn’t answer.

Because she wasn’t sure.

Xaden raised a brow. "You don’t know?"

She shot him a glare, but Xaden just leaned back against the bench. Before she could think of a retort, the smithy doors creaked open, and Garrick and Liam stepped outside, each carrying small, wrapped bundles of supplies.

"Miss us?" Liam asked, grinning as he adjusted his grip on the packages.

"Not particularly," Imogen deadpanned, standing up a little too quickly. Her muscles protested, but she ignored it. She would not give Xaden the satisfaction of seeing her squirm any further.

Garrick immediately noticed, his sharp gaze flicking to her with a silent question. She gave him a look that said don’t start, and, to his credit, he let it go. For now.

"How’d the negotiations go?" Xaden asked as he pushed himself up.

Liam snorted. "Well, Garrick’s face did that thing where he looks like he’s about to murder someone, so the guy folded pretty fast."

"I do not have a murder face," Garrick grumbled.

"Oh, you absolutely do," Imogen cut in, smirking now. "It’s very effective."

Garrick scowled, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away. "Glad I can be of service."

"Alright, let’s get moving before someone decides we’re loitering," Xaden said, adjusting his pack and starting down the road. The rest of them followed suit, falling into an easy rhythm as they made their way back.

By the time they made it back to the house, the sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the clearing. Imogen felt the exhaustion settle deep in her bones, but it was manageable. She wasn’t about to collapse. She wasn’t pushing past the point of no return. It was just tired. And that was progress.

“I’m sitting this one out,” she announced as they reached the house, glancing toward the stacked logs waiting to be split.

Garrick, standing beside her, exhaled quietly. It wasn’t relief, exactly, but something close. Pride, maybe. She was drawing her own lines when it came to her health—something he’d spent far too long trying (and failing) to do for her.

“Fair enough,” Xaden said, already shrugging off his jacket. “Not like we need the extra help.”

Imogen raised a brow but didn’t argue. Instead, she disappeared inside for a moment and returned dragging a chair across the porch, planting it in the dirt a few feet from the chopping block.

Liam stopped mid-step, frowning at her. “What are you doing?”

She sat down, crossing her legs. “Being involved.”

Xaden huffed a quiet laugh as he picked up the axe. Garrick just rolled his eyes, but a smirk tugged at his lips.

Liam scoffed. “If you’re gonna sit there, at least make yourself useful. Count how many times Xaden almost chops his own foot off.”

“That’s generous of you,” Imogen said, smirking. “I was only going to count how many times you do it.”

Liam flipped her off before grabbing a log.

They got to work, and to absolutely no one’s surprise, they were all terrible at it. Xaden, despite his usual confidence, lacked precision. He was strong enough, but his swings were messy, sending wood splintering in uneven chunks. Liam was only marginally better, though mostly in that he looked like he knew what he was doing, even when he absolutely did not. Garrick, ever the perfectionist, kept muttering curses under his breath when his strikes didn’t land exactly where he wanted them to.

Imogen took it all in with barely concealed amusement.

“So let me get this straight,” she said after watching Xaden botch his third log in a row. “You’re the ones who decided I was too weak to do this, and yet this is what I’m witnessing?”

Xaden turned, pointing the axe at her. “Do you want to do it instead?”

She held up her hands. “Oh no, please. Don’t let me stop you from absolutely humiliating yourselves.”

Garrick sighed, wiping sweat from his brow. “You know, you could at least pretend to be helpful.”

“I am being helpful,” Imogen said, leaning back in her chair. “I’m keeping morale up.”

Liam scoffed. “By mocking us?”

“Exactly.”

Xaden shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he reset his stance. Garrick caught Imogen’s eye, and she swore she saw the smallest hint of amusement in his expression before he looked away.

She settled in, watching them continue their struggle.

Maybe she wasn’t chopping wood.

But she was here.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The weeks passed in a blur of training, exhaustion, and an unshakable restlessness that settled deep in Imogen’s bones. Basgiath loomed closer each day, a shadow stretching over their future, and every second spent preparing felt like it wasn’t enough.

Finally, the boys had stopped brushing off her warnings and admitted that everyone needed to train. Xaden drilled them mercilessly, forcing them through combat sequences, endurance exercises, and agility drills that left them gasping for breath. Liam took it in stride, and even though Imogen had grown stronger since her recovery, she noticed something that made her blood boil.

They were going easy on her.

At first, she thought she was imagining it—Xaden’s hits a fraction slower, Liam pulling back just before a strike, even Garrick holding back during sparring. But as the days passed, it became undeniable. She was being handled. Coddled.

It infuriated her.

One evening, after another sparring session where Liam barely tried to pin her, she snapped.

“Stop!” she yelled, shoving him backward with enough force to send him stumbling. Her chest heaved, rage burning through her. “What the hell are you doing?”

Liam blinked, caught off guard. “Sparring?”

“No, you’re not,” she spat, turning her glare on Xaden and Garrick. “None of you are.”

Xaden crossed his arms, unfazed. “You’re improving, Imogen. You don’t need to—”

“Don’t patronize me,” she snarled, stepping toward him. “I’m not stupid, Xaden. I see what you’re doing—all of you. You think you’re helping me by holding back? You think you’re protecting me?” She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Newsflash: if you don’t prepare me properly, I’ll be dead the second I step into Basgiath.”

Garrick, who had been silent until now, took a careful step forward. “Imogen, that’s not—”

“Don’t,” she cut him off, voice sharp as a blade. “You’re doing it too, Garrick. You’re all treating me like I’m fragile, like I can’t handle this. But if you keep this up, I won’t be able to handle it. You’re setting me up to fail.”

A tense silence stretched between them.

Liam shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the ground. Xaden exhaled through his nose, rubbing his jaw as if she were a particularly frustrating problem he was trying to solve. But Garrick—he just looked at her, his expression unreadable.

Then, he stepped forward. “You really want us to stop holding back?”

Imogen’s eyes burned, but she lifted her chin. “Yes.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Fine.”

Before she could react, his foot hooked behind her ankle, and in a single swift motion, he knocked her off balance. She hit the ground hard, her breath leaving her in a painful gasp.

She barely had time to register the impact before he was on her, pinning her arms, his weight pressing down enough to make escape nearly impossible.

“Get up,” he ordered.

Fury and adrenaline surged through her as she twisted beneath him, throwing her knee up, but he anticipated the move, shifting to the side and keeping her trapped.

“Get. Up,” he repeated, his voice colder than she had ever heard it.

She growled in frustration, shifting her body and managing to slip one arm free. She elbowed him hard in the ribs, enough to make him grunt, but not enough to loosen his hold entirely.

This time, he didn’t let up.

They didn’t stop until she could barely stand, until her muscles screamed in protest and her skin was slick with sweat and dirt. But she knew, deep down, that this was what she had needed.

Later that night the house was quiet, the air thick with the exhaustion of the day’s training. Imogen sat on the porch steps, the cool night breeze brushing against her bruised skin. 

Footsteps creaked behind her. She didn’t have to turn to know it was him.

“You look like hell,” Garrick commented, sitting down beside her.

She huffed a laugh. “You don’t look much better.”

He smirked but didn’t argue. A beat of silence stretched between them. 

Eventually, he sighed. “How do you feel?”

She let her head fall back against the railing. “Like I got hit by a carriage. Twice.”

Garrick chuckled, but there was something more behind his expression—something contemplative. He was watching her closely, and she knew where this was going before he even said a word.

“So,” he started, his voice softer now, “are we ever going to talk about it?”

Her stomach twisted. “Talk about what?”

He gave her a pointed look. “Come on, Im. You know exactly what.”

She swallowed hard, eyes trained on the dark treetops ahead. The easy thing would be to brush it off, to pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about. But after everything, after all they had been through—she owed him honesty.

Even if she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear her own answer.

She exhaled slowly. “I think…” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “I think we’re mistaking this for something it’s not.”

Garrick’s brow furrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”

She tightened her arms around herself. “I think we’ve just been through shit together.” She shook her head. “That doesn’t mean we should be together.”

Garrick stared at her, his jaw tightening. “You really believe that?”

She forced herself to hold his gaze. “Don’t you?”

His lips parted like he was about to say something, but then he stopped, exhaling sharply through his nose. He looked away, rubbing a hand down his face.

After a long silence, he muttered, “I think that’s bullshit.”

Imogen flinched. “Garrick—”

“No.” He turned back to her, his expression unreadable. “You think we’re only doing this because of what we’ve been through? Fine. I’ll give you that—maybe it played a part. But you’ve been through shit with Xaden and you’re not bursting into his room late at night and kissing him.”

Imogen stiffened. “That’s not fair.”

Garrick let out a dry laugh. “Isn’t it?”

She turned to fully face him now, irritation flaring in her chest. “For the record, you kissed me.”

His brows shot up. “And you kissed me back.”

She scoffed. “Now we’re getting into semantics.”

“Semantics?” He leaned in slightly, his voice dipping lower. “Imogen—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Don’t sit here and pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

Her breath caught in her throat. He was right, and they both knew it. But admitting it felt like stepping onto a battlefield she wasn’t ready for.

Instead, she rolled her eyes. “Gods, you’re insufferable.”

Garrick smirked, but there was something more behind it—something unguarded. “And yet, you still put up with me.”

She sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “We’re not doing this right now.”

His smirk faded. “Will we ever?”

She didn’t have an answer for that.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You can try to convince yourself this is just survival instincts, but you and I both know better. The truth is, we care about each other. And you’re scared to admit it.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

He wasn’t wrong.

But that didn’t mean it changed anything.

Imogen clenched her jaw, staring out at the treetops beyond the porch. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears, a relentless drum of emotions she couldn’t quite suppress. Garrick’s words hung between them, thick and heavy, suffocating.

She swallowed hard. “It doesn’t change anything.”

Garrick huffed a quiet laugh, one devoid of humor. “You keep saying that, but it’s not true. It changes everything.”

She turned to him then, frustration flaring hot beneath her ribs. “Why? Because you decided it does?”

His eyes darkened. “No, because you can lie to yourself all you want, but don’t lie to me.”

Her breath hitched. She wanted to deny it, to push him away, to bury this deep where neither of them would have to face it. But Garrick had never been one to let things go.

She forced a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “So what? You think we get to just be together? That this is some fairytale where everything works out?”

He tilted his head, studying her with a gaze that made her stomach twist. “No. I think it’ll be a fucking disaster. But I also think it’s real.”

Her pulse pounded. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me,” he pressed, his voice quiet but unrelenting. “Tell me why you won’t let yourself have this.”

Imogen exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the porch steps. “Because it’s dangerous, Garrick. Because the second we step into Basgiath, everything changes. You know that. There won’t be room for this—whatever this is.”

He held her gaze, his expression unreadable. “That’s bullshit.”

She let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s not. It’s reality.”

Garrick was silent for a long moment, his jaw tight. Then, finally, he spoke. “You’re scared.”

Imogen flinched. “Of course, I’m scared. Aren’t you?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Not of this.”

She hated him for that—for how easily he could admit it, for how much he wanted to believe this could work. But she couldn’t afford to want it, too.

“You should be,” she muttered.

Garrick exhaled, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You want to push me away? Fine. But don’t expect me to pretend like this isn’t real.” He stood, stepping back from the porch railing. “I’ll be here when you’re ready to stop lying to yourself.”

She didn’t watch him walk away. She couldn’t. Because if she did, she might call him back.

Chapter Text

The tension in the house was suffocating. Not the kind that erupted into screaming matches or slammed doors, but the kind that settled deep in the bones, thick and unshakable.

Garrick wasn’t talking. Imogen wasn’t talking. And Liam was suffering because of it.

“I mean, if you two were going to break up, the least you could’ve done was actually date first,” Liam remarked as he leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed.

Imogen shot him a glare from where she sat at the table, staring into the depths of her untouched cup of tea. “We didn’t break up.”

“Right.” Liam nodded sagely. “You just mutually decided to continue pining for each other in silence while making everyone around you miserable.”

Garrick, who was cleaning his already-clean knife far too aggressively, tensed. “Liam.”

Liam held up his hands. “What? I’m just saying, this whole situation is dumb.” He turned to Imogen. “You like him.” Then to Garrick. “You like her.” Then back to Imogen. “You’re both moody as hell, so you clearly miss each other. Am I missing anything?”

“Yeah,” Imogen muttered, swirling her tea. “That reality exists.” She lifted her gaze just enough to meet Liam’s, her voice flat. “Also, we don’t miss each other. We live in the same house.”

Liam rolled his eyes. “Oh, right. Because living under the same roof is the same as actually talking to each other.” He gestured between them. “You two have been dancing around each other like a couple of idiots for weeks. If I have to sit through one more meal in silence, I’m throwing myself off the parapet.”

Imogen scoffed. “Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“No, dramatic is you two acting like some star-crossed lovers who were cruelly ripped apart by fate when in reality, you just decided to be miserable for no reason.” He tilted his head. “I mean, what was the actual logic behind this so-called decision? Because I gotta say, from the outside looking in, it seems like the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen some stupid things.”

Garrick let out a sharp breath through his nose, his fingers drumming against the counter. “Drop it, Liam.”

“Oh, sure. I’ll drop it.” Liam nodded, pushing off the counter and strolling toward the table. “I’ll drop it right after one of you admits that this whole situation is dumb and self-inflicted.” He plopped into the chair across from Imogen and leaned in. “C’mon, Imogen, be honest. Doesn’t it feel just a little ridiculous? You two were practically attached at the hip, then suddenly—poof!—now you’re strangers?”

Imogen clenched her jaw, but Liam wasn’t finished.

“And you.” He turned to Garrick, who was now gripping the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles had gone white. “You’re acting like some brooding tragic hero. Newsflash, —this isn’t a battlefield. You don’t have to martyr yourself over whatever self-sacrificing nonsense you’ve convinced yourself is noble.”

Garrick’s nostrils flared, but before he could snap back, the door swung open, letting in a gust of cool air and the scent of leather, sweat, and the lingering smokiness of dragon fire.

Xaden stepped inside, rolling his shoulders as he kicked the dirt from his boots. He barely spared them a glance before tugging his shirt over his head and using it to wipe his face.

Liam threw up his hands. “Oh, great, let’s just add to the misery parade.”

Xaden arched a brow, tossing his shirt over his shoulder. “What the hell are you on about?”

Liam jerked his chin toward Imogen and Garrick. “These two. You’d think they were being forced to suffer some unspeakable torment, but no, they just inflicted it on themselves. Honestly, I’m about one more awkward silence away from locking them in a room together until they work their shit out.”

Xaden let out a slow exhale, glancing between the two of them before dragging a hand through his hair. “I’d rather fight a pack of gryphons than deal with whatever this is.

Imogen groaned, slumping in her chair. “Perfect. Just what I needed—another opinion.”

“Yeah, well,” Xaden shrugged, “Liam’s not wrong. This whole thing is fucking ridiculous.”

Garrick, to his credit, said nothing. But the muscle in his jaw twitched as if he were biting back a retort.

Liam leaned back, satisfied. “See? Even Xaden thinks so, and he barely gives a shit about anyone’s personal lives.”

Xaden sighed, crossing his arms. “Look, either fix whatever the hell is going on or at least make it less obvious. The tension in this house is suffocating.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and unyielding.

Liam clapped his hands together. “Alright, well, this has been fun. Let me know when you two decide to stop being idiots.” He stood and strolled toward the door, whistling to himself as he went.

Xaden exhaled sharply. “Don’t know what’s going on with you two, and honestly? Don’t care.” He grabbed a rag from the counter and tossed it at Garrick’s chest. “But I need help outside, and you’re not doing anything useful in here, so let’s go.”

Garrick caught the rag with one hand, glaring up at him. “Not in the mood.”

Xaden raised a brow. “Don’t remember asking.”

Garrick considered refusing, just out of spite. But he knew Xaden. The other man wouldn’t let it go, and he didn’t feel like arguing. Besides, working in the cold sounded better than sitting in this damn kitchen.

With a sigh, he pushed back from the table and stood. “Fine.”

Xaden didn’t bother with a response—just turned and walked out, expecting Garrick to follow.

Outside, the wind bit at exposed skin, but the physical labor kept them warm. The property was large, and after the last storm, there was plenty to clean up—fallen branches, scattered debris, and fences that needed reinforcing.

They worked in silence for the most part. Garrick preferred it that way, and Xaden wasn’t the type to force conversation when it wasn’t necessary. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves, the occasional grunt of effort, and the rhythmic thud of wood being stacked.

At one point, Xaden gestured toward a particularly large fallen branch. “You get the heavy end.”

Garrick didn’t argue. He grabbed the thickest part and lifted, muscles straining as they maneuvered it toward the growing pile. Once it was down, Xaden wiped his hands on his pants and nodded. “Not bad.”

Garrick rolled his eyes. “High praise.”

They fell back into their routine, the quiet stretching between them, easy and unpressured. But as Garrick bent to pick up another branch, movement in the distance caught his eye.

A lone figure was approaching, walking the familiar path toward the house.

Garrick’s spine stiffened. He didn’t need to see the man’s face to recognize him.

Xaden noticed, too. He straightened, eyes narrowing as he followed Garrick’s gaze.

Their foster father was here.

His stride was purposeful, shoulders squared, gaze sharp as he took in the state of the property—and the two of them standing in the middle of it.

Xaden wiped the sweat from his forehead and straightened. He had no real respect for the man, not in any way that mattered, but he gave him what was owed—acknowledgment, duty, and enough deference to keep things civil.

Garrick, on the other hand, was still tense, gripping the branch in his hands like he might snap it in half.

Their foster father stopped a few paces away, giving them both a once-over before letting out a long, unimpressed sigh. “We have a problem.”

Xaden’s jaw tightened. He didn’t bother asking what it was. The man wasn’t here for small talk.

“There are rumors in town.” Their foster father’s voice was rough, lined with impatience. “Word is, someone’s looking for our two latest additions.” His gaze flicked between Xaden and Garrick. “A man named Morhold.”

The name landed like a fist to the gut.

Xaden didn’t react beyond a slow inhale, but Garrick went rigid beside him, his fingers whitening around the wood.

Their foster father either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “I don’t know who this bastard is, and I don’t want to. What I do know is that when those two showed up, I made it damn clear—there would be no issues. No trouble. No ghosts following you.” He gestured sharply toward the house. “And now there’s one at my doorstep.”

Xaden’s fingers twitched, but he stayed silent. He wasn’t about to defend them—not because he didn’t want to, but because he knew it wouldn’t make a difference. Their foster father wasn’t looking for an explanation. He was looking for a solution.

Garrick finally spoke, voice low and edged with something dangerous. “We didn’t invite him here.”

Their foster father gave him a flat look. “Doesn’t matter. He’s here.” His mouth pressed into a thin line. “You need to figure your shit out. Fast.”

Xaden met his gaze then, cool and unreadable. “We will.”

A long, heavy silence stretched between them before their foster father exhaled sharply. “Good.” Without another word, he turned and stalked back down the lane, leaving the warning hanging in the air behind him.

Garrick’s breath was slow and controlled, but Xaden could see the tension humming beneath the surface.

Morhold.

The name alone had changed the air around them.

Xaden watched their foster father disappear inside before glancing at Garrick. “We’re handling this.” It wasn’t a question.

Garrick’s grip on the branch finally loosened. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “We are.”

Because they didn’t have a choice.

Morhold was looking for them.

And that meant their past wasn’t done with them yet.

Chapter Text

Imogen knew something was wrong the moment Garrick walked into the room.

It wasn’t just the tension in his shoulders or the way he kept shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure whether to sit or stand. It was his eyes—stormy and hesitant, as if he were about to say something that would change everything.

She set down her book, barely paying attention to Liam’s curious glance from across the room. “What is it?”

Garrick didn’t answer right away. He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. Xaden was behind him, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching. Not stopping him.

That set off alarms in her head.

Imogen straightened. “Garrick.”

He swallowed and sat down across from her. For a moment, he just looked at her—like he was memorizing her face before saying something he knew she wouldn’t want to hear.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Morhold is looking for us.”

It was like the world tilted.

The name alone sent ice down her spine. She didn’t realize she had stopped breathing until her chest ached.

She blinked. “What?”

Garrick’s jaw tightened. “There are rumors in town. Someone’s been asking about us. Asking about you.” His voice dipped, turning sharp at the end. Protective. Angry. Terrified.

Imogen’s hands curled into fists. She forced herself to keep her expression blank, but inside, her stomach churned.

Morhold. 

She hadn’t spoken about him since they left. Not really. Not even to Garrick. Some things were better left buried.

But apparently, Morhold had other plans.

She exhaled slowly. “How sure are we?”

“Certain.” Garrick’s voice was grim.

Imogen stared at him, her heartbeat a war drum in her ears.

And then she laughed. It was short, humorless. “Right. Of course.”

Liam sat forward, frowning. “Uh, who the hell is Morhold?”

Neither she nor Garrick answered.

Xaden, however, spoke up from the doorway. “A problem.” His voice was flat.

Imogen’s head snapped toward him. “That’s an understatement.”

Xaden didn’t react. He just watched her, waiting.

She met Garrick’s gaze, voice low. “He’s not going to stop.”

“I know,” Garrick said, his hands gripping the table like he wanted to break it in half. “Which is why we’re not letting him get near you.”

Imogen shot up from her chair, the force of her movement sending it scraping against the wooden floor. “You’re acting like he’s only my problem,” she snapped, her pulse hammering against her ribs. “He’s after both of us, Garrick.”

Garrick didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as blink. He just looked at her, jaw clenched, a storm raging behind his eyes.

“He doesn’t want me the way he wants you,” he said, voice low, measured.

Imogen’s stomach twisted.

They both knew what he meant.

Xaden let out a slow breath from where he still leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed like he was watching a battle he had no intention of interfering with. Liam, on the other hand, looked between them, brows drawn together.

“Okay,” Liam said, “is someone going to explain what that means, or am I supposed to keep guessing?”

Neither of them answered.

Garrick stood then, running a hand through his hair, pacing a short line across the room. “He’ll try to kill me,” he said finally, evenly, like he was stating an objective fact. “That’s the worst he’ll do to me.”

Imogen’s fists tightened at her sides.

Garrick stopped pacing, his gaze finding hers again. “You know that’s not what he wants with you.”

Her stomach twisted harder.

She did know.

Liam swore under his breath, dragging a hand over his face. “This just keeps getting worse.”

Xaden, who had remained silent for most of the conversation, finally pushed off the doorframe, stepping further into the room. “So don’t let him find her.”

The words were simple. Obvious.

Imogen turned to him, incredulous. “You think it’s that easy?”

Xaden shrugged. “It’s the only real option.”

Imogen’s pulse was a steady roar in her ears as she stared at Xaden, his indifference grating against every nerve she had left.

“We don’t even know if he’s here,” she said, forcing her voice to remain level. “If he’s in town, or if he’s coming.”

Garrick shook his head. “If he’s asking questions, it means he’s close.”

“Or he’s sending someone else to do it for him,” Xaden pointed out. “Either way, we need to assume he’ll find this place sooner rather than later.”

Liam groaned from his seat, throwing up his hands. “Okay, I know I’m new to this whole trauma-drenched, secretive past thing you two have going on, but can someone please explain who the hell Morhold is ?”

Imogen ignored him, still staring down Garrick. “If we leave, we lose what little control we have. If we stay, we risk him showing up at our front door.”

Garrick’s hands clenched into fists. “He will show up at our front door.”

The certainty in his voice sent a chill down her spine.

Liam looked between them, exasperated. “I’m serious. Who is this guy?”

Xaden, still as composed as ever, turned his gaze to him. “Someone dangerous.”

“Thanks,” Liam deadpanned. “Super helpful.”

Garrick exhaled sharply and finally turned toward Liam. “He was our foster father before we ended up here.”

Liam frowned, glancing between them. “And?”

“And he was a monster,” Imogen said quietly, her stomach twisting at the memory.

Liam opened his mouth to respond, but something in her expression must have stopped him. For once, he didn’t press further.

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Then Xaden spoke. “We need to decide now. Are we staying, or are we running?”

Imogen and Garrick exchanged a glance.

Neither option felt safe.

Garrick’s jaw was locked so tight it looked like it might snap. His hands flexed at his sides, and his breathing rigid. 

Imogen knew that look.

He wanted to be the one to decide. He wanted to be the one to fix this. To protect her.

But he couldn’t.

Because no matter what he did, Morhold was still out there.

Xaden sighed, leaning against the table, watching him with mild impatience. “Garrick. Make the call.”

Garrick didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Liam looked between them all, his brows furrowed like he was just now realizing the weight of what was happening.

Imogen exhaled sharply and turned to Xaden. “We stay.”

Garrick’s head snapped toward her. “Imogen—”

She held up a hand, stopping whatever argument was about to come out of his mouth. “Running puts us at a disadvantage. We don’t know how close he is, and if we leave now, we could run straight into him. At least here, we have defenses.”

Xaden nodded. “Hunkering down, then.”

Imogen glanced at Garrick, daring him to challenge her decision.

He didn’t.

Not because he agreed. But because he couldn’t.

Because for the first time in a long time, Garrick didn’t know what to do.

And so, she made the choice for him.

She placed a hand on his arm, her touch grounding, steady. “We’ll be ready if he comes.”

Garrick swallowed hard, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Then, finally, he gave a single, sharp nod.

It wasn’t relief.

It wasn’t reassurance.

It was just acceptance.

Xaden didn’t waste time.

“Alright,” he said, pushing off the door frame, his expression set in something immovable. “You two are staying inside. No arguments.”

Imogen bristled. “Excuse me?”

Garrick said nothing. He still looked stuck in his own head, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Xaden barely spared her a glance. “We don’t know how close Morhold is, if he’s in town yet, or if he’s just sending people to ask questions. Until we do, neither of you are leaving this house.”

Imogen scoffed. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Xaden turned to her fully then, arms crossed. “I do. Especially if Garrick won’t.”

The room went deathly silent.

Garrick stiffened beside her, but he still didn’t say a word.

Imogen felt the jab, sharp and deep.

Xaden wasn’t wrong.

She hated that he wasn’t wrong.

Liam, sensing the tension reaching a breaking point, clapped his hands together. “So… we’re on lockdown, then? Feels a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

Xaden exhaled sharply. “No. I don’t.”

Liam shrugged, flopping onto the couch with exaggerated ease. “Well, if we’re going full bunker mode , I’m calling dibs on the best snacks.”

Imogen shot him a flat look. “This isn’t a game, Liam.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I know that. I also know that if we’re all going to be trapped in here together, someone has to keep the mood from suffocating us.”

Imogen was too on edge to let the tension leave her chest, but she saw Xaden’s shoulders relax slightly at Liam’s attempt at levity.

Liam smirked. “I mean, really. What’s the worst that happens? Morhold shows up, we kick his ass, and then we go back to pretending we’re normal, well-adjusted people?”

Garrick’s voice was quiet, hoarse. “It’s not that simple.”

Liam hesitated, glancing at him. “I know.”

For a moment, no one said anything.

Then Xaden sighed. “Look, just stay out of sight for now. Give me a little time to figure out exactly how bad this is.”

Imogen still hated the idea of sitting back and doing nothing. But Garrick still hadn’t pulled himself together enough to argue, and if she was being honest… she wasn’t sure what else they could do right now.

She exhaled slowly. “Fine.”

Xaden gave a sharp nod. “Good.”

Liam stretched his arms over his head. “Cool. Full bunker mode.”

Imogen groaned, rubbing her temples. “I swear to God, Liam—”

Liam grinned. “See? I’m already making this better.”

Chapter Text

As it turned out, full bunker mode was a complete disaster.

Imogen had spent the past hour pacing like a caged animal, arms crossed, frustration simmering beneath her skin. She hated waiting. Hated feeling powerless. Every second spent stuck inside only wound her nerves tighter, her thoughts spinning in endless, anxious circles.

Garrick, on the other hand, had gone eerily quiet. Too quiet. He sat at the table, unmoving, staring out the window like he could will Morhold out of existence through sheer force of will. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the chair, and the tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased in hours.

Liam, on the other hand, had fully committed to making the best of a bad situation. He lay sprawled across the couch like a king on his throne, arms tucked behind his head, one foot bouncing idly off the armrest. The picture of relaxation—except for the occasional glance he shot at Imogen and Garrick, as if waiting for one of them to snap.

“Well, since we’re all here,” he said cheerfully, stretching like he had all the time in the world, “I say we do something to pass the time. Board games? Storytelling? Emotional vulnerability?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

Imogen shot him a withering look. “Liam, I swear to God.”

He smirked. “What? I’m just saying, if we’re stuck in this house, we might as well enjoy ourselves. Otherwise, we’re just going to sit here brooding and glaring at each other like some sort of sad, emotionally repressed drama.”

“Liam, shut up,” Xaden said from where he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. There was no real heat behind it, though—if anything, it almost sounded like amusement.

Liam grinned, clearly pleased with himself. He tossed a pillow at Imogen, who caught it without thinking and promptly threw it back at his head. He yelped, but the laughter on his face told her he wasn’t actually offended.

Liam, fully emboldened by the brief moment of levity, propped himself up on his elbows. “Look, all I’m saying is that we’re trapped in a house with nothing to do, tensions are high, and we could all benefit from a little team bonding. Maybe a trust fall or two? Imogen, you wanna go first?”

Imogen scoffed. “You would let me hit the ground.”

Liam put a hand over his heart, mock-offended. “I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

“Only if it was funny.”

Garrick let out a sharp exhale, rubbing his temples. “For the love of the gods, can you both shut up ?”

Liam turned to Xaden. “You see what I have to deal with? I’m trying to bring a little joy into this dreary little hideout, and what do I get? Hostility.”

Xaden sighed. “You know, you could just sit quietly.”

Liam gasped in offense. “And deprive you all of my company? That seems cruel.”

Imogen groaned and flopped into a chair. “I take it back. Morhold, if you’re out there, come get him.”

Liam smirked. 

Xaden shook his head. “Alright, enough. We need to talk strategy.”

That got their attention.

Immediately, Garrick’s posture shifted, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table again. Imogen straightened, pushing aside whatever irritation Liam had stirred up. Even Liam sat up a little.

Xaden crossed the room and leaned against the table, facing them all. “We can’t just sit here waiting for Morhold to make a move. We need to figure out exactly what he knows, where he is, and if he’s actually in town or just sending people to sniff around.”

Imogen drummed her fingers on the armrest. “Which means you want to go out there.”

Xaden nodded. “Someone has to.”

Imogen considered it, then brightened. “Great. Take Liam.”

Liam let out an exaggerated gasp. “Betrayal. After everything we’ve been through.”

“You’ve been insufferable . ”

“Ah, so I have made an impact.”

Xaden pinched the bridge of his nose. “As much as I’d love to remove Liam from the premises, it’s not a good idea.”

Imogen sighed dramatically. “Damn.”

Xaden ignored her. “I don’t like the idea of leaving you two alone here.” His gaze flicked to Garrick, who had yet to say a word but still looked seconds away from either bolting out the door or putting his fist through the table. “Especially when Garrick is in his trigger-happy state.”

Garrick finally spoke, voice low and tense. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Xaden countered smoothly, “which is why I’m not leaving you here to make a rash decision while I’m gone.”

Garrick’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.

Imogen folded her arms. “So what’s your plan? Just sneak into town alone and hope no one notices?”

Xaden tilted his head. “You doubt me?”

She exhaled through her nose. “No. I doubt the safety of walking into a town where Morhold or his people might already be lurking.”

Xaden considered that for a moment, then shrugged. “I’ll be careful.”

Liam scoffed. “You could at least pretend to be worried about yourself.”

Xaden just smirked. “That’s your job.”

Liam rolled his eyes. “Fine. But if you’re not back in a reasonable amount of time, I’m coming after you.”

Imogen narrowed her eyes. “And if something goes wrong?”

Xaden met her gaze, unreadable. “Then you stay put.”

Silence.

Imogen hated it. Hated the idea of waiting around, doing nothing, while Xaden put himself in danger. But she also knew he was right. Someone had to figure out what was happening, and he was their best option.

Finally, she sighed. “Fine. But if you die, I’m bringing you back just to kill you again.”

Xaden smirked. “Noted.”

Liam nudged Imogen. “So you do care.”

She shoved him. “Shut up.”

Xaden grabbed his coat and headed for the door. “Try not to burn the house down while I’m gone.”

Liam grinned. “No promises.”

Imogen just watched Xaden go, her fingers twitching with the urge to follow.

The second the door clicked shut behind Xaden, Liam stretched his arms over his head and let out a dramatic sigh. “Welp. Looks like it’s just us, kids.”

Imogen groaned. “Don’t make this worse than it already is.”

“Me?” Liam pressed a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “ I’m the glue holding this sad little band of misfits together.”

Imogen snorted. “You’re the reason I have a headache.”

“Same thing.”

Liam flopped back onto the couch, draping himself across the cushions. His gaze flicked toward Garrick, who was still sitting stiffly at the table, hands clasped together like he was trying to keep himself from punching something.

Liam smirked. “So… trigger-happy, huh?”

Garrick didn’t look at him. “Shut up.”

“Didn’t deny it,” Liam pointed out.

Imogen sighed. “Liam, don’t poke the bear.”

Liam propped himself up on his elbows. “I’m just saying, Xaden really called it like he saw it. Trigger-happy.” He whistled. “What an interesting reputation to have.”

Garrick exhaled sharply through his nose, but didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he muttered, “Wouldn’t be a bad thing if I killed Morhold.”

Liam hummed, tilting his head. “Yeah, sure. And then what? You think he’s the only one we have to worry about?”

Garrick’s grip on the table tightened. “One less threat.”

“ One less,” Liam repeated. “Not the threat.”

Imogen watched as Liam’s usual teasing faded into something quieter, sharper. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “You kill him, you don’t solve the problem—you just send a whole new set of problems straight at us. And especially at you.”

Garrick finally looked at him, his expression unreadable. “Maybe that’s worth it.”

Liam’s jaw tensed, his usual easygoing attitude dimming for just a second. “No, it’s not.”

A beat of silence.

Imogen frowned. She wasn’t used to Liam sounding serious. He made jokes, deflected, lightened the mood when things got heavy. But this? 

He understood the risks. He always had.

Liam sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Look, I get it. I do. But if you go off and get yourself killed, that doesn’t help us. It doesn’t help anyone. ”

Garrick didn’t respond right away.

Finally, he sat back, exhaling through his nose. “Fine. No killing. Yet.”

Liam gave him a lopsided grin. “See? Progress.”

Imogen rolled her eyes. “That’s a very low bar.”

Liam wiggled his eyebrows. “That’s how I like it.”

She groaned. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet, you’d be lost without me.”

Garrick huffed. “I’d prefer being lost.”

Chapter Text

The air had thickened as the sun dipped lower behind the hills, casting a red glow over the landscape. Inside the house, the group was busy with evening chores, but an eerie tension settled over the room, like the calm before a storm.

It started with the sound of heavy boots crunching against the gravel outside. Liam was the first to react, his usual easygoing demeanor wiped clean off his face.

Garrick was already moving toward the door, jaw set, fingers curling into fists at his sides. Imogen’s heart hammered as she turned to the window. A quick glance confirmed her worst fear—Morhold wasn’t alone. Five men, all broad-shouldered and smelling of stale ale even from this distance, flanked him like loyal hunting dogs.

“We’re outnumbered,” she muttered, turning back to the others.

Liam scoffed. “Yeah, no shit.”

Garrick’s hand hovered over the knife at his hip, his entire body a coiled spring. “We can take them.”

“No, we can’t,” Imogen hissed. “Not without backup.”

Then, the door swung open with a sharp, grating noise that made everyone freeze. The sound of boots on gravel echoed outside, followed by harsh voices.

“Get out here, you two!” a booming voice called. “We’ve got business to settle!”

Garrick’s heart slammed against his chest as he exchanged a glance with Imogen. She turned pale, her eyes widening in recognition.

Imogen exchanged a glance with Garrick and Liam. They had seconds to decide—fight, run, or surrender. And running was already off the table.

Garrick exhaled through his nose. “We fight.”

“We die,” Liam corrected, but he was already rolling his shoulders, loosening up as if preparing for a brawl.

Before either of them could react, the heavy thud of boots grew louder, revealing the towering figure of their former foster father, his face twisted in rage. Behind him were a handful of men—familiar faces, all of them—the ones who had often visited Morhold’s home, drinking and laughing in the days when they still lived under his roof. But there was nothing jovial about their expressions now.

Garrick instinctively stepped in front of Imogen, a protective stance he could never seem to shake. Liam moved beside him, flexing his fingers, a sharp glint in his eyes. His usual smirk was gone—replaced by something cold, something dangerous.

“You’re a hard pair to find,” Morhold growled, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the room. “Thought you could run away and hide, did you? Thought you could steal from me?” His voice grew louder, more venomous. “That horse wasn’t yours to take, and neither is she.”

Garrick stepped forward, his jaw set with determination. “You’re not taking her. Not now, not ever.”

Morhold’s eyes flared with rage, and he took a step forward, his men following his lead. “You think you can stop me, boy? You’re nothing. You’ve always been nothing.” His hand shot out and grabbed Garrick by the collar, lifting him off the ground with ease, his breath hot and foul against Garrick’s face.

Liam didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, slamming his fist into Morhold’s side, forcing him to loosen his grip. Garrick dropped back to his feet, coughing, but before he could react, another man swung at him. He ducked, barely avoiding the punch, then retaliated with a sharp jab to the ribs.

Imogen took a step forward, heart racing, but before she could say anything, one of the men—Dane, a burly man who often carried a sharp knife tucked into his belt—reached for her. She froze, her body locking in place, her breath coming in shallow bursts.

“Let her go!” Garrick shouted, kicking and thrashing, but his father’s strength was overwhelming. The rest of the men moved closer, surrounding the three of them.

“You’ve caused me too much trouble,” Morhold snarled, his grip tightening. “And now you’re going to come back with me, like the good little thing you are. Or I’ll drag you back in pieces.”

Imogen’s legs nearly gave out beneath her as panic began to rise. She had lived through this before—the feeling of helplessness, the sensation of being caught in a trap with no way out. But she refused to let it happen again. Her hand shot out to grab a nearby object, a small cast-iron pot, and before she could think, she hurled it at one of Morhold’s men. The man yelped as it collided with his shoulder, but it did nothing to slow them down.

“No! Stay back!” Imogen shouted, her voice rising, but it felt weak, even to her own ears.

One of the men—Jonas, a lanky, twisted man with a permanent sneer on his face—turned toward her, eyes cold with malice. “Shut up, girl.” He lunged toward her, but she was already moving, stumbling back, only to be grabbed by another man who held her in place.

Liam spun, his fist connecting with the man’s jaw. “She said stay back,” he growled, yanking Imogen away from his grasp.

Garrick’s fury was building, his vision blurring as Morhold taunted him. “You think you can protect her? You’re nothing but a coward like your mother.”

The words cut through Garrick like a knife, the pain of old wounds resurfacing in an instant. His anger exploded—he didn’t think, didn’t plan—he just reacted. With a violent shove, he broke free from Morhold’s grip, knocking the man backward. In the chaos, a scuffle broke out, men shouting as they tried to gain control.

“Garrick!” Imogen screamed, but her voice was drowned out by the clamor of fists and harsh words.

Garrick fought to reach her, his chest heaving as he slammed his elbow into one of the men’s faces. Liam was beside him, throwing punches with brutal efficiency, but for every man they knocked down, another took their place.

But as the fight raged on, it became clear that they were outnumbered—and Morhold wasn’t going to let this go easily.

“Grab her!” one of the men shouted, reaching for Imogen once more.

Imogen fought, kicking and twisting, but the grip was too tight. The world seemed to close in on her as she was dragged toward the door, fear surging through her veins.

Liam cursed under his breath, shoving one of the men aside and lunging toward her, but a heavy blow to his ribs sent him stumbling. Garrick’s breath came in ragged gasps as he saw her being pulled away. His heart thundered in his chest, and he shot forward, a last-ditch effort to save her—but the force of several men brought him to the ground.

“No!” he shouted, but it was too late.

Morhold stood in the doorway, watching them with a grim expression. His eyes gleamed with victory. “You’re coming with me, Imogen. And this time, you’re staying.”

Imogen’s eyes met Garrick’s one last time, and in that brief moment, everything between them was clear—the shared pain, the bond they’d formed, and the utter helplessness in the face of Morhold’s cruelty.

With one final, defiant cry, Imogen was pulled into the night, and Garrick could do nothing but watch as she disappeared into the darkness.

The world blurred around Imogen as Morhold’s men seized her arms, their fingers biting into her skin. She forced herself not to flinch, not to show fear, even as the bile rose in her throat.

Behind her, Garrick was shouting. She couldn’t make out the words, only the raw desperation in his voice. Liam was pleading, trying to reason with them, as if monsters could be reasoned with.

None of it mattered.

The cold night air hit her as Morhold’s men dragged her outside. The sky stretched dark and endless above her, but the stars felt impossibly far away. Her heart pounded, her mind screaming at her to run, fight, do something, but her body remained frozen, rigid, as if accepting its fate.

She risked one last glance back at the house.

Garrick was at the doorway, his chest heaving, blood dripping from his face. He looked wild, broken.

She didn’t let herself hold his gaze.

Then Morhold shoved her toward the waiting carriage. She stumbled, barely catching herself before she hit the ground.

“You always had some fight in you,” he murmured, stepping close. His breath reeked of ale, his hands rough as he grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. “That’s what I like about you, girl. I do hope you don’t lose that too quickly.”

Imogen clenched her jaw, refusing to react.

He laughed, a low, satisfied sound, and released her before shoving her toward the carriage. The door swung open, yawning like the mouth of a beast, ready to swallow her whole.

She hesitated—just for a second.

Then she climbed inside.

The door slammed shut behind her.

The carriage jolted forward, pulling her away from Garrick. Away from freedom.

And toward whatever hell awaited her next.

The carriage rattled violently over the uneven road, the wooden wheels groaning under the weight of its passengers. Imogen sat stiffly on the worn bench, her hands resting limply in her lap. She kept her head down, her tangled hair shielding her face from Morhold’s leering glances.

The air inside the carriage was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and stale alcohol. Morhold’s men were speaking in low, drunken murmurs, occasionally laughing as though this were nothing more than an evening’s entertainment.

She clenched her jaw, biting back the nausea rising in her stomach.

Beside her, Morhold stretched out a leg, his boot knocking against her calf. He smirked. “You made the right choice, girl.”

She said nothing.

His fingers reached out, skimming the side of her face. She recoiled instinctively, but there was nowhere to go. He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at him.

“I always knew you’d come back to me,” he murmured. “You and that boy thought you could run, but you were always mine.”

Imogen’s pulse thundered, but she kept her face carefully blank. She wouldn’t let him see her fear.

Morhold studied her, his grip tightening for a heartbeat before he released her with a scoff. “Nothing to say? No sharp tongue this time?”

She turned her face away, staring out the tiny window. The darkened countryside blurred past, unfamiliar and endless.

Inside, her mind raced.

She had escaped him once.

She would do it again.

But she had to be smart. There was no use fighting here. She needed to wait—watch for an opening, a mistake.

Because she knew one thing for certain.

Garrick wouldn’t let her go without a fight.

Chapter Text

Imogen felt a sickening mix of fear, rage, and helplessness churn in her gut. The sense of control she’d fought so hard to maintain over the past few months—the feeling that she had finally begun to heal—was slipping away, and all she could feel was the same suffocating dread that had haunted her under Morhold’s roof for so long.

She tried to steady her breathing, but every movement of the carriage, every jerk and sway, made her heart race faster. Through the small barred window, she could see the dark silhouettes of the trees passing by, the world blurring outside as they rode deeper into the night.

Morhold was across from her now, glaring down at her with that all-too-familiar sneer. He didn’t even need to speak—his presence alone was enough to make her stomach churn. His breath was sour, reeking of liquor and sweat, and he watched her with a cold, calculating gaze.

“You thought you could run,” he spat, leaning in close. “You thought you could get away from me. But I always find you, girl. You belong to me.”

Imogen’s body went stiff, and she instinctively recoiled from his touch, her eyes burning with a mix of hatred and terror. She refused to let him see her fear, though it was consuming her from the inside out. But there was nothing she could do—no way to escape this nightmare, no way to fight back without facing worse consequences.

The carriage rumbled on through the night, the sound of the wheels turning like a constant reminder of her captivity. She was being taken back to the place she had fought so hard to escape—the place where her body and spirit had been broken time and time again. But this time, she wouldn’t be allowed to fight. She would be a prisoner, a puppet on a string, and Morhold would be the one pulling the threads.

Imogen’s body ached from the hours of travel, and every jolt of the carriage felt like another reminder of how far she had fallen from the fragile safety she’d once known. The men surrounding her were cruel, their laughter deafening in her ears, each moment a reminder that her world was slipping further away.

Morhold sat, the stink of alcohol heavy on his breath as he leaned in too close, his eyes dark with malice. His hand reached toward her face, fingers trembling with a kind of sadistic pleasure, and Imogen felt every muscle in her body stiffen in response.

“You know, girl,” he sneered, “you’re mine now. And when we get home, we’ll have much more time to… finalize things. You won’t be able to run anymore.”

Imogen recoiled, pressing herself as far into the corner as she could. Her heart hammered in her chest, her mind racing. She had no intention of submitting to him, not in any way. Not now, not ever.

As his lips neared hers, she braced herself. Her whole body was frozen in dread, but there was a flicker of something more—anger, determination, and a steady resolve. She turned her head sharply, blocking his kiss, her breath quick and shallow.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

For a moment, there was silence. Morhold’s face twisted in rage, his hand curling into a fist, but he seemed to think better of striking her. His laughter, cold and hollow, filled the space between them instead.

“You’re a stubborn one. But that’s just what makes the game more fun,” he spat, his eyes narrowing in sinister amusement. “I’ll break you, girl. Don’t think I won’t.”

Imogen’s thoughts raced, moving faster than her heartbeat. He was right. She was trapped. There was no escaping him now, not from the carriage, not from the men, not from the hell she was about to face. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe she could overpower him alone.

But that didn’t mean she was giving up.

A plan was forming in her mind—a plan that would require patience, strategy, and a small window of opportunity to slip free of this nightmare. She would wait. She would endure. And when the time came, she would escape, no matter the cost. There had to be a way.

As the carriage swayed and creaked along the road, Imogen’s mind returned to the things she knew best—how to stay unnoticed, how to blend into the shadows, how to survive. The weight of her circumstances pressed in on her, but she was resolute.

She could still fight back.

The night dragged on, and her body grew more exhausted by the hour, but her mind never faltered. She closed her eyes briefly, remembering Garrick, Xaden, and Liam—each one a beacon of strength, of something she had lost but still held onto in the deepest corners of her heart.

She would survive this. And when she did, she would make them all regret what they’d done.

__________________________________________

Garrick ran. Or at least, he tried to.

His legs burned, every step agony as he pushed his broken, battered body forward, lungs screaming for air. The night air was thick with the scent of blood and sweat, and the pounding of hooves against the dirt road was already fading, disappearing into the distance. He could still see the lantern glow from the carriage, a flickering, taunting light swallowed by the darkness of the trees.

Then it was gone.

He stumbled, his knees nearly giving out. His body refused to go any farther, betraying him in the worst possible moment. A sharp pain shot through his ribs where he’d taken the brunt of a kick earlier, and when he gasped, he swore he could taste blood in the back of his throat.

Still, he tried to force himself forward.

“Garrick, stop!” Liam’s voice was strained, raw, but it held enough command that Garrick faltered. “You can’t—”

“I have to,” Garrick snarled, shoving his hands into his thighs as he tried to keep himself upright. His vision blurred, the weight of failure pressing down on him heavier than any injury. “I have to go after her. I have to—”

But his body had other plans. His legs buckled beneath him, and he hit the ground hard, palms scraping against the rough dirt. The only thing louder than the sound of his ragged breathing was the receding echo of the carriage wheels.

Imogen was gone.

Garrick let out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound bitter and hollow in his own ears. Of course. Of course it ended like this. He’d fought with everything he had, but it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough.

He laughed again, shaking his head. The irony of it all—the months spent keeping her safe, the battles they’d fought together—only for this to happen. Only for Morhold to drag her back into the hell she’d barely escaped from.

Liam groaned from somewhere behind him, rolling onto his side with a pained grimace. “You alive?”

“Barely.” Garrick exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself up onto his elbows. Every part of him hurt, but none of it mattered. None of it compared to the hollow ache in his chest.

Liam wiped at the blood on his mouth with the back of his hand before sitting up with a wince. He touched the cut above his brow and hissed at the sting. “That bastard took her,” he muttered darkly, eyes locked on the road where the carriage had vanished. His hands clenched into fists. “We have to go after them.”

Garrick let out another low, humorless chuckle. “No shit.”

“Glad we’re in agreement.” Liam rocked forward onto his knees, planting his hands on his thighs. “So what’s the plan, genius? Because in case you haven’t noticed, they’ve got a head start. Even if we get the horses, they know these roads better than we do. We’ll never catch them in time.”

Garrick ground his teeth together. He hated that Liam was right.

There was no point in blind pursuit. Not like this. They were too injured, too slow. Even at full strength, their odds of catching Morhold’s men before they reached their destination were slim to none.

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to think past the frustration, past the helplessness clawing at his ribs.

If they couldn’t chase Morhold down… they had to get ahead of him.

“We need to get to town,” Garrick said finally, voice hoarse but resolute. “We need to find Xaden.”

Liam let out an exhausted groan, tipping his head back to glare at the stars as if they were personally responsible for his suffering. “Of course we do,” he muttered. Then, after a beat: “Gods, we’re idiots for having him leave, weren’t we?”

Garrick scoffed, pushing himself up onto shaky legs. “Seems like we’re full of dumb ideas these days.”

Liam sighed and got to his feet, cracking his neck with a wince. “No argument there.” He looked Garrick up and down, frowning. “You think you can make it?”

Garrick rolled his shoulders, testing the limits of his battered body. His ribs protested, his muscles screamed, but he could move. “I don’t have a choice.”

“Great. Let’s go break the news to Xaden.” Liam took a step, then hesitated. “You do realize he’s going to be pissed, right?”

Garrick exhaled sharply. “Yeah. No shit.”

Liam gave him a pointed look. “Like, really pissed.”

Garrick dragged a hand down his face. “I know.”

Liam smirked despite the situation, wiping blood from his split lip. “You worried he’s going to yell at you?”

“I’m worried he’s going to kill us both,” Garrick admitted, deadpan.

Liam snorted. “You’re more worried about Xaden being mad than you are about Imogen getting dragged back into hell?”

Garrick bristled. “That’s not—”

“Oh my gods,” Liam groaned, throwing his hands in the air. “Just admit she’s the love of your life already so we can focus on the real problem.”

Garrick scowled. “That’s not—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night.” Liam waved a hand, already turning toward the road. “Let’s go.”

Garrick clenched his jaw, ignoring the way his chest tightened at Liam’s words. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. The only thing that did was getting to Xaden, finding a way to stop Morhold, and getting Imogen back before it was too late.

They had to move. Now.

Swallowing back the pain, the exhaustion, and the sickening fear curling in his gut, Garrick took a deep breath and forced one foot in front of the other. Then another. And another.

By the time they reached town, his limbs felt like lead, his lungs burning with every breath. But it didn’t matter.

They had a massive problem to deal with.

And Xaden needed to know—before it was too late.

Chapter Text

Garrick barely slowed. His body ached from head to toe, his muscles screaming in protest, but he refused to stop. Every second they wasted was another second Imogen was in Morhold’s grasp. The thought alone sent a fresh surge of rage through his veins.

Liam jogged beside him, cursing under his breath. “I swear, if you get us killed by sheer stupidity, I’m going to find a way to haunt you in the afterlife.”

“There is no afterlife, of that I’m sure,” Garrick grunted.

Liam shot him a glare, but there was no real heat behind it. “And before you say it, no, I’m not slowing down because I’m weak. I’m slowing down because unlike you, I think before I act.”

Garrick snorted. “That why you punched a guy twice your size back there?”

“Hey, I landed that hit,” Liam shot back. “Not my fault his skull was built like a damn boulder.”

Garrick didn’t answer. He focused on the familiar streets, barely lit under the pale moonlight. They had sent Xaden to town earlier to try and gain information on Morhold’s whereabouts. That plan seemed like a cruel joke now. What good was intel when Morhold had already acted? They should have never split up.

He ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, frustration bubbling in his chest. “Where the hell do you think Xaden is?”

Liam sighed, slowing to a walk as they reached the edge of town. “If we were smart, we would’ve set a meeting spot. But since we apparently don’t do smart things, I’d say we have two options—check the tavern, or check the inn.”

“Or,” Garrick added, “we could just stand here and hope he appears out of thin air.”

Liam rolled his eyes. “You joke, but knowing our luck, he probably left town an hour ago and we’re about to waste time looking for a ghost.”

“Great. So we’re idiots.”

“Clearly.”

They exchanged a look, then both sighed.

“Tavern first?” Liam suggested.

“Yeah,” Garrick muttered, already dreading the possibility that they’d have to search the entire damn town in the dead of night. “And if he’s not there, we start knocking on doors.”

Liam groaned. “He’s going to be pissed at us, isn’t he?”

Garrick grimaced. “I mean… yeah. Probably.”

Liam scoffed. “Pissed? Garrick, we just let Morhold steal Imogen right out from under us. He’s going to kill us.”

“Hey,” Garrick snapped, though his stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought. “We didn’t let anything happen. We fought.”

“And we lost,” Liam pointed out bluntly.

Garrick clenched his jaw. “We’re fixing it.”

Liam looked at him for a long moment before shaking his head. “Fine. But let’s be honest, the real reason you’re dreading telling Xaden is because you know he’s going to give you a big ass speech about being in love with her.”

Garrick stiffened. “I am not—”

Liam groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. The love of your life just got kidnapped by a psycho, and you’re still denying it?”

“She’s not the love of my life,” Garrick snapped.

Liam gave him a flat look.

Garrick scowled. “Shut up.”

Liam smirked. “Tavern it is, then.”

The tavern was louder than Garrick had anticipated, the kind of noise that made it easy to disappear in a crowd. Laughter rang out over the clatter of mugs and the occasional slam of a fist against a wooden table. The air was thick with the scent of stale ale and sweat, but neither he nor Liam hesitated as they pushed through the throng of people.

Xaden was exactly where they expected to find him—propped up at the bar, one elbow slung lazily over the counter, a smirk playing at his lips. A half-empty mug dangled from his fingers, and his dark eyes flicked between the locals like he was cataloging every piece of information being spilled over too many drinks. To anyone else, he looked like he belonged there, just another traveler taking advantage of a warm tavern and easy company.

But Garrick saw through the act.

He saw the way Xaden’s fingers twitched against his mug, how his posture wasn’t nearly as relaxed as he wanted it to seem. He was on edge—too aware, too ready to move at a moment’s notice. And, if the faint flush on his face was any indication, he was also buzzed.

Of course he was.

Garrick grabbed Xaden’s shoulder roughly, cutting off whatever smooth line he was about to deliver to the red-haired barmaid leaning in too close. “We need to talk.”

Xaden turned, his brows pulling together in a half-second of genuine confusion before he took in their appearances—bloodied, bruised, and barely upright. The tension in his shoulders coiled tighter.

Liam didn’t wait for him to ask questions. “Now.”

Xaden exhaled sharply, like he was already sick of whatever they were about to say, but shoved off his stool anyway. He snatched his mug from the bar and took a slow, deliberate sip. “Alright, alright. But if this isn’t life or death, I swear—”

“It is,” Garrick muttered.

That got his attention.

Xaden frowned, letting them drag him outside into the dimly lit street. The tavern door thudded shut behind them, muffling the noise inside, leaving only the distant murmur of the town and the occasional flicker of lantern light against the cobblestones.

Xaden leaned against the wall, his grip still firm around his mug. “You two look like shit.”

Liam huffed. “Feel worse.”

Garrick didn’t take the bait. “Did you find anything?”

Xaden rolled his shoulders, taking another slow sip like he had all the time in the world. “As a matter of fact, yeah. You’re going to love this.” His smirk was back, but there was an edge to it. “Seems Morhold’s been thrown off our scent. Word is, he’s wasting time tracking rumors that lead nowhere.” He took another sip, shaking his head. “I’d say we’ve got a little breathing room.”

Neither Garrick nor Liam said a word.

Xaden’s smirk flickered, then vanished completely. His fingers drummed against his mug. “Why do I feel like you’re not about to congratulate me?”

The silence stretched.

Then Xaden’s gaze sharpened. Even tipsy, he was too damn perceptive for his own good. His eyes flicked between them, taking in every shift of their stances, every hesitation.

He straightened slowly, his fingers tightening around the handle of his mug.

“Where’s Imogen?”

Garrick clenched his jaw.

Liam exhaled. “Shit.”

Xaden’s breathing changed, deep and measured like he was keeping himself from launching at them right then and there. His grip on his mug went white-knuckled. “Where. Is. She?”

Garrick forced himself to meet his gaze. “Morhold has her.”

The words hit like a hammer.

Xaden didn’t move. Didn’t blink. The only sign of life was the muscle ticking in his jaw.

Then, without warning, his mug shattered against the cobblestones.

“Gods damn it!” He roared, chest heaving. He turned on them, the rage rolling off him like a storm. “You let this happen?”

Liam groaned. “Oh, here we go—”

“What the hell did you expect us to do?” Garrick snapped, stepping into Xaden’s space. “She was outnumbered! We were outnumbered! We didn’t exactly have a choice.”

Xaden shoved him, his breath reeking of ale. “You should have fought harder.”

Garrick didn’t think. He swung.

Xaden ducked—just barely—but the stumble in his step gave him away. He was fast, but not as fast as he should’ve been. He wasn’t just buzzed. He was drunk enough that it had slowed him down.

“You’re drunk,” Garrick snarled.

Xaden wiped at his mouth, nostrils flaring. “I was working.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” Garrick shoved him back. “Imogen is with Morhold, and you were in there getting pissed?”

Xaden caught himself against the wall, eyes flashing. “I was getting information.”

“Yeah? Was it worth it?”

Xaden didn’t answer.

His chest was still rising and falling too fast, his hands still curled into fists at his sides. But the fight had drained out of him, replaced by something worse. Something raw.

He ran a hand through his hair, muttering a curse. “Where were they headed?”

Garrick exhaled sharply. “Back to his estate, most likely. He made it clear he plans to keep her this time.” His fists clenched at his sides. “We have to go after her.”

“No shit.” Xaden was already moving, grabbing his weapons, his jacket. His voice was clipped, controlled—but Garrick knew him too well. He was barely holding it together.

Liam, still catching his breath, rubbed a hand down his face. “How do we do this without getting ourselves killed?”

Xaden didn’t hesitate. “We don’t.”

Liam sighed dramatically. “Oh, fantastic.”

Garrick ignored them both. His mind was already miles away, thinking only of her.

Imogen was strong. He knew that. But Morhold was a monster. And the longer she was in his grasp, the more danger she was in.

They had no choice.

They were going to get her back.

__________________________________________

The carriage rattled over uneven terrain, jostling Imogen where she sat, her arms now bound, her body aching from hours of captivity. The stale air inside was thick with the scent of sweat and liquor, a nauseating mix that only fueled her growing dread. Outside, the sky had begun to shift from inky black to the dull gray of early dawn, but to her, the light brought no comfort.

Morhold lounged across from her, his broad frame relaxed in a way that suggested he had already won. He sipped from a flask, the contents sloshing as he tilted it back, and when he lowered it, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re quiet,” he mused, his voice slow and deliberate, like he was savoring every syllable. “Not like last time.”

Imogen said nothing.

Morhold hummed, his sharp eyes drinking in her silence. “You fought like hell before. Bit me, clawed at me.” He exhaled a humorless chuckle. “But now, you’re just sitting there. Did you finally figure out that there’s no point?”

She met his gaze, steel in her eyes. “I’m waiting.”

“For what?”

“For the right moment.”

Morhold grinned, all teeth, like a predator amused by the defiance of its prey. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “And what do you think will happen when your moment comes?” He reached out, brushing a gloved hand against the side of her face. “You’ll run again?” His fingers trailed down her cheek, his grip tightening at her jaw. “You’ll fight?”

Imogen didn’t flinch. “I’ll kill you.”

For a moment, the carriage filled with nothing but the sound of wheels grinding against dirt. Then Morhold laughed—deep, guttural, and utterly entertained.

“Oh, I do love your fire,” he mused, releasing her and sitting back. “That’s why you’ll make such a fine wife.”

A shudder crawled down Imogen’s spine, but she didn’t let it show. “I’d rather die.”

Morhold clicked his tongue. “That’s the thing, my dear.” He stretched his legs out, the confidence in his posture infuriating. “You don’t get to choose.”

She forced herself to remain still, to keep her expression blank, but inside, panic clawed at her ribs.

“You were always going to be mine,” Morhold continued. “It was only a matter of time. And now? Now I don’t have to play the game anymore.” His smirk darkened. “No more chasing. No more waiting. When we reach the estate, we’ll wed, and you will finally take your place at my side.”

Imogen clenched her fists so hard that her nails bit into her palms.

He wasn’t just planning to keep her locked away. He was planning to own her. To make her his in a way that the law, the world, would recognize.

“You’re insane,” she said, her voice low.

Morhold sighed, feigning disappointment. “I was hoping you’d see reason.” He rolled his shoulders. “But you will, in time. We’ve got a long journey ahead, Imogen. You can keep fighting, keep pretending you have a choice.” His smirk widened. “But in the end, it won’t change a damn thing.”

The carriage rocked as it hit another uneven patch of road, but Imogen barely noticed. Her mind was too consumed by the boiling rage in her chest, by the frantic calculations running through her head. If she was going to survive this, she needed to get inside Morhold’s mind—needed to understand what leverage, if any, she still had.

She turned her sharp gaze on him. “There’s no point in this,” she said, her voice steady despite the fury coiling in her gut. “You can drag me back to your estate, you can even force me into a marriage I don’t want—but soon, none of it will matter.”

Morhold arched a brow, swirling the contents of his flask lazily. “And why’s that?”

“Because I’m bound for Basgiath,” she snapped. “The moment I turn twenty-one, I’ll be conscripted. It doesn’t matter if I’m your wife or not—I’ll be taken.”

He exhaled a short, amused breath. “And? Do you think that means I’ll just let you go?”

“It means the empire will take me whether you like it or not,” she shot back. “You think you can fight the Conscription Act? You think you can stop a Basgiath officer from hauling me away the moment my time is up?”

Morhold chuckled, the sound dark and unbothered. “Oh, my dear,” he mused, tilting his head as he studied her. “You really think I give a damn about what happens to you after our vows are spoken?”

A chill spread through Imogen’s veins.

He leaned forward, his smirk widening as he saw the realization dawn in her eyes. “You think I care about you going to Basgiath? About where you end up after that?” His fingers trailed along the wood of the carriage seat, slow and deliberate. “No, sweet girl. The only thing I care about is that by the time you’re forced to leave, I’ll have already had what’s mine.”

Revulsion climbed up her throat.

Morhold hummed in mock thought. “The law doesn’t let me bed you yet, does it?” His lips curled. “But once you’re my wife? That all changes.”

Imogen’s stomach churned.

He leaned back, completely at ease, like he was discussing the weather. “The way I see it, Basgiath will just be taking my used goods off my hands.” He grinned, the cruelty in his expression making her blood boil. “And that, Imogen, is the only reason you’re still breathing.”

Her hands shook where they were bound, rage and horror warring inside her.

He didn’t care about keeping her forever. He only wanted to break her before he had to let her go.

Her mind raced, searching for a way out, a way to buy time, a way to stall. But nothing could mask the disgust that burned in her eyes, the seething hatred she no longer bothered to hide.

“You’re a pathetic excuse for a man,” she spat.

Morhold chuckled, unfazed. “And you, darling, are out of options.”

Imogen swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe, forcing herself to think.

She was not out of options.

She still had time.

And if it was the last thing she did—she would make sure Morhold never got what he wanted.

Chapter Text

The firelight flickered against the canvas of the tent, casting long shadows that stretched across the dirt. Outside, Morhold’s men drank and laughed, their voices slurred from too much liquor, but inside, it was quiet.

Imogen sat rigid on the bedroll, her bound hands resting in her lap, her pulse hammering beneath her skin. She had spent the last few hours wrestling with the sickness in her gut, with the knowledge of what Morhold intended.

She needed information. Needed to understand what she was up against.

She lifted her gaze to where Morhold sat across from her, casually sharpening a blade, his expression one of lazy amusement.

“If you plan to take me to bed once we’re married,” she said, her voice steady despite the ice in her veins, “why not do it now?”

Morhold paused, blade catching in the firelight. His gaze flicked up to hers, a slow, considering smirk creeping across his face.

“You’re eager, then?” he mused.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t let herself react.

“You have no reason to wait,” she pressed, tilting her chin up defiantly. “I’m alone. Outnumbered. Vulnerable. What’s stopping you?”

He studied her, the smirk deepening. Then, to her surprise, he laughed.

“Ah, Imogen,” he said, shaking his head as he set the blade down. “You really don’t understand me, do you?”

She clenched her jaw. “Enlighten me.”

Morhold leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “If all I wanted was to bed you, I would’ve done it already,” he admitted, his tone almost conversational. “But that’s not the game I’m playing.”

Imogen’s skin crawled. “What game is that?”

Morhold’s eyes darkened, something cruel and twisted lurking beneath his amusement. “Breaking you.”

A cold chill snaked down her spine.

“You’re not some common tavern girl to take in the night and forget by morning,” he continued, his voice low and deliberate. “No, sweet girl. You’re a challenge. And breaking a challenge takes patience.”

Imogen fought to keep her breathing even, to keep her body from betraying the fear clawing at her chest.

Morhold smiled as if he could sense it anyway.

“See, if I were to take you now,” he went on, “you’d still have fight left in you. You’d resist. But if I wait? If I make you walk willingly to the altar? If I make you say the vows with your own lips, knowing what comes after?” His smile widened. “Then I win.”

Imogen’s stomach twisted violently.

“I don’t just want your body, darling,” Morhold said, tilting his head. “I want your surrender.”

The bile rose in her throat, hot and bitter, but she swallowed it down.

Morhold stood then, stretching as if the conversation had tired him. “Sleep well, Imogen,” he murmured, his smirk lingering as he turned toward the tent’s entrance. “Tomorrow, we continue our journey home.”

She didn’t move, didn’t breathe, until he was gone.

Only then did she let herself tremble.

She could still hear his voice. Could still taste the venom in his words, the sick amusement curling behind each syllable.

Breaking you.

Her stomach twisted. She would not be broken. Could not be. But defiance alone had never been enough to escape the inevitable. She needed a plan, needed to think, but her mind felt sluggish, tangled in exhaustion and the weight of too many terrifying possibilities.

Her first thought, the most desperate one, was escape. The bindings on her wrists were tight, but they weren’t iron shackles. If she could work them loose—if she could slip past Morhold’s thugs, steal a horse—

She exhaled sharply, shutting her eyes.

No.

Wishful thinking wouldn’t save her. She wasn’t naive enough to believe she could outrun Morhold alone, not when she had nowhere to run to. He had planned this too well, stripped away every advantage she might have had. That left only one other hope.

Rescue.

Garrick knew Morhold’s estate. He had been there with her, memorized the layout, understood the danger. And Liam—Liam was nothing if not determined. If they had Xaden, if they had a real plan, they could get to her before Morhold had the chance to—

She cut the thought off before it could take shape, pressing her nails into her palms to ground herself.

But what if they didn’t?

What if Garrick and Liam were calculating the risk at this very moment and finding her not worth it? What if Xaden, when finally found, took one look at the odds and decided they were too steep?

She knew how men like Xaden thought. Knew that survival, not sentiment, had kept him alive all these years. And Garrick—

Her throat tightened.

Garrick was reckless, but he wasn’t a fool. Neither was Liam. And if they saw no way to save her without getting themselves killed, would they still try?

She wanted to believe the answer was yes. That even now, they were riding hard, cutting through the night, determined to reach her before it was too late. But doubt slithered beneath her ribs, cold and suffocating. She had no proof they would come. No certainty that they hadn’t already accepted that she was lost.

The fire crackled, spitting embers into the air, and she watched them rise, dissolving into the black.

She wanted to believe in them. In their loyalty, their determination. But she had spent too long in a world that taught her that hope was dangerous.

And right now, she couldn’t afford to be wrong.

__________________________________________

Garrick stood rigid, his hands braced against the worn wooden table, knuckles white with frustration. The dimly lit room was thick with tension.

"Morhold's estate is remote," Garrick said, his voice tight with barely restrained urgency. "The perimeter is guarded, but the real problem is inside. Sometimes he’s got men everywhere—granted, they’re usually half-drunk, but then again, so are you."

Xaden glanced up at that, a flicker of amusement crossing his face before he let it slide away, exhaling through his nose. “Noted.” 

Garrick ignored him, pressing on. "If we're going in, we need to hit fast and without hesitation."

Xaden nodded slowly, considering, but instead of moving, he sheathed his dagger and stood. "Alright. We need to stock up. Weapons, rations, cloaks that don’t make us look like a gods-damned rescue party."

Garrick's fingers curled into fists. "We don’t have time to waste, Xaden. We plan on the road."

"No," Xaden said, voice even but firm. "We do it right. We don’t get a second shot at this."

"Every second we stand here planning is another second she’s in his grasp," Garrick snapped, shoving back from the table. "You don’t get it—"

Xaden’s expression darkened. "I get it just fine."

"Do you?" Garrick took a step closer, jaw clenched. "Morhold won’t kill her. He wants to break her first. And that’s worse. You think she just walks away from this unscathed? You think she survives that?"

Xaden didn’t blink. "He’s not going to kill her."

Garrick saw red. "You think that’s some comfort? You think that makes this better? He wants to fuck her, Xaden. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. And when he does—"

"Enough," Xaden cut in sharply. "I know exactly what he’s going to do. I just don’t let my emotions make the decisions for me."

Garrick surged forward, grabbing Xaden’s collar, shoving him back against the wall. "Maybe you should."

Xaden didn’t react, didn’t even raise his hands. He simply stared, unshaken, his voice ice-cold. "You done? Or do you want to waste more time fighting me instead of Morhold?"

The room went silent save for the sound of Garrick’s harsh breathing. A door creaked, and Liam wandered in, dropping an armful of supplies onto the table. "I swear, you two bicker like an old married couple."

Neither Garrick nor Xaden moved. The air between them was thick, charged with something raw and unspoken, their glares locked in silent combat.

Liam sighed dramatically, breaking the moment as he shoved a bedroll into a pack. "We get it, Garrick. You’re ready to throw yourself in headfirst like a reckless idiot. But Xaden’s right—if we do this wrong, we all die, and Imogen’s left with no one." He paused, tilting his head in mock consideration. "Well, I guess she might be dead too in that scenario, so maybe it’s a moot point."

Garrick’s grip on Xaden’s collar tightened for a fraction of a second before he released him, shoving away like the touch burned. His hands were trembling, and he hated that Xaden had seen it. Hated that he was right. Hated that he was wasting time arguing while Imogen was out there, alone. His stomach churned at the thought of what might already be happening to her.

"We leave in an hour," Garrick said, voice hoarse but steady. "That’s all you get."

Xaden adjusted his shirt, brushing off imaginary dust like Garrick hadn’t just had him by the throat. "Then let’s not waste it."

Liam snorted, shaking his head as he shoved another cloak into a bag. "Oh, you mean like we’ve been doing?" He threw a pointed look at both of them. "I’ll be outside, packing, which is what you two should be doing instead of biting each other’s heads off. Unless, of course, you’d rather just kill each other here and save Morhold the trouble."

Garrick didn’t rise to the bait. He couldn’t. The weight in his chest was suffocating. His hands curled into fists at his sides as he turned away, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth.

He could feel Xaden watching him, but for once, he didn’t care. Let him think Garrick was reckless. Let him think he was too emotional.

Garrick stormed out of the room, letting the door slam behind him.

Xaden exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms as he watched him go.

"Don’t take it personally," Liam muttered as he slung a satchel over his shoulder. "He’s just scared out of his mind."

Xaden scoffed. "That makes two of us."

Liam paused, narrowing his eyes at Xaden like he was considering something. Then, instead of turning for the door, he set his pack down with a heavy thud.

"You sure as hell don’t act like it," Liam said, crossing his arms.

Xaden turned his head slightly, barely sparing him a glance. "And how exactly am I supposed to act?"

"I don’t know," Liam shot back. "Like you give a shit."

Xaden’s eyes darkened. "Watch it, Liam."

"No," Liam snapped, stepping forward. "I get that you think locking it all down, staying controlled, makes you the only sane one in the room. And sure, it works in a fight. But we’re not on the battlefield right now, Xaden. This is about Imogen. This is about Garrick. And you’re treating it like another mission to complete instead of something that might destroy one of your best friends."

Xaden’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak.

Liam exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair before muttering, "You know, it reminds me of my sister."

That got Xaden’s attention. His eyes flicked toward Liam, but he didn’t interrupt.

"Sloane and I were together every day until our parents were murdered," Liam continued, voice quieter now, like it physically hurt to talk about. "One second, we were standing side by side, and the next, we were being dragged apart. I kept telling myself I’d find her, that we’d make it back to each other. But I haven’t." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "I don’t even know if she’s still alive."

Xaden finally turned to look at him fully, but his face remained unreadable.

"That’s what Garrick is going through right now," Liam went on. "That uncertainty. That waiting. And I’ll tell you right now, it’s a special kind of hell." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "If I’d had someone with me back then, someone I trusted, I would’ve wanted them to give a damn, not just act like it was another problem to solve."

Xaden stayed silent for a long moment. His gaze flickered to the floor, jaw tight.

But then, as if he’d decided the conversation was over, he turned back to the table and began checking the buckles on his pack.

Liam rolled his eyes. "Right. Of course. Should’ve known better than to expect any emotional availability from you."

Xaden’s grip on his strap tightened for a fraction of a second, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

Liam sighed, grabbing his bag again and heading for the door. He paused with his hand on the handle, glancing back over his shoulder.

"You don’t have to say anything, Xaden. Just… try feeling it. For Garrick, at least."

Then he was gone, leaving Xaden alone in the dimly lit room.

Xaden dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply.

His mind was too full. Too heavy.

Liam’s words still echoed, needling under his skin in a way he couldn’t shake.

I don’t even know if she’s still alive.

Xaden clenched his jaw, shoving a handful of rations into his pack. The weight of responsibility bore down on him, a familiar, suffocating presence. He'd carried it since the moment he’d taken responsibility for the marked ones, since the moment he’d been forced to lead when none of them should have had to.

Every choice, every risk—it wasn’t just his life in the balance. It was all of theirs.

Garrick. Liam. Sloane. Imogen. 

Gods, Imogen.

Xaden took a steadying breath, but it didn’t do much to ease the pressure in his chest.

He couldn’t afford to let it in. The moment he started letting himself feel all of it—the weight of their lives, the fear of losing them, the gnawing panic that he was making the wrong choices—he’d break. And if he broke, everything fell apart.

So he didn’t.

He shut it down. It was the only way he knew how to keep moving.

He crouched to grab his knife from the floor near the couch when something caught his eye.

A crumpled sweatshirt  lay next to the armrest, half-tangled in the blankets Imogen must have thrown aside just this morning. His brows pulled together slightly as he reached for it, fingers brushing against the soft, worn fabric.

He knew this sweatshirt.

Imogen’s.

She always slept in it. It was too big on her, the sleeves swallowing her hands when she wrapped them around a mug of tea on cold nights. She always had it on after long days, hair still damp from a quick wash, curled up on the couch she had claimed as her own.

Xaden’s throat tightened.

He exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on the fabric.

When they found her she’d want something familiar. Something that felt safe. Something that reminded her of home.

His fingers curled around the sweatshirt, and before he could talk himself out of it, he shoved it into his pack.

It was only after the buckle clicked shut that the realization hit him, slamming into his ribs with the force of a battering ram.

I associate her with home. 

No longer did he see an image of his father and his childhood bedroom. Now he saw Imogen, Liam, and Garrick. He wasn’t exactly sure when that had changed. 

Xaden straightened, rolling his shoulders back as if that might shake the thought loose.

It didn’t.

With one last glance around the now-empty room, he slung the pack over his shoulder and strode toward the door.

They had an hour.

He’d be damned if he wasted a second more.

Chapter Text

Imogen’s mind spun as the days bled together, the miles slowly passing under their feet. Every inch she took towards Morhold’s estate felt like a step closer to the end, though she refused to let herself believe it. There had to be a way out, even if it was only her own ingenuity that could get her there. She could not, would not, wait for a rescue that may never come. The thought of being reliant on someone else, even Garrick, who had once sworn to protect her, felt like the final nail in her coffin.

Morhold sat at her side, his tall form looming with an air of twisted confidence. He hadn’t stopped talking, his voice a constant presence beside her, slithering like a snake.

“You know, Imogen,” he said, his tone light and almost too casual, “you should be grateful. Most girls would consider themselves lucky to be in your position. Being chosen, especially by someone of my... standing .”

She forced herself to ignore the bitter taste in her mouth, biting back the retort that was itching to escape her lips. Instead, she kept her gaze ahead, her posture stiff and controlled.

“I didn’t ask for your ‘choice,’” she snapped, not sparing him a glance.

Morhold chuckled darkly, the sound rich with amusement. “No, you didn’t. But here you are, all the same. I’ve never had to chase a prize this much, Imogen. You are more valuable than you know.” He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against her ear as he added, “But I’ll make you see it soon enough.”

Imogen shuddered involuntarily, her skin crawling at his proximity. She pushed the disgust down, forcing her voice to remain steady.

“I’m not your prize, Morhold,” she said sharply. “I’m not some... object you can collect and display.”

He didn’t respond immediately, but she could feel the smirk that crept across his face, even if she couldn’t see it. It was the kind of smile that made her stomach twist, the kind of smile that made her wish she had something sharp to stab into his chest.

“You might not think you are,” Morhold replied, his voice softening into something almost tender. “But you are, Imogen. You’ll see.”

She didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t give him the satisfaction of any reaction. Instead, she focused on the long road ahead. If she could just make him think she was compliant, she might still have a chance to figure out a way out. The longer she kept him at arm’s length, the better her chances of finding an opening.

As the sun began to set, the group made camp for the night. Morhold’s men scattered, setting up their own tents and fires, but Morhold stayed close to her. He always stayed close.

Imogen sat by the fire, her eyes flicking around the camp as she fought to keep her thoughts calm. The fire crackled, sending dancing shadows across the ground. She knew Morhold was watching her, even though he had yet to speak. She could feel his eyes on her back, the weight of them like a physical touch.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, Imogen?” Morhold finally asked, his voice like velvet, smooth but dangerous. “Planning an escape? Trying to figure out how to outwit me?” His tone held a mocking edge, as if he already knew the answer.

Imogen tensed but forced her body to relax. She could feel the ropes tied around her wrists, the reminder of her lack of freedom. But she refused to let him see how much he rattled her.

“No,” she said coolly, without looking at him. “I’m just trying to enjoy the last bit of peace before you make good on your threats.”

Morhold’s laugh was low, a rich, sinister sound that sent chills down her spine. “You think I’ve been making threats?” he asked, his voice soft and dangerous. “I’ve been patient, Imogen. Patient. You’ll understand soon enough that all of this... it’s for you.”

“I don’t want anything from you” she spat, finally making eye contact with him. 

His eyes glinted with amusement, but the coldness never left. “Oh, I don’t need to break you, darling. You’ll break yourself.” He took a slow step closer, his shadow falling over her like a dark cloud. 

Imogen bit her lip, fighting the urge to snap back at him, to tell him exactly what she thought of his twisted games. But she knew that wouldn’t help her. She had to keep him off balance, keep him thinking she was more willing than she really was. If she could convince him she was starting to give in, he might hold off on pushing her any further. She couldn’t risk him thinking she was still fighting him, not when every moment brought her closer to the estate.

“You’re wrong,” she said, her voice colder now. 

Morhold’s smile deepened, the corners of his mouth curling upward with something dark and unsettling. “I have you right where I want you, Imogen. You have no choice but to surrender.”

Imogen held her ground, refusing to flinch. But inside, her mind raced. She needed more time. She couldn’t let him take her to bed, not yet. She could feel the web tightening around her, each word he spoke drawing her further into his control. She had to outsmart him. Manipulate him into keeping her alive, into thinking she was more of an ally than an enemy. She couldn’t afford to wait for a rescue. If it came, it would come too late. She had to take control of her own fate.

“I suppose I’ll just have to learn to trust you, then,” she said, her voice sweetening with a forced softness. She tilted her head slightly, playing the part of the willing, obedient captive. “But you’ll have to be patient with me.”

Morhold’s eyes gleamed at the subtle shift in her tone, but he said nothing, just stood there, watching her with that calculating gaze. He seemed pleased, perhaps even intrigued by her apparent change of heart.

“Patient?” he echoed, his voice dark with promise. “I can be whatever you need, Imogen. Whatever you want me to be.” 

Her stomach twisted, but she forced a smile, holding back the bile that rose in her throat. “That sounds promising,” she said, keeping her voice smooth, like she was truly considering what he said. “I suppose I could start... believing you.”

Morhold leaned in slightly, his smile widening as he studied her with a mixture of amusement and desire. “Good girl,” he purred. “You’ll see, Imogen. You’ll see how right this all feels.”

Imogen fought the urge to gag, but she kept her mask in place. The next few days were going to be critical. She had to walk this fine line, pretending to give in while planning her escape. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake, not when the stakes were so high.

She just needed to bide her time.

__________________________________________

The rhythmic clatter of hooves on cobbled roads filled the small, cramped space of the carriage. Each jolt of the vehicle sent a sharp tremor through the wooden walls, but the noise of their journey did little to mask the tension in the air. Garrick sat next to Liam, his eyes fixed on the road, scanning the horizon as if he might somehow will Morhold’s estate to appear on the distant edge of the land. Despite knowing they had days of riding ahead, his restless gaze never faltered, as if watching it would make the time go faster. Liam, on the other hand, was driving the carriage, his posture stiff and his fingers drumming absently on the leather reins. He could feel the heat of Garrick’s stare, but he didn’t acknowledge it. Xaden slouched behind them against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, his scowl deepening as the carriage rocked with each bump. He was trying to sleep through the noise of their ongoing bickering, but the tension was palpable, and sleep was proving difficult.

“I’m telling you, we’re wasting time,” Garrick finally snapped, his voice sharp and urgent. His eyes were hard, his expression taut with frustration as he stared at Liam. “Imogen is out there, and we’re sitting here, arguing about what to do once we get to Morhold’s estate. We need to keep moving—now.”

Liam shot Garrick an exasperated look, his grip on the reins tightening as he leaned forward slightly, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. We’re literally moving right now, Garrick. Is that not what you wanted? Do you want the carriage to suddenly sprout wings and fly us there faster? Or should we commandeer a dragon? You know how fond they are of us.” His lips curled into a mock smile, but the tension in his voice was clear. “I know she’s out there, that’s why I’m rushing down this back road at breakneck speed. This is certainly not my idea of a good time.”

Garrick’s jaw clenched, irritation rising within him at the sarcasm in Liam’s voice. But the fire in his eyes was more controlled now, simmering just beneath the surface. “You’re not getting it, Liam. The longer we sit here debating, the more time she’s at risk. She doesn’t have time for us to ‘figure it out.’ We need to get there before Morhold does something worse—before it’s too late.”

Liam’s face flushed with frustration, his tone growing sharp as he snapped back. “We are literally moving , Garrick. I don’t know what else you want me to do! We’re careening down this road. I’m not exactly dragging my heels here!” He let out a tight breath, hands pulling the reins just a little tighter as if trying to push the carriage faster. “You need to acknowledge that we are moving, or I swear to the gods, I’ll throw you out of this carriage myself and you can go ahead on foot.”

Garrick’s eyes narrowed, his voice low and pointed. “That’s not what I meant—”

“Then say it , Garrick,” Liam interrupted, his voice rising slightly. “Say that we’re moving. We’re doing something . You keep acting like we’re sitting around twiddling our thumbs. That’s not the reality here. We’re on our way —so stop pretending like we’re wasting time.”

With a frustrated grunt, Garrick gave a single nod. “Fine. We’re technically moving,” he muttered. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we need to be moving faster. We’re running out of time.”

Liam’s eyes narrowed as he shot Garrick an incredulous look. “No, not technically . We are moving , Garrick. Moving.”

“Shut the fuck up , ” Xaden muttered from the corner, his voice rough from the remnants of his hangover. He rubbed his temples, leaning forward as if the noise was physically hurting him. “Both of you. We’re on a damn carriage ride, not a battlefield. You’ve been bickering for hours, and I can’t take it anymore. We’re moving, we’re going, and that’s enough . Get over yourselves for five minutes.”

His words hung heavily in the air, the tension between Garrick and Liam momentarily stifled by Xaden’s brutal interruption. Both men glanced at him, but neither said a word, the weight of his exasperation sinking in. Xaden slouched back in his seat, rubbing his temples again.

Garrick, caught off guard, opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it with a sharp exhale. He turned his gaze out onto the open road, his shoulders tight with frustration. 

Liam, though, still fumed. “Fine. Whatever,” he muttered, his grip on the reins tightened, his knuckles turning white. 

He shot Garrick an incredulous look. “Listen, you’re the only one who seems to think that no one else cares about Imogen. We all care, Garrick. Despite what you want to believe, we’re all here for her.” His voice was sharp now, the edges fraying as his frustration mounted. “But maybe if you could stop pretending you’re the only one who loves her, you’d see that the rest of us are trying to get this right too. At least I can admit it. You’re so busy being some kind of martyr, you can’t even admit that you—"

“Can we just focus on the task at hand?” Xaden growled, the edge in his voice unmistakable. “We need to get to the estate and save Imogen, and I'd prefer not to have to go in alone after having murdered you both.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with sarcasm and the truth of their situation.

Garrick and Liam both froze, the immediate threat of Xaden’s declaration silencing them for a moment. Xaden’s words were harsh, but they were the wake-up call both men needed. The reality of their mission, of Imogen’s danger, had to take precedence—no matter how much their egos and emotions might fight against it.

Garrick was the first to look away, his expression darkening as he turned his gaze out the window, the weight of the mission pressing heavily on his chest.

Liam’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He too understood that there was no room for further bickering. They had to get to the estate. And they had to get there together, or they wouldn’t get there at all.

Chapter Text

The wedding was a hollow thing.

Imogen stood stiffly at the altar, her body rigid with barely restrained revulsion as Morhold’s fingers tightened possessively around hers. The grand hall of his estate was filled with the stifling scent of burning candles and perfumed oil, the air heavy with the weight of inevitability.

She had known this was coming. She had fought against it, clawed for every possible escape, but the moment she had been dragged through the estate doors, she had understood. Morhold would never let her go.

She was to be his wife. His property. And once the ceremony was complete, once the ink had dried and the vows were spoken, there would be nothing stopping him from taking what he believed was already his.

The priest, a gray-haired man who reeked of wine, droned on about duty and devotion, oblivious—or perhaps willfully ignorant—to the sickening reality of the union before him. Imogen barely heard him, her ears ringing as she stared at the ornate carpet beneath her feet.

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe.

The dress they had forced her into was suffocating, the corset pulled so tight she felt like she might shatter beneath it. The lace sleeves did nothing to hide the bruises on her wrists from when she had tried, once again, to run.

Morhold had laughed at her then.

“You’ll learn, girl,” he had said, yanking her back by her hair, forcing her to meet his cruel gaze. “You’ll learn that no matter how hard you fight, you are mine.”

A shudder ran down her spine, but she forced herself to stand tall. She would not cower. Not here. Not now.

When Morhold’s fingers tightened on hers, she finally lifted her gaze to meet his. He was smiling. Smug. Triumphant.

Imogen’s stomach twisted violently.

“Do you, Morhold, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.”

The words rang in her ears like a death knell.

The priest turned to her. “And do you, Lady Imogen—”

“I do.”

The words left her lips before he could even finish the question. Her voice was flat, empty. The faster this was over, the faster she could begin to think of a way out.

If there was still a way out.

Morhold grinned. He had won, and he knew it.

“You may kiss the bride.”

Imogen didn’t move. She couldn’t.

Morhold grabbed her chin roughly, forcing her face up to his. His lips crashed against hers, and it took everything in her not to recoil in disgust. His breath was thick with wine, his grip unrelenting. The room erupted in applause, though it all sounded distant—like she was hearing it from underwater. She was vaguely aware of Morhold’s drinking buddies clapping a little too enthusiastically from the front rows, their cheeks flushed with wine and amusement. Just beyond them sat Aunt Edine, draped in black lace and disapproval, her mouth pressed into a thin, bitter line as she watched Imogen like a hawk—already tallying the ways she would make her life more difficult.

She wasn’t here. Not really.

She was somewhere else. Somewhere far away.

Somewhere Morhold would never touch her.

When he pulled back, his smirk was razor-sharp, his fingers still digging into her skin. He leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear.

“You’re mine now, wife,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “And tonight, I’ll finally make sure you understand that.”

A chill crawled down her spine, but she didn’t let her mask slip.

She swallowed down the fear. The nausea.

The priest declared the ceremony complete, and the guests surged to their feet, clapping as if they’d just witnessed a fairytale union. Morhold kept his hand wrapped around hers like a shackle, leading her down the aisle not with tenderness, but with possession.

As the doors opened into the reception chamber, a wave of heat and perfume crashed over her. Laughter, already loud and drunken, spilled from the crowd inside. Music struck up somewhere in the corner, bright and brash and utterly at odds with the funeral march echoing in her chest.

The reception was a grotesque parody of joy.

Imogen moved through the hall like a ghost, her arm clutched in Morhold’s iron grip as he paraded her past every guest, every sycophant, every gloating noble who had shown up not for love, but for spectacle. Their smiles were too wide, their laughter too loud. Wine sloshed in golden goblets, music rang from the corner of the room where a trio of string players did their best to drown out the quiet dread that clung to her.

Every time someone toasted the happy couple, Imogen felt the bile rise in her throat.

Morhold never let go of her, not even for a moment. His hand rested possessively on her waist, his thumb occasionally brushing against the bruises on her ribs as if to remind her that they were still there. That he was still in control.

“She’s a vision, isn’t she?” Morhold crowed as they stopped before a cluster of minor lords and wealthy merchants. “Barely a word from her all night—so modest. So obedient. Just as a wife should be.”

Laughter followed, though not all of it sounded genuine. Imogen didn’t bother to look any of them in the eye. She focused instead on the glimmering chandelier above, trying to count the crystals. Anything to stay somewhere else. Anywhere but here.

“Smile, wife,” Morhold hissed under his breath, pinching her side just hard enough to make her flinch. She bared her teeth in what might have passed for a smile if anyone had been looking closely.

Aunt Edine appeared at her elbow like a shadow, sniffing with disdain as she adjusted a curl that had fallen loose from Imogen’s tightly pinned hair. “Try not to embarrass yourself,” she said coolly, eyes flicking to where Morhold was now regaling a group of soldiers with some story about taming her. “He’s gone to a great deal of trouble to make this work.”

Imogen didn’t reply. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

As the evening wore on, the hall grew hazier with smoke and wine, the guests looser with their tongues, their hands. More than once, someone tried to toast her personally, and each time she raised her goblet with trembling fingers, barely wetting her lips with the wine.

The music shifted to something slower, and Imogen felt Morhold’s fingers tighten around hers again.

“A dance, wife,” he said, pulling her onto the floor before she could protest. “It’s tradition, after all.”

The crowd parted like a living thing, forming a circle around them, murmuring and watching.

The strings swelled.

Imogen stared at his collarbone as they moved, willing herself not to look at his face. His hands roamed her back under the guise of the dance, possessive and leering, and every time he spun her, she imagined what it would be like to keep spinning. To let go and fly through the stained glass like a shard of light.

“Soon,” he whispered into her ear, breath hot and sticky. “Soon, you’ll be mine in every way.”

She didn’t speak. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry.

She simply nodded.

The dance ended, but the performance did not. Morhold led her from the floor to a chorus of applause, his hand never leaving her waist, his grip tightening with each congratulatory toast they received. Imogen moved through it all in silence, her expression carved from porcelain, her thoughts far away—where no one could reach her, least of all him.

Eventually, the crowd began to thin. The wine ran low. The music quieted. One by one, the guests faded into the corridors of the estate, their duty to witness done, their hunger for gossip sated.

And still, Morhold’s hand remained on her back, guiding her not toward respite—but toward inevitability.

The bedroom was dimly lit, the glow of the fireplace casting long shadows against the stone walls. The bed—ornate, massive, suffocating—loomed in the center of the room, its silk sheets as much a prison as the locked doors behind her.

Imogen stood at the edge of it, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her wedding gown had been stripped away, replaced by a thin nightdress that did little to shield her from the cold or from the weight of what was coming.

Morhold poured himself a glass of dark red wine, swirling it lazily before taking a long sip. He looked at her over the rim of his glass, amused, satisfied.

“This is the part where most brides blush,” he mused, setting the goblet down with a soft clink. “Where they look shy, uncertain, maybe even a little eager.” His gaze swept over her, predatory and cruel. “But you just look angry.”

Imogen said nothing.

She had spent the entire ceremony, the entire evening, locking away every emotion that threatened to surface. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear.

Morhold exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You truly don’t understand your place yet, do you?” He stepped forward, unbuttoning his waistcoat with deliberate ease. “That’s alright. We have all night for me to teach you.”

Her stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat. She forced herself to stay still, to not show weakness.

“Take off your nightdress,” he ordered.

Imogen didn’t move.

Morhold’s amusement faltered. His jaw twitched, and within seconds, he closed the distance between them, grabbing her by the wrist. “I won’t ask again, wife.”

His fingers dug into her bruised skin, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with defiance. “Then don’t.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then—Morhold laughed.

It wasn’t a warm laugh. It wasn’t even amused. It was sharp, edged with something cruel.

“You really think you have a choice?” he murmured, his grip tightening. “After all this?”

“I think,” Imogen said slowly, carefully, “that you had every opportunity to force me before now. And yet, you haven’t.”

Morhold’s eyes darkened. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“And so are you,” she shot back. “Tell me, Morhold—what good is a broken wife?”

For a moment, he simply stared at her. Then, with a scoff, he released her wrist, stepping back as he regarded her with something like reluctant admiration.

“You’re smarter than most,” he admitted. “But that will only make this more entertaining for me.”

She didn’t breathe until he turned away.

Morhold ran a hand through his hair, clearly weighing something in his mind. Finally, he exhaled sharply and reached for his glass again. “Fine. We’ll do this another night.” He took a slow sip. “It’s not as if you’re going anywhere.”

Imogen remained frozen in place, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But after a long moment, he merely waved a hand in dismissal. “Get in bed, wife. Sleep, if you can.” He smirked, eyes gleaming with promise. “You’ll need your strength.”

Imogen didn’t hesitate. She crossed the room, slipped beneath the covers, and turned her back to him. She stayed awake long after he settled into the chair by the fire, nursing his wine.

She didn’t let herself think about how close she had come to losing.

She didn’t let herself think about tomorrow.

Because tonight, at least, she had won.

Chapter Text

The night air was sharp, smelling of smoke and rain that hadn’t yet fallen. Clouds rolled overhead like bruised muscle, heavy and slow, as if the sky itself was holding its breath.

They rattled down the road in the worn-out carriage, wheels groaning under the weight of silence and tension. Mud splashed up against the wooden slats, and the lantern hanging by the door flickered with each jolt. The road had turned to sludge hours ago, but they didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Garrick’s hands were braced on his knees, knuckles pale. He hadn’t spoken in miles.

“How far?” Liam asked, his voice cutting through the wind seeping in through the cracks.

“Ten miles or so,” Garrick muttered, voice hoarse. “Maybe less.”

Xaden sat behind them, eyes like polished steel, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Silent. Coiled. Watching.

“She’s still alive,” Liam said, not to anyone in particular.

Garrick didn’t answer. His jaw locked. He hadn’t let himself imagine what might be happening inside those walls.

He couldn’t.

Xaden finally spoke. “He wouldn’t have touched her yet.”

“You don’t know that,” Garrick bit out.

“I don’t,” Xaden admitted. “But I know men like him. He’d wait until after the ceremony. That’s the kind of coward who wants the rules to bless his violence. He’d want it to be official.”

Liam spat. “Sick bastard.”

Garrick stared out the narrow carriage window at the silhouette rising through the mist ahead—Morhold’s stronghold, dark and sprawling, dressed up like a temple and rotting like a graveyard.

She’s in there, he thought. Right now. In that monster’s hands.

He swallowed hard. The image wouldn’t leave him—Imogen struggling against Morhold as he dragged her away. Her hair tangled in blood and defiance. Her eyes locking with his. Not pleading. Never that. But knowing . Like she’d already accepted what was coming. Like she knew he wouldn’t make it in time.

He had stood there helpless, hands still slick from the last fight, body aching, too slow. Too late.

And now she was paying the price.

They’d left so many things unsaid. Always just unsaid. Too careful. Too afraid of the edge they’d been dancing. A touch that lingered too long. A look across the courtyard that burned more than any fire. He had convinced himself it wasn’t real. That if he didn’t name it, it wouldn’t own him.

But it did . And now she might die not knowing what she meant to him.

Liam shifted on the bench beside him. “So. Do we have a plan? Or are we just charging through the gates like a bunch of suicidal legends?”

Xaden’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t humor—just calculation. “We stop a mile out. Scout the perimeter. I’ll slip in first, get eyes on the estate. Look for guards, rotations, any weak spots. We need to know how many people are inside, what kind of defenses we’re dealing with, and whether there’s a clear line to wherever they’re keeping her.”

He continued, voice low and sharp, all edge and precision. “We don’t go in blind. Not for her. If we move too fast, we get ourselves killed—or worse, we alert him. And then we’re dealing with a hostage situation instead of a rescue. I’d rather take an extra hour and find the soft point in his armor than walk into a slaughter.”

Liam blinked. “Wait—you want us to scout ? Like, sneak around in the dark, and wait ?”

Xaden shrugged. “Unless you want to walk through the front door and hand Morhold your spine, yeah.”

“No,” Garrick snapped.

Xaden looked up from the shifting shadows beyond the window. “Excuse me?”

“I said no,” Garrick repeated, louder this time. The inside of the carriage felt suddenly too small. Too close. “We’re not wasting time scouting. I’ve been inside. I know that place. I know the grounds, the servants’ passages, the goddamned blind spots.”

Xaden’s voice stayed cool, deliberate. “You think things haven’t changed since then? You think Morhold hasn’t fortified the estate? You think he doesn’t expect someone to come for her?”

“Of course he expects it,” Garrick growled, voice like a blade. “That’s the point . That’s the game. He wants it to be dramatic. He wants a show. He wants an audience while he breaks her down piece by piece.”

The lantern above swayed as the carriage bumped over another rut, casting fleeting shadows over their faces.

Garrick leaned forward, teeth clenched. “I lived there, Xaden. Imogen and I were fostered under that roof. I’ve seen how he looked at her . Not just girls— her . Always her. Like she was something he could take apart just to see what would bleed. Like she wasn’t a child, but a challenge. A prize.”

Xaden didn’t respond at first. Just stared through Garrick like he was sorting through a dozen bad outcomes and couldn’t find a single good one.

“We still don’t have enough information,” he finally said.

Garrick’s laugh came sharp and humorless. “What more do you need? A signed letter from Morhold spelling out his intentions? A window seat to whatever he’s doing to her right now?”

Liam flinched. He’d been trying to disappear into the corner, shoulders hunched beneath his cloak. He looked like he wanted to throw himself out of the carriage rather than listen to them go at it again.

Xaden’s expression didn’t change, but Garrick saw the flicker of restraint break for half a second in his eyes.

“She doesn’t have time!” Garrick shouted, slamming his fist against the wall of the carriage. The wood cracked under the force, but he barely noticed. “You think he’s going to wait? That he’ll respect her body until some priest mutters a few ancient words and stamps it all approved? He’s not ceremonial —he’s calculating. He wants to own her. If he hasn’t already—”

His voice caught. He turned away, pressing a fist to his mouth, jaw tight with fury and something far worse—helplessness.

The carriage rocked around them, the sound of horses straining, mud sucking at wheels, rain beginning to whisper on the roof.

“She was calm,” Garrick said, quieter now. “Too calm. I see it every time I close my eyes. The way she looked at me when they dragged her away—like she already knew. Like she was trying not to scare me. Like she’d already accepted what was going to happen.”

No one spoke.

“And now she’s in there. Locked behind those walls. And you’re asking me to wait. ” He looked up at Xaden again, fury renewed. 

The carriage jolted violently, wheels slipping in the muck as they rounded a bend.

The estate rose ahead. Rain started to fall in earnest now, streaking the narrow windows, turning the road to pure mire.

“I’m not asking you to do nothing,” Xaden said, low and measured. “I’m asking you to think, ” “Because if we rush in and get ourselves killed, she’ll still be alone in that hell. Except this time, there’s no one left to come for her.”

Garrick’s fists clenched at his sides. “So what? We make a strategy while she’s being raped ? Is that what this is?”

Xaden flinched like the word physically struck him.

“I know what it sounds like,” Garrick said, breath coming fast. “I know it’s ugly. But that’s the reality. That’s the cost of waiting.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and raw, as the carriage shuddered and swayed over the muck, the horses’ hooves struggling against the weight of the night.

Xaden’s jaw tightened, but there was no more resistance in him. They both knew there were no perfect answers, no ideal solutions. They were fighting time, fighting a monster, and fighting the twisted fate that had bound them to this moment.

The silence stretched, uncomfortable and oppressive, until Liam spoke.

“You good?” he asked, not unkindly.

Garrick didn’t look at him. His eyes remained fixed on the estate ahead, the looming silhouette dark against the storm. "I’ll be good when she’s back."

Xaden exhaled, his gaze flickering between the two men, then settling on the estate. “Alright. We move in fast. No second guessing. We hit the ground, get to her, and get out before Morhold knows what hit him. But we do it clean. We do it together .”

Garrick nodded sharply, the bitterness and fear in his gut turning into something else—something dangerous. "No more waiting."

Liam grimaced, his face pale in the dim light of the carriage, but he gripped the hilt of his sword like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. "This is going to get messy."

“Everything we do is messy.” Xaden said, voice low, but steady. 

The carriage came to a slow halt at the crest of a hill, the horses’ hooves muffled by the mud as they stood still. The rain had become a steady pour, but the wind carried the scent of earth and wet leaves, sharpening the tension in the air.

They stepped out of the carriage, the cold rain immediately soaking into their cloaks, but they barely noticed. Their eyes were locked on the estate below, its sprawling silhouette barely visible through the heavy mist and the dark, looming clouds. The trees on the hilltop swayed in the gusts, their branches creaking like old bones. But the house—Morhold’s estate—was eerily still.

Garrick squinted into the night, his heart hammering in his chest. The estate stood before them, cloaked in darkness. No lights. No flicker of movement. Not a single glow from the windows. The air felt still, too still, and the sense of unease gnawed at him.

He had expected some sign—guards moving, the soft light of lanterns cutting through the night. But nothing. The estate was a vast, silent shadow against the storm, like it had been abandoned.

“Is she even in there?” Garrick muttered under his breath, uncertainty creeping into his voice. His mind raced, second-guessing everything. Had they gotten the wrong information? Was Morhold hiding her somewhere else? Was she still here at all?

For a moment, he couldn’t answer, his thoughts spiraling. He wanted to push the doubts away, but they wouldn’t leave. His fingers tightened around his sword hilt, the weight of their journey settling heavily in his chest.

“Don’t start this,” Xaden warned, voice low and sharp. “We don’t have time for doubt. You’re letting the dark play tricks on your mind.”

But Garrick couldn’t stop it. The stillness of the estate, the eerie emptiness—was it too quiet? He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to spiral into that dark space of uncertainty. If she wasn’t there… if they had come all this way for nothing...

“I don’t know,” he said, voice raw. “But if she is here, we’re going in blind. There’s no telling where she might be inside.”

Liam, who had been silent up until that point, shifted uncomfortably, trying to bring a bit of levity to the tense moment. “Well, she better be in there. I didn’t ride halfway across the goddamned continent just to stand out here in the rain.”

Garrick let out a breath, a small, tight smile tugging at his lips despite the swirling panic in his chest. The humor was forced, but it cut through the tension, at least for a moment.

Xaden studied the estate with a cool, calculated gaze before turning back to them. “We can’t make any rash decisions tonight. We wait until morning.”

“Wait?” Garrick echoed sharply, his frustration flaring up again. He punched the nearest tree in frustration, the sound of his fist slamming into bark muffled by the rain. The wood cracked under the impact, but it did little to relieve the rage and helplessness building inside him. “Fuck!”

Xaden’s eyes narrowed, the reprimand sharp and unwavering. “You’re about to go in somewhere to fight, and you punch a goddamned tree? Get yourself under control.”

Garrick turned away, trying to shake the overwhelming surge of emotions coursing through him. But Xaden’s words stung. He knew Xaden was right, but in the moment, he just couldn’t contain the frustration.

“We wait,” Xaden repeated, his tone brokering no argument. “It’s the only way we’ll know what we’re dealing with. If we’re going in there, we need to at least know it’s occupied.”

Liam let out a grumbled sigh, though it was clear he was trying to keep things light. “You’re telling me we had to ride like hell, only to sit out here in the rain all night? Damn near killed the horses.”

But there was an edge to his words. The other two could sense the frustration buried in the humor. He wasn’t just complaining about the ride. He was annoyed—annoyed at the uncertainty, annoyed at the waiting, annoyed that they were still on edge when they should’ve been inside the walls already.

“We’ll keep watch until dawn,” Xaden said, his voice resolute. “And then we move. But we stay sharp.”

Liam rolled his eyes and let out a sharp, frustrated breath. “You know, you two spent the entire ride arguing about whether we should wait or rush in, and now, just like that”—he snapped his fingers—“you’re both in agreement that we wait. You two could have saved us all the time and energy and just said ‘let’s wait until morning’ from the start.”

“Doesn’t matter now,” Xaden muttered, his gaze fixed on the estate ahead. “We wait. We keep watch.”

Liam sighed heavily, leaning back against the carriage, his arms crossed. “Fine.” 

The weight of the moment settled between them, a quiet tension in the air, but there was no more arguing. No more second-guessing. They were all too exhausted to fight.

Garrick looked out into the dark, his mind still racing with thoughts of Imogen. The rain had picked up, but he barely noticed it now. He had one purpose—one thing that mattered.

They would get her back. They would get inside those walls. No matter the cost.

Chapter Text

Morning came with the sharp rattle of the door.

Imogen didn’t move. She had learned that Morhold preferred when she flinched, when she startled awake at the sound of his boots against the floor. Today, she denied him that.

The air in the room was thick with the remnants of the fire, though the embers had long since died. She had barely slept, too aware of his presence just across the room. He hadn’t touched her, not yet, but the weight of his ownership pressed against her more each day.

“You’re awake.”

She turned her head slightly, just enough to see Morhold standing near the doorway, already dressed for the day. His expression was unreadable, but his sharp eyes traced over her, assessing.

“Good,” he said. “You’ll be joining me for breakfast.”

Imogen sat up slowly, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. There was no point in arguing. She had learned that quickly.

Breakfast was served in the dining room, the table far too large for just the two of them. Morhold ate leisurely, sipping his coffee, watching her with the lazy interest of a man who knew he had already won.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” he mused, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin. “Have you finally accepted your place?”

Imogen’s fingers curled around the edge of her plate.

She forced herself to take a slow breath, to keep her expression neutral.

“There’s little point in fighting,” she said, carefully measured.

Morhold smirked. “That’s what I like to hear.”

She let him believe it.

Because in truth, she wasn’t done fighting.

She would find a way.

Even if no one was coming for her.

That was the part that hurt the most.

She had told herself, again and again, that Garrick would come. That Liam and Xaden wouldn’t let Morhold take her without a fight. But the days dragged on, and no one came crashing through the doors.

She was alone.

And if she wanted freedom, she would have to take it for herself.

“Eat,” Morhold ordered, dragging her from her thoughts. His voice was clipped, impatient. “You’ll need your strength.”

For what, she didn’t know.

But she forced herself to lift her fork, to swallow down the food that tasted like nothing.

Because no matter how much hope had faded, no matter how much Morhold tried to break her—

She wasn’t finished yet.

Imogen had been waiting for this moment.

She had known, from the second she stood before Morhold and said her vows that this would come. He had been patient—if one could call it that—waiting, playing his twisted little game, savoring his control over her like a wolf circling prey. But she had seen the frustration building, the growing sharpness in his gaze every time she denied him the reaction he wanted.

His patience snapped.

She had been sitting at the vanity in the room that had been forced upon her, brushing her fingers over the deep red bruise on her wrist, when the door burst open.

Morhold didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The way he stalked toward her, the glint in his eyes, the slight curl of his lip—it told her everything.

This was it.

His hand caught the back of her neck, yanking her to her feet.

“No more waiting,” he growled, breath hot against her ear. “You’re my wife, and it’s time you understand what that means.”

Imogen twisted violently in his grip, throwing her full weight back against him. He hadn’t expected it—hadn’t expected her to fight so hard, so fast. He stumbled, just slightly, and she used the opening to drive her elbow into his ribs.

It wasn’t enough to take him down.

But it was enough to make him furious.

“You little—” His snarl cut off as she turned and raked her nails across his face, her nails carving deep red welts into his cheek.

The slap came before she could react.

White-hot pain exploded across her face, and the force sent her crashing back into the vanity. The edge bit into her ribs, her vision blurred for half a second, but she shook it off.

She had to keep fighting.

She lashed out blindly, kicking hard, and caught him in the shin. He cursed, stumbling, and she lunged for the oil lamp on the vanity.

A hand fisted in her hair before she could grab it.

She barely had time to gasp before she was wrenched backward, thrown onto the bed. The air rushed from her lungs as Morhold loomed over her, his breathing ragged, his face twisted in rage.

“You think you can fight me?” he sneered, pressing a knee to her stomach to pin her. His hands closed around her wrists, slamming them into the mattress. “You think you have a choice?”

Imogen bared her teeth, ignoring the panic clawing at her throat.

Imogen twisted her hands suddenly, breaking one wrist free just enough to dig her nails into the tender skin under his jaw.

He reared back with a hiss, just enough for her to wrench her knee up, aiming for the one place that would cripple him.

He barely dodged in time, but it forced him off balance.

She shoved him with everything she had, sending him sprawling. She didn’t wait—she bolted off the bed, chest heaving, eyes wild. 

Morhold was already recovering, but now his expression was different.

She had pushed him too far.

His rage was ice now, not fire.

“Enough.” His voice was deadly quiet as he got to his feet, wiping the blood from his neck where her nails had dug deep. “Enough of this game.”

Imogen swallowed hard, her body still coiled to fight.

Morhold stepped closer, slow, deliberate. “You don’t have to like it, darling,” he murmured. “But I will have you. And you will break.”

Imogen forced herself to smile, despite the terror in her bones.

Imogen’s body coiled tight, every muscle screaming for action. She couldn’t let him see her fear—not now, not when she was so close to breaking free. She forced herself to lift her chin, offering him a thin, defiant smile that barely concealed the storm of terror raging inside her.

"You’ll regret that," she whispered, her voice hoarse from the struggle.

Morhold's lip curled up at the challenge, but before he could move, Imogen acted. She rushed him, her legs driving her forward with a sudden burst of energy. She threw herself into him, landing a quick knee to his stomach and sending him stumbling backward. The satisfaction of landing a blow was fleeting—his hands were already grabbing for her, and his strength was overwhelming.

He caught her wrist in a vice-like grip, twisting it painfully. She hissed in pain, but she refused to let him take control. With her free hand, she grabbed a lamp from the nearby table, swinging it at him with all her strength. The glass shattered against his chest, but he didn’t flinch. He only smirked, the blood from his neck mixing with the growing rage in his eyes.

"You think a little glass will stop me?" he sneered, tightening his hold on her wrist until her bones screamed.

Imogen’s mind raced, every part of her screaming to escape, to do anything to get away from him. She brought her knee up again, aiming for his groin, and this time, he didn’t dodge fast enough. He grunted, his grip loosening just enough for her to wrench her arm free.

But as she tried to break free, he lunged at her, grabbing her around the waist and slamming her against the wall with brutal force. The impact left her breathless, her vision blurring for a second. She had no time to recover before he slammed his forearm across her throat, pinning her against the cold stone.

"Enough," Morhold growled, his breath hot against her face. "You are mine."

Imogen’s heart raced as she struggled to break free, her chest heaving. Panic clawed at her, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her scared.

Then, in a desperate move, she did the only thing she could think of—she kicked out with all her strength, her foot connecting with the edge of a nearby window, shattering it. The jagged shards of glass scattered across the room, but Imogen didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the edge of the frame and pushed herself up, throwing her legs over the sill and out into the harsh daylight.

The cold air hit her like a slap to the face, and for a moment, she felt weightless—free. But as she pushed her body further through the window, her foot caught on the sill, sending her tumbling out into the darkness. Her body twisted in mid-air, and she crashed onto the ground with a sickening thud. Pain shot through her arm as it hit the ground first, the sharp snap of bone echoing through her mind.

Imogen’s chest heaved with the effort of dragging her battered body across the ground. The earth was still slick from last night’s rain, her clothes soaked and heavy from the wet underbrush, but she couldn’t stop. Not now, not with the sound of Morhold’s voice still ringing in her ears.

"You can’t run forever, Imogen!" Morhold screamed from the window above, his voice dripping with rage. "You’re mine, and I’ll hunt you down if I have to tear this place apart!"

He made no effort to wait. His footsteps pounded against the floor as he moved with calculated urgency, determined to track her down, not just through the estate—but through the very land around it.

Her broken arm hung limply at her side, but her legs moved faster, each step a desperate plea for escape. She ducked low, weaving between trees and hedges. The gates were still too far, but they were the only chance she had.

Then, somewhere in the distance, she heard it. Screaming. A distant echo, but unmistakable—Morhold’s voice, enraged and full of venom.

Her heart pounded in her chest, the sound of her own blood rushing in her ears. She turned, glancing back toward the estate. She didn’t see him, but she could feel his presence, like a shadow looming just behind her.

Morhold’s shouts were growing louder, and she could hear him moving, the thunderous crash of boots on the ground signaling that he was coming after her. Her eyes darted around, looking for an escape, but the estate was sprawling. She cursed herself, the sharp sting of regret cutting through her focus. She should have memorized the layout of the estate, should have mapped every hallway, every exit, every place she could hide. But she hadn’t. Now, all she had was her instinct, and the ever-growing sound of his pursuit behind her. She could only move forward, pushing through the sharp pain that threatened to overtake her. She stumbled, her body screaming for rest, but she refused to stop. She couldn’t stop.

Then, she saw them.

Garrick, Liam, and Xaden emerged from the trees, their eyes wide with disbelief as they caught sight of her, breathless and battered, running toward them with the ferocity of someone who had nothing left to lose.

Liam grinned as he surveyed the scene. "Well, that was way easier than I thought it would be," he quipped, eyeing Imogen’s disheveled state. “I mean, she’s right here —talk about saving us the trouble.” He elbowed Xaden lightly, but Xaden didn’t even blink, his eyes locked on Imogen with a deadly seriousness that made Liam’s smile falter.

Garrick’s breath hitched at the sight of her, and for a moment, he didn’t move. His heart, already racing with the adrenaline of the rescue, nearly stopped as he took in the blood on her clothes, the dirt and bruises, the way her arm hung limp at her side. He stepped forward, his hands reaching out instinctively, but she tried to push past him, desperation and fear fueling her every movement.

"Imogen," he said, his voice desperate. "Where are you going? We’re here, we made it."

But she kept moving, her eyes wild with panic. "We have to go. Morhold..."

Before she could get another word out, Garrick stepped in front of her, blocking her path. Without thinking, he pulled her into his arms, cradling her against him as though he could protect her from the entire world. The warmth of her body against his felt like a lifeline, but it only made the horror of what had happened to her that much more real.

Imogen’s breath hitched as she stiffened in his arms. The warmth he offered felt hollow, like a cruel reminder of everything she had lost. The comfort he sought to provide only deepened the ache inside her. The need to escape burned in her chest, far stronger than the desire to find solace in his embrace.

She pulled away sharply, her broken arm protesting, but she ignored the pain. She had to get out. She had to keep moving. Her eyes flicked over his shoulder, searching for an escape from the estate, from the man who still chased her. Her heart raced at the thought of Morhold closing in.

Garrick’s hands remained on her shoulders as she tried to step around him, the confusion and hurt in his eyes evident. "Imogen—"

Her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as she thrashed against him, wide-eyed and wild. “You don’t understand!” she cried. “I can’t stay—I can’t ! I need to get out—I have to get out—I can’t go back—I can’t be here—”

Garrick froze, stunned as her words hit him like a blow. But she was already trying to shove past him again, pure survival driving every movement. And for a brief, maddening second, Imogen realized he had none—not in this moment. He wasn’t thinking about escape or survival. He was too wrapped up in her , in this , and it made her feel even more alone.

Garrick was frozen, unable to process the weight of her desperation. He had wanted so badly to pull her back from the edge, to hold her and make her feel safe, but in doing so, he was now part of the problem. The irony of his own actions hit him hard, the hypocrisy stinging. He had told himself not to waste a second in getting her to safety, and now here he was, keeping her in place, halting her escape.

He wanted to scream, to demand that she just trust him. But as he looked into her eyes—eyes that were wild with fear and pain—he knew he wasn’t helping her. He was only standing in the way. And it hurt more than he could admit.

Liam shot a frantic look toward the direction of the estate, his eyes widening as he saw Morhold approaching fast. "She’s got a point, you know," he said, his voice tight with urgency. "We need to get out of here— now !"

Xaden was already halfway to drawing his sword, his eyes dark with fury as he stared toward Morhold. "I’m ready to end this," he muttered, though it was clear that this decision had been made long before they arrived.

“Get the fuck away from her!” Morhold bellowed, his form appearing at the edge of the estate, silhouetted against the dark sky. He was a monster in the rain, his eyes wild with rage.

Xaden stepped forward, positioning himself between Morhold and the rest of the group, his blade now fully drawn, the steel catching the light. 

Morhold didn’t slow, stomping forward like he could tear the world apart with his bare hands. “You think you can steal from me?” he spat, his voice a snarl. “She’s mine!”

“No one owns her,” Xaden growled, taking another step. “And if you try to lay a hand on her again, I will carve your name into the dirt with your own blood.”

Morhold laughed—loud, unhinged. “You’re just boys playing soldier. You think I don’t see what this is?” His eyes flicked toward Imogen, then Garrick. “She’ll crawl back, eventually. They always do when they’ve got nothing left.”

Liam pulled his own sword free with a growl, his eyes narrowing at the approaching figure. “We’ll end this now.”

Imogen clutched Garrick’s sleeve, her entire body shaking. She didn’t want this. Not another fight. Not here.

But Morhold lunged.

And in an instant, Xaden met him halfway, swords clashing with a force that rang out across the clearing. Liam was on his heels, a blur of motion, and for a second Imogen couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t look away. The fury, the violence—it was all for her.

Garrick looked down at Imogen, his heart in his throat. “We need to move. Now.”

Imogen’s lips curled into a tight, bitter smile despite the pain. “I just told you that,” she muttered under her breath, but the edge of frustration was quickly swept away by the overwhelming need to get as far from Morhold as possible. Without another word, she turned and began running.

Imogen pushed through the pain in her body, barely able to keep her pace as she ran, though the exhaustion was starting to catch up with her. She risked a glance over her shoulder, hearing the sounds of fighting. 

"Go back," she urged, her voice hoarse. "You can go back and fight with Xaden and Liam. You’ve got a better chance—"

“I’m not leaving you,” Garrick said firmly, cutting her off as he grabbed her shoulder to make sure she didn’t veer off. His grip was strong but gentle, a tether she hadn’t realized she needed until now. “

They ran for what felt like hours, the ground beneath their feet growing rougher as they made their way through the dense trees. Garrick stayed at her side, not letting her falter, not letting her stop. Every once in a while, Imogen would glance back, her heart in her throat, but Morhold’s looming presence seemed to fade with each step.

They made good distance, and for a moment, it seemed like they might have a chance to breathe. The tension in her shoulders began to loosen, and though her body ached with every movement, there was a small, fragile spark of hope blossoming within her.

That was when Xaden and Liam reappeared from the trees, their strides purposeful but not frantic. Their expressions were grim, faces streaked with the marks of a fight, but there was a strange weight to the air between them.

“We killed him,” Xaden said, his voice low but steady. “Morhold’s dead.”

Imogen froze. The words hit her like a physical blow, her chest tightening painfully. She felt the shock ripple through her, her mind struggling to comprehend it. He was dead. After everything—after the hell he had put her through, after everything she had endured—he was finally gone.

And yet, the relief that should’ve come with it was nowhere to be found. Just a hollow, cold silence that settled in her bones.

She stared at them—Xaden and Liam—both of them blood-splattered and winded, their expressions grim but resolute.

“Have you ever—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard and tried again. “Have you ever killed anyone before?”

Liam let out a breath, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. “I don’t exactly make a habit of it.”

They didn’t look ashamed. Not even rattled. There was no regret in their eyes. Only a grim certainty, like they knew exactly what they had done and would do it again if they had to.

Imogen’s lips parted, but her next breath caught in her throat.

“Now what?” she managed to whisper, her voice sounding far away even to her own ears.
The silence of the forest felt heavier now, suffocating in the absence of clashing swords and roaring threats. Morhold was gone. But the danger wasn’t.

“His men will come after us,” she said. “They’ll come looking.”

Her hand gripped the edge of the carriage bench, her broken arm tucked protectively against her side, her entire body taut with the dread that no amount of distance seemed to shake.

Xaden shook his head. “No one’s coming. No one gave a damn about Morhold. He was feared, not loved. They’ll scatter.”

Imogen blinked at him, the words settling like lead in her chest. “They might not care about him,” she said softly. “But they’ll care about his property.”

“That’s not our problem,” Liam muttered, brushing a hand through his hair. “Let them fight over whatever’s left.”

Garrick scoffed, bitter and tired. “They can pillage his estate for all I care. Let them burn it to the ground.”

Imogen’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade. “ I am his property.”

Liam blinked. “What… what do you mean?”

She looked up, her expression unreadable. “I’m his wife. I belong to him.”

The weight of her words settled slowly, heavily, as the realization dawned on them. 

“I’m still his. And someone will come to collect.” She added quietly.

Chapter Text

Imogen’s stomach twisted. The realization of what had just happened threatened to crush her—but there was no time to mourn. Not now.

Garrick reached for her hand, his grip warm and steady, pulling her back from the dizzying edge of shock. “We’ve got a plan,” he said, voice firm and grounding. “We stashed a carriage. We’ll make it there and get out of this goddamn town before Morhold’s men even know we’re gone.”

Imogen nodded numbly. Her body was still reeling, but the urgency in Garrick’s voice cut through the fog. There was no room for hesitation—not when danger still loomed. She let him pull her forward, her broken arm cradled protectively against her body, her thoughts fractured and frantic.

They didn’t stop until they reached the carriage, hidden beneath a thick veil of branches and rock.

Garrick immediately wrenched the door open and hoisted her inside.

Imogen barely registered the cold air whipping past as the carriage lurched into motion, rumbling over the rocky path and carrying them away from the estate—away from the nightmare. But even with Morhold’s estate behind her, a heavy silence clung to her like frost, an unshakable weight pressing down on her lungs.

She slumped against the seat, curling around the pain in her arm. The wind seeping through the cracks did nothing to ease the cold that had settled in her bones. Her arm throbbed with every bump, nausea swirling higher with each breath.

Her vision blurred. The world around her swayed in sharp, disorienting jerks. She squeezed her eyes shut, but that only made the spinning worse.

“I... I’m going to pass out,” she whispered, barely able to lift her head.

Garrick twisted toward her, alarm flashing in his eyes. “Imogen, no. Don’t pass out.” His voice was sharp, desperate.

“She can’t help it,” Liam cut in from across the carriage, his tone clipped but not unkind. “Look at her—she’s in shock.”

“I know that!” Garrick snapped. “I was there too Liam.”

Before she could respond—before he could even finish the thought—Imogen’s body slumped sideways. Her head tipped gently, falling against Garrick’s shoulder.

His breath caught.

“God Damn it, Imogen,” he muttered, wrapping an arm around her to keep her upright. His voice cracked—rough with fear, threaded with something far too raw. “Why do you always have to pass out on me?”

His fingers brushed her forehead, and he cursed under his breath. This was the last thing he needed right now—but he couldn’t stop the frustration from rising in his chest. It wasn’t her fault. He wasn’t angry at her. He was angry at everything—the pain she’d endured, the goddamned man who’d caused it, the fact that their escape, their fragile sliver of freedom, had come at such a steep price.

“It’s okay, Imogen,” he whispered, sweeping her hair gently from her face. He tried to steady his breathing, but his heart was racing. The thought of losing her—of failing her—was too much to bear.

The carriage jolted over a rough patch of road, and Garrick instinctively tightened his grip, adjusting her carefully against his chest. His arms wrapped around her, protective, grounding. His jaw clenched as he glanced down.

“She’s out cold,” he said, his voice low, grim. The words felt heavier than they should have—like an admission of just how close they’d come to losing everything.

Up front, Xaden turned slightly, his brow drawn in concern. “Is she okay?”

Garrick let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. His mouth twisted, but there was no humor in it. “I’m not a god damned healer, but I’m pretty sure blacking out after nearly getting killed isn’t the ideal situation.”

Liam, who had been sitting silently, suddenly snapped his head toward them, eyes wide with rising panic. “Wait—none of us know first aid, right? Like… real first aid?” He looked between them, his voice picking up speed. “This is it. We’re screwed. She’s unconscious and we have no clue how to help her. We’re going to get her killed—we need to wrap her in a blanket or something, isn’t that what you do? Keep people warm?”

“Gods, Liam,” Xaden cut in, his voice sharp, jaw tight. “She’s not dying because of us. She’s not dying at all. ” He let out a breath through his nose, visibly trying to rein in his temper. “Why the hell do I even engage with your ramblings?” He shook his head. 

Garrick’s head snapped up. “She’s not freezing, Liam. If anything, she’s warm. Wrapping her in a blanket makes zero sense.”

Liam threw up his hands, exasperated. “See? That’s exactly the kind of thing I’d know if I had any healer training!”

Garrick’s voice was biting now, frustration boiling just beneath the surface. He shifted Imogen slightly, cradling her closer with a grimace. “And she’s not ‘half-dead.’ She’s passed out. She’s done it before—under worse conditions than this—and she’s still breathing, isn’t she?”

Liam blinked, caught off guard by the sudden intensity.

“She blacked out because her arm is broken, and her body’s in shock. Not because she’s about to die.” Garrick’s jaw clenched, his tone laced with bitterness. “So unless you’ve magically picked up healing skills in the last five minutes, maybe keep your panicking to yourself.”

“All I’m saying,” Liam snapped, his voice rising again, “is that we’re fucked in this current moment, and we’re going to be just as fucked when we get to Basgiath. We’re not prepared. We’re going to die.”

“We’re not going to die,” Garrick said flatly, not even looking up as he adjusted Imogen again, checking her breathing with a quiet intensity. “You might, if you keep spiraling like this. But the rest of us? We’re getting through it.”

“Same,” Xaden said, his tone clipped. “I’m not planning on dying anytime soon. But you do whatever the hell you want, Liam.”

Liam opened his mouth to respond, but the weight of their words seemed to knock the air out of him. He leaned back against the wall of the carriage with a frustrated groan, crossing his arms tightly. “Gods, I hate this.”

Garrick pressed his lips to Imogen’s temple without thinking, a motion so instinctive it startled even him. She didn’t stir. Her body remained slack, though her breathing was slow and steady.

“Just hang on,” he whispered, barely audible over the wind.

“We’ll stop soon,” Xaden said, eyes fixed ahead. “There’s a cabin a few miles out. Stocked and safe.”

Garrick frowned. “How do you know that?”

Xaden didn’t answer right away.

“We’re in a part of the country you’ve never been to,” Garrick pressed. “How the hell do you know about a stocked cabin?”

Xaden’s jaw flexed, his knuckles white on the reins. “It’s better if you don’t.”

Liam turned sharply, brows furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Xaden didn’t meet his eyes. “Just trust me.”

“That’s a big ask right now,” Garrick snapped.

“Do they have a healer?” he added. 

“No,” Xaden said, voice low. “But they’ll have supplies. Bandages. Medicine. Enough to keep her stable.”

“That’s not good enough,” Garrick growled. “Especially if you’re not going to tell me how you know about this mystery cabin.”

“It has to be,” Xaden said sharply, eyes still locked on the path ahead. “We don’t have another option.”

They fell into silence again, but it was different this time. Heavier. The sort of silence that clings to your clothes, that sinks into your skin.

Imogen stirred.

It was faint—barely a twitch of her fingers—but it was enough to draw every eye in the carriage. Garrick froze. His hand hovered just above hers, waiting. Hoping.

Another movement—her brow furrowing slightly, her lips parting with a soft sound of pain.

“Imogen?” Garrick leaned forward, his voice tight with hope.

She groaned faintly, her eyelids fluttering.

“It’s okay,” he said quickly. “You’re safe. We got you out.”

Her eyes opened, glassy and unfocused.

“You’re okay,” he said again, not sure if he was trying to convince her or himself. “You’re okay.”

“I... I can’t feel my arm,” she mumbled.

“It’s broken,” Garrick said gently, brushing her hair from her face. “You passed out.”

Her face crumpled as the memory hit, her breathing quickening. “He—he tried—”

“I know,” Garrick said quickly, his voice breaking. “I know. But he didn’t. You stopped him. You got out.”

She nodded faintly, but her eyes were brimming with something deeper—guilt, rage, fear. “I don’t feel good.”

“Hey, hey—it’s okay,” Liam said suddenly, his voice soft but firm as he leaned forward.

“You just need rest,” Xaden added, his tone quieter than before.

Garrick tightened his grip on her good hand.

She looked away, jaw trembling. “I’m so tired.”

“I know,” Garrick murmured. “I know.”

He glanced at the others. Liam had dropped his gaze, staring at the floor like he couldn’t bear to meet her eyes. Xaden kept his attention on the road, but the set of his shoulders was tense, rigid with whatever storm brewed behind his silence.

“We’re almost there,” Garrick whispered to her, pulling her gently into his side. “Just a little longer.”

Imogen blinked slowly, her voice a rasp. “Where... where are we going?”

Garrick hesitated, then looked toward Xaden.

Xaden didn’t turn around. “Somewhere safe.”

Imogen let out the faintest huff of breath. “You’re all acting weird,” she muttered, eyelids fluttering.

And then, just like that, she let herself sink back into sleep, her body going slack against Garrick’s chest.

Chapter Text

The soft rumble of the carriage wheels was the only sound that filled the air, the rhythmic motion lulling Imogen in and out of sleep. Her arm throbbed, but the pain seemed distant, a faint reminder of the horrors she had just escaped. For the first time in days, she felt a strange sense of calm, the weight of her circumstances slowly lifting, if only for a moment.

She stirred, her eyes fluttering open. At first, everything was blurry, but when her gaze cleared, she saw Garrick sitting next to her. His arm was draped over her shoulders, his body slightly curled toward hers. The warmth of his presence comforted her, and she found herself sinking into him instinctively.

For a moment, she just lay there, letting the stillness wash over her. Then, a quiet voice broke the silence.

“I never let him… sleep with me,” Imogen said softly, her words hesitant, as though she was confessing something. She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to say it, but it had been weighing on her, and somehow, Garrick was the only person she could say it to. “Morhold, I mean. He wanted to, but I never let him.”

Garrick, lost in thought, didn’t immediately respond. But when he did, his voice was steady, without any hint of judgment.

“Imogen,” he said softly, “you don’t need to explain that to me. It doesn’t change how I feel about you.” His tone grew serious. “It’s ridiculous that you even think I’d think less of you for that. You were trapped. You survived. That’s all that matters.”

Imogen glanced up at him, her eyes filled with uncertainty. She had never felt more vulnerable than she did right now, but Garrick’s words, calm and unwavering, brought her a sense of reassurance she hadn’t known she needed.

He shifted slightly, then leaned in, his lips pressing gently to her forehead. It wasn’t a kiss of passion, but it was enough—a simple gesture of comfort, of connection.

And something inside her broke open.

She hadn’t meant to love him. She hadn’t wanted to. But somewhere along the line—between shared nightmares and whispered promises, between broken bones and the raw truth of her fear—she had. Slowly, fiercely, without permission.

She loved him.

She loved the way he didn’t flinch from her pain. The way he made space for her without demanding pieces of her she wasn’t ready to give. The way he saw her—not as broken, not as fragile—but as a survivor.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away, leaning into his side.

She didn’t say it aloud. Not yet. The words felt too big for the moment, and too small at the same time. But they pulsed in her chest with every beat of her heart.

She loved him.

And she wasn’t sure what that meant yet—not in a world still splintering beneath their feet. But for now, here, in this small quiet sliver of safety, it was enough.

She closed her eyes, her head resting against his shoulder, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—she had made it out. That maybe she wasn’t alone anymore.

Her voice was barely a whisper, muffled against his shirt. “Where are we going?”

Garrick let out a breath that was somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “I’d love to tell you,” he murmured. “But Xaden’s being cagey as hell about it. All we know is that it’s somewhere safe.” He shifted slightly to look down at her, his voice softening when he saw the pain still etched across her face.

“Xaden,” Garrick called, sharper this time. “Enough of this vague bullshit. We deserve to know where the hell you’re taking us.”

Xaden didn’t turn around. “I already told you.”

“No, you told us there’s a cabin.” Garrick leaned forward now, his voice gaining a dangerous edge—but the movement jostled Imogen, and her head slipped from his shoulder. She let out a faint sound of pain as it fell back, and Garrick immediately scrambled to catch her, his arms steadying her with a murmured curse.

“Shit—sorry,” he said under his breath, adjusting her more carefully against him before glaring back at Xaden. “You didn’t say who stocked it. You didn’t say why it’s there. And you didn’t say how the hell you know about it.”

Xaden’s jaw clenched, his grip tightening on the reins as the horses continued trotting down the uneven path.

Garrick wasn’t done. “You can’t just expect us to follow you blindly into whatever hidden hole you’ve dug into the ground.”

“I’m not asking you to follow me blindly,” Xaden said, finally glancing back. “I’m asking you to trust me.”

“That’s a big ask right now,” Garrick snapped. “She needs a real healer. Not some mystery stash of herbs in the middle of nowhere.”

Xaden’s voice was flat. “There’s no healer. I already told you that. But the cabin has what we need to keep her stable—better than nothing, and it’s not like we have a line of options waiting for us.”

“Is it better than nothing?” Garrick shot back, his voice rising with frustration. “Because if we don’t fix her arm properly, it’s going to be fucked up forever—no offense, Imogen.”

Imogen gave a weak huff that might’ve been a laugh or a sigh. “None taken,” she murmured, though her tone was dry.

“And what if it’s a trap?” Liam cut in, eyes narrowing. “Or worse—what if someone already knows about this place?”

Xaden still didn’t look at them. “They don’t. Or… well, they do. But it’s fine.”

“Because you’re so sure?” Garrick shot back. “How can you know that unless—?”

“I just know, alright?” Xaden snapped, harsher than before.

The carriage fell into a heavy silence.

Then Liam huffed from the corner. “Well, he’s gonna have to tell us eventually. I mean, we’re gonna get there at some point—wherever there is.”

Imogen stirred, lifting her head just enough to look at Xaden. Her voice was soft, cracked around the edges. “Xaden.”

His shoulders tensed.

She didn’t press, not yet. She just waited, her gaze steady.

“Please,” she added after a beat, quiet and clear. “Tell me.”

Xaden’s knuckles were still white, his jaw still tight—but something in his expression shifted as he glanced over his shoulder at her. Not quite guilt. Not quite fear. But something just as raw.

Imogen shifted weakly against Garrick’s side, her voice faint. “You might as well tell me, anyway. I’m the safest person to confess to right now. Give it ten minutes—I’ll pass out from the pain and forget the whole thing.”

Xaden exhaled through his nose, the barest huff of a laugh escaping him, but it lacked any real amusement. “Nice try,” he muttered. “But Garrick and Liam aren’t exactly going to forget.”

“She’s not wrong though,” Liam said. “She’s definitely on a ticking clock.”

Finally, Xaden slowed the reins and let out a breath like he was surrendering something heavy.

“The rebellion didn’t fall,” he said quietly. “At least… not the way you think it did.”

Everyone stilled.

Even the horses seemed to sense the shift in the air, their hooves slowing against the dirt path as if nature itself had leaned in to listen.

“What the hell does that mean?” Garrick demanded, his voice low and dangerous. “Our parents are dead, Xaden. Burned. We watched them die.”

Liam’s face had gone pale, his usual easy humor nowhere in sight. “Don’t fuck with us, man.”

Xaden didn’t respond right away. He pulled the horses to a stop beside a craggy outcrop, where the trees thickened and shadows pressed in from all sides. Then he turned to face them fully, his face unreadable but no longer cold. Just tired. Haunted.

“They’re dead,” he said, and the words hung like stones in the air. “The execution was real. The fire was real. But the rebellion… it didn’t die with them.”

Imogen blinked slowly, struggling to process through the haze of pain. “But we saw it fall apart. Everything burned.”

“That’s what they wanted you to see,” Xaden said. “That’s what we needed everyone to believe.”

Silence crashed down again, broken only by the quiet creak of the carriage and the distant rustle of wind through trees.

“You're telling us…” Liam began, jaw tightening, “that the whole thing—watching our parents burn—was some kind of cover-up?”

“No,” Xaden said. “It wasn’t a cover-up. It was a sacrifice.”

Garrick’s hand clenched around Imogen’s shoulder. “You better explain. Now.”

Xaden looked down at the reins in his hands, as though they might steady him, then back up. “The rebellion wasn’t just soldiers and dragons. It was a network—people everywhere. Spies. Saboteurs. Hidden sympathizers in places you wouldn’t believe. Our parents were only the visible part of the tree. Cutting them down… it hurt us. But it didn’t kill the roots.”

“So the roots…” Imogen said softly, “they’re still alive?”

Xaden nodded. “Some of them. Enough. They went underground—literally, in some cases. This cabin we’re heading to? It’s part of what’s left.”

“And you know this because?” Garrick pressed.

Xaden met his eyes. “Because my father told me. Before everything went to hell. Someone needed to know. To keep things going.”

Liam sat back, exhaling sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Holy shit.”

Imogen was quiet, trying to keep up through the pounding in her skull. “Why didn’t you tell us before?”

“Because knowing puts you at risk,” Xaden said.

His voice was quieter now, the anger drained and replaced by something deeper—something raw. He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze lingering the longest on Imogen, whose breathing had grown shallower again.

“I’ve lost enough,” he went on, his jaw tight. “I watched my father burn. I watched your families burn too. And ever since that day, the only thing that’s mattered—the only thing—is keeping the people I still have safe. That’s it. That’s the whole game.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word, but he didn’t stop.

“You think I wanted to lie to you? To drag you into some godforsaken part of the country with nothing but vague promises and a half-broken plan? No. But the more you know, the more dangerous it gets—for you and for the people who are still out there, still fighting. That cabin? It’s one of the last places left that hasn’t been compromised. And the second word gets out about it, it’s gone.”

Garrick didn’t look away, but his shoulders eased the smallest fraction.

Garrick’s eyes narrowed. “So what’s this cabin, really? Just a safe house?”

Xaden hesitated. “It’s more than that. It’s a place where decisions get made. If we’re lucky, someone will be there. Someone who can help.”

“Someone who can fix her arm?” Liam asked pointedly.

Xaden’s expression flickered. “Maybe.”

Imogen felt herself slipping again, exhaustion pulling her down, the fire of her pain dimming into something dull and heavy.

“Can you just… wake me up when we get there?” she whispered.

Garrick glanced down at her, brushing a hand through her hair. “Yeah. You rest, Im.”

She closed her eyes again, barely able to keep them open now. But just before she drifted off, she murmured, “If this rebellion’s still alive… then maybe we are too.”

And with that, she let the darkness take her.

Chapter Text

The cabin emerged out of the forest like something half-remembered from a dream—shadowed and quiet, its roof sagging beneath the weight of heavy moss and time. Imogen didn’t stir as the carriage came to a stop, her head still pressed to Garrick’s chest, breath shallow and even. The world had dulled around her, all sound and color softened by pain and whatever strange peace she’d found between the ache.

Liam jumped down first, scanning the perimeter with a soldier’s eyes, tension carved into every line of his body.
“It looks abandoned,” he muttered.

Xaden followed, boots crunching softly over the frost-stiffened ground. “It’s supposed to.”

He moved toward the porch with far more familiarity than caution, crouching low to brush aside a patch of dead leaves and dirt. With practiced hands, he reached beneath the weathered wood and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in oilskin.

Garrick was halfway out of the carriage, Imogen’s weight slumped against him as he braced her carefully—her head tucked beneath his chin, her breath a feather-light thing. But Liam’s voice cracked through the quiet like a whip.

“Hold on—wait. Wait wait wait.”

Xaden paused, glancing over his shoulder.

Liam threw his hands up. “You’re telling me you dragged us into the middle of nowhere, to this super secret last-stand-of-the-rebellion hideout—and the key? The key is just under the porch?”

Xaden’s face was unreadable, but something in his eyes sparked with dry amusement. “Not exactly ‘just .’ It’s wrapped in preservation enchantments. Hidden under multiple illusion wards. You wouldn’t have found it unless you knew what to look for.”

“Oh, so it’s a fancy key under the porch,” Liam snapped. “That changes everything .”

Xaden straightened, his voice flat but carrying a hint of frustration that simmered beneath his calm exterior. “You think I don’t know the risk? This place has been secure for over a decade. There are wards in place, and no one but a marked one or rebel can even see the entrance unless they’re brought in.”

He gave Liam a pointed look, his eyes hardening as he continued. “And technically, we’re all spies now. We’re in this together, whether you like it or not. If you can’t accept that, then maybe we need to rethink how we’re moving forward.”

Liam snorted. “Oh good. Ancient magic. That always goes so well.”

“Liam,” Xaden said, sharp. “Enough.”

Liam’s jaw clenched, eyes flicking to Imogen—pale and unconscious in Garrick’s arms. Some of the fire bled out of him. He stepped aside but muttered under his breath, gesturing at her with a bitter twist of his mouth, “Still feels like we're leaving the front door open and taping a dagger to the doormat.”

Xaden ignored him and turned the key in the lock. It clicked once—clean, mechanical—but was followed by the faint pulse of magic that rippled outward from the doorframe like a breath being held and then released.

The door creaked open slowly.

Inside, it was shadowy but warmer than expected. A quiet space—dustless, preserved by whatever wards Xaden had spoken of. The air held a stillness that didn’t feel abandoned, just… waiting. There were no personal touches. No photos. No mementos. Nothing to say who had been here before or what they’d left behind.

The only personalization in the entire space came in the form of maps—dozens of them. They were everywhere. Scattered across the long central table, pinned to the walls, curled on shelves and stuck with colored markers and coded scribbles. Routes, terrain markings, ward coverage, military strategy. The last heartbeat of a rebellion committed in ink.

Garrick glanced at the walls as he passed through, Imogen still limp in his arms. “Looks more like a war room than a home.”

“It was never meant to be a home,” Xaden said quietly. “Just a place to regroup. And plan what comes next.”

He shut the door behind them, and the sound echoed like a line being drawn.

No one spoke again until Garrick crossed the threshold with Imogen in his arms, her head cradled gently against his chest.

Liam hovered near the entrance, glancing back at the door as if expecting it to burst open behind them. “Shouldn’t you—” he gestured sharply, “—lock this all-mighty magical door of yours?”

Xaden didn’t look back. “It locks automatically.”

“Yeah?” Liam snapped. “Because clearly, we’re putting a lot of faith in doors today. Maybe one of them will stop someone who wants us all dead.”

Xaden turned slowly, his tone clipped. “You think the wards are for show? No one’s getting in here unless they’re brought in by someone. That includes you.”

“Oh, great,” Liam said, arms thrown wide. “So all it takes is one of us screwing up and leading them straight here? Fantastic security system, really top-tier.”

“Someone in this group,” Xaden growled, stepping closer, “needs to trust that we have systems. That I know what I’m doing.”

“Someone in this group,” Liam shot back, “needs to think logically for once. Because trusting people and hoping for the best has gotten our families killed .”

“Enough!” Garrick barked—not because he wanted to, but because he had no idea what they were even arguing about anymore and Imogen’s head was lolling against his arm. “Can one of you stop posturing and tell me where to put her down?”

He glanced around the room like he’d just walked into someone’s war bunker mid-fight, which… wasn’t far from the truth. Maps everywhere. No furniture except for a few hard-looking chairs and a narrow bench shoved against the far wall.

“Is she supposed to sleep on a strategy table?” he muttered, adjusting his grip.

Xaden, jaw tight, stalked past them and disappeared down a short hallway. “This way.”

Liam didn’t follow immediately. He stayed rooted where he was, shoulders rising and falling with restrained fury as he stared at the closed door. Like he still didn’t trust it. Like he still wasn’t sure they were safe.

Garrick shifted Imogen slightly in his arms and followed Xaden without another word, ducking into the hallway that led deeper into the cabin. His boots thudded softly against the floorboards, careful not to jostle her more than necessary. Every breath she took felt like a tiny victory, like the whole world was balanced in her ribs.

The hallway opened into a small back room—barebones but clean. A cot rested in the corner, tucked beneath a narrow window shuttered from the inside. There were no curtains, no warmth to the space, but there was a blanket folded at the foot of the bed and a basin of water on a stand nearby. Someone had lived here once. Or had prepared to.

Xaden stood stiffly in the doorway, watching. Garrick moved past him and lowered Imogen carefully onto the cot. She barely stirred, a faint line of pain tightening between her brows before sleep took her again.

“She’ll be safe here,” Xaden said, voice low. It wasn’t reassurance. It was a promise. A vow edged with something like guilt.

“I know,” Garrick replied, though he didn’t. Not really. But it was the only thing to say.

Back in the entryway, Liam marched to the front door and crouched, inspecting the lock like he might find something off, something broken, some imperfection to prove he wasn’t just being paranoid.

The handle wouldn’t budge.

He ran his fingers along the edges of the doorframe, felt the faintest thrum of ward-magic vibrating through the air like a plucked string. Secure. Completely, maddeningly secure.

“Damn,” he muttered, leaning his forehead against the cold wood. “Of course it’s locked. Of course he’s right.”

He didn’t know who he was angrier at—Xaden, for being so infuriatingly composed and prepared, or himself, for always expecting the worst and needing to be proven wrong. Again. He kicked the baseboard lightly, more annoyed than anything else.

“Stupid key under the porch,” he grumbled under his breath, then straightened and turned back to the quiet of the cabin.

He could hear soft murmurs down the hallway—Garrick’s voice, hushed and warm, probably trying to soothe Imogen in case she woke. Xaden’s voice was quieter, unreadable.

For the first time in days, there wasn’t the sound of footsteps behind them. No shouting. No thunder of wings in the distance.

But Liam still felt like a hunted thing.

Liam stood in the threshold of the cabin, one hand still resting on the doorframe like he could hold the whole place up with sheer will. But the door was locked. Wards humming. Safe, according to Xaden.

And still, it didn’t feel like enough.

He exhaled hard through his nose, pressing his fingers to his temples. His heart was racing even though they’d stopped moving, and that— that —was the worst part. The quiet after the chaos. The space where doubt could creep in and settle like frost.

His gaze swept the entryway. The walls were bare except for maps and pinned notes, old parchment marked with lines and faded ink. Rebel plans. Outposts. Routes and rotations. Everything methodical. Everything prepared.

And yet all he could think about was Sloane.

He hadn’t seen her since their parents died.

One minute she was at his side, pale and silent, her hand clenched in his as if letting go would mean losing everything. The next… she was gone. Torn from him just days after the executions, tearing apart the siblings who had survived together.

He remembered the way she screamed when the guards dragged her away. Remembered how he fought until his knuckles bled, until they slammed him to the ground and pressed a boot to the back of his neck like he was nothing.

They hadn’t seen each other since.

Lost not in fire, but in orders. In cruelty masked as bureaucracy. In the aftermath of sacrifice.

He’d searched. The first few months, he’d begged every rebel sympathizer for information, chased down every black market whisper like it was a lifeline. He’d made promises he couldn’t keep, bargains with his foster father that soured the moment they were struck. He’d done it all with her name in his mouth. Sloane. Sloane. Sloane. Like if he said it enough, the world would give her back.

But then the walls had started closing in. The lies caught up. The bargains turned to threats. And Liam had to run—to disappear before the debts came due in blood. Before he became just another body on the wrong side of a deal.

And somehow, impossibly, he found Xaden. Or maybe Xaden found him. Cool, collected, infuriating Xaden who had already carved out his place in the rebellion like it was owed to him. Who had offered Liam shelter with that unreadable expression and that maddening calm—like everything was already under control.

Xaden, who made it all look easy. Who seemed untouched by grief even though Liam knew better.
Xaden, who still hadn’t told him everything.
Xaden, who was so goddamn himself all the time, it made Liam want to break something.

And right now? Right now, Liam was so pissed at him he could barely breathe.

And then Garrick and Imogen had shown up—battered, bruised, shaken to their bones—and seeking the same refuge in Xaden that Liam had once begged for.

And Xaden had given it to them.

Just like he had for Liam. No questions asked. No hesitation. Like there was still room in that stone-hard exterior for mercy, even if Xaden would never call it that.

They had shown up clinging to each other, trauma stitched tight between them. A partnership forged in fire, in survival. A partnership Liam had once understood—because it used to be his.

It used to be him and Sloane .

The way Garrick looked at Imogen—like she was the only tether he had left—and the way Imogen leaned into him without realizing she was doing it… it was everything Liam had lost. And even if he didn’t want to admit it, he was jealous . Jealous and mad. Furious that they had something worth holding on to and refused to see it.

He hadn’t let himself feel it until now. Had shoved it down and covered it in biting sarcasm and clipped orders and complaints about Garrick's incompetence. But there was a reason Liam kept pushing them. A reason he wanted them to admit what was obvious to everyone else. Because they had something good. Something whole and fragile and real.

And they were passing it up.

Wasting it.

And Liam would’ve given anything— anything —to have his best friend back. To go back to the days when Sloane rolled her eyes at him across the dinner table, or dug her elbow into his ribs when he got too full of himself. He would’ve traded his own safety for one more chance to stand beside her. But that chance was gone.

And here these two were—tripping over their feelings like they had time. Like that kind of connection was disposable. Like it wouldn’t be ripped away the second they blinked.

And it made Liam want to scream.

He should have gone looking for Sloane.
He should have never stopped.

And now?

Now Imogen was unconscious in a rebel safe house. Garrick hovered like his world was collapsing. Xaden was calm in that cold, clipped way of his. Everything was spiraling, but somehow they were all acting like they had control.

Liam had none.

He rubbed the heel of his hand over his face, jaw tight.

What if she’s dead? What if she’s been dead this whole time you wasted your time dragging Imogen out of a marriage when you could’ve been finding your own blood?

His stomach twisted, guilt turning rancid.

He’d made a choice, hadn’t he? One sister for another. One life for one he hadn’t even been sure needed saving. He’d chosen Imogen. Because she looked so much like Sloane in those quiet moments. Because he was along for the ride. Because he wasn’t sure what he would find if he really kept looking for Sloane. 

Because maybe it had been easier to save someone else’s sister than accept he’d failed his own.

He cursed under his breath and turned sharply away from the door, pacing across the room with a predator’s unease. His boots echoed against the wood, too loud in the hush.

He didn’t know where she was.

He didn’t know if she was alive.

And he sure as hell didn’t know if he’d done the right thing by being here.

But he was here.

And because he was here, he figured he better do right by the only sister he knew he had left.

Liam scrubbed a hand down his face, then marched back down the hall, boots thudding louder than necessary, like maybe stomping hard enough could shake off the weight in his chest. He didn’t knock—just pushed the door open like the damn thing owed him something.

Inside, the low glow of lamplight spilled over uneven wooden floors and shadowed walls. Imogen lay on one of the cots, pale against a mess of blankets. Garrick was half on the floor beside her, sitting back on his heels, his fingers still laced around hers like letting go might break something beyond repair.

Xaden stood near the hearth, arms crossed, unreadable as ever.

Liam took one look at the scene and let out a humorless laugh, bitter and sharp. “Oh, now you wrap her in blankets?” he snapped, jerking his chin toward the pile surrounding Imogen. “Thought we weren’t supposed to do that, remember? What if it makes her too warm, too cold, too whatever —”

No one responded.

“She needs a healer.”

Xaden’s gaze flicked to him. Calm. Controlled. Too calm.

“It’s not that simple.”

Liam’s fists clenched. “You have a whole system of spies apparently—call one of them.”

“It’s not about calling someone,” Xaden said, voice low and even. “It’s about who we can trust not to bring the whole damn war down on this cabin. The wards here hold because no one knows we’re inside. That includes healers.”

Liam’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying we don’t have one healer left in the rebellion?” His voice cracked with disbelief, rising in pitch. “If that’s true, then we might as well cut our losses now and become good little Navarrean citizens, because we are fucked .”

The words slammed into the room like a thrown punch, echoing against the stone hearth.

Liam stepped forward, every line of him thrumming with contained rage. “So we just what, wait? Hope the magic dust in the walls does the healing for us?” His voice was laced with sarcasm, but there was desperation there too—hot and raw. “Hope her body holds out long enough to not die while you play gatekeeper with the one thing she actually needs?”

Xaden’s jaw twitched, a muscle feathering along his cheek. “You think I don’t want to help her?” he snapped—quieter than Liam’s roar but ten times colder. “You think I haven’t spent every second since we got her back calculating exactly how much risk I’m allowed to take before I get all of us killed?”

Silence cracked between them like a whip.

“She’s stable,” Garrick muttered, not looking up. His voice was hoarse, half-shattered. “But he’s right. We can’t risk exposure. Not yet.”

Liam turned on him, disbelieving. “Do you even care about her?” The words shot out before he could stop them, brittle with disbelief and something dangerously close to betrayal. 

Garrick flinched, but didn’t rise to it. He didn’t let go of her hand either.

“And you—” Liam swung toward Xaden, rage pivoting. “ Bullshit. ” He jabbed a finger toward the door, eyes burning. “You’re telling me you can keep an entire rebellion secret , take one hundred and seven cuts for the marked ones, and lie to the most powerful people in the country —but you can’t find one healer who owes you a favor?”

Xaden didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe, it seemed, for a long second.

“She would do it for you,” Liam said, quieter now but no less furious. “In fact, she would’ve already done it.”

Then slowly, Xaden nodded once. “Fine.” His voice was low. Grim. 

He stepped toward the door, but Liam blocked his path, eyes burning.

“When she’s safe,” Liam said, voice like iron, “we’re going after Sloane. I don’t care what plans you’ve got spinning in that head of yours. I don’t care what mission’s so important you’re willing to leave people behind for it. I’ve played nice. I’ve followed orders. I’ve waited.”

His voice cracked—not loud, not sharp. Just real .

“You don’t get to make me wait anymore.”

Xaden stared at him for a moment—silent, unmoving. Then gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.

And walked out the door.

Chapter Text

Xaden ran a hand through his hair as he stared down at the chaos of maps strewn across the long central table. His father’s handwriting curled over nearly every corner of parchment—looping notes in the margins, circled waypoints, coordinates, symbols. Some of it was tactical. Some of it was practical. And some of it—maybe most of it—felt like a trapdoor waiting to open beneath his feet.

Too many instructions. Too many layers. Too many memories with teeth.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, fingers resting on a sheet of vellum that mapped out the northern reaches of the continent, detailing rebel caches and evacuation trails that hadn’t been touched in years. The ink was faded. But not forgotten.

He hadn’t been here since he was fourteen. Too old to be a boy, too young to be the heir to a rebellion, too scared to admit how badly he’d wanted his father to make it all make sense.

And now he was supposed to be him.

A laugh tried to claw its way up his throat, bitter and breathless.

He didn’t want this. Not the weight of a broken revolution. Not the mantle of leadership that reeked of blood and ghosts. He’d spent years trying to live on the edge of it—close enough to honor what was lost, far enough not to drown in it. But this war, this life... it had a way of finding him. Of dragging him back in, tooth by tooth.

This wasn’t his legacy. It was his sentence.

And yet here he was, hands stained with his father’s ink, standing in the ruins of old plans, surrounded by people who still looked to him for direction—as if surviving was the same thing as leading.

As if grief could forge a crown.

Garrick was still in the back with Imogen. Liam… who the hell knew. Probably pacing or brooding somewhere close enough to strike if something went wrong. That was the thing about Liam—he didn’t trust anyone, but he always made sure he was near enough to save them anyway.

Xaden shoved a map aside and planted his hands on the table, the wood groaning beneath his weight. His jaw clenched, and the silence pressed in on him like a vice.

She needed a healer.

And he had no idea how to find one.

He raked a hand through his hair and scanned the table again, eyes darting across the scrawled margins in his father’s handwriting. Too many instructions. Too many layers. Too many ghosts. He'd grown up watching his father navigate impossibilities. Always with purpose. Always with a plan.

And now Xaden was the one staring at parchment full of questions he couldn’t answer, while a girl he couldn’t afford to lose lay broken in the back room.  

“Bastard,” he muttered under his breath. “Could’ve at least left me a name.”

He picked up one sheet—an old inventory list of supply caches—and flipped it over. More notes. A sketch of the continent. Then, almost hidden in the corner:

“Only call him through the northern wardstone. He will always answer healing.”

His breath caught.

A sharp, still moment stretched out around him.

That… that was a direction.

A possibility.

He grabbed the paper and turned toward the door, heart pounding, then stopped short as a figure stepped into the threshold.

Liam.

His arms were crossed, jaw set, brows drawn tight with suspicion. “Where are you going?”

Xaden barely hesitated. “To get a healer.”

Liam’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, just like that? You suddenly know where to find one?” He stepped farther into the room. “You’ve been pacing around her, staring at those maps like they might start talking. And now what—some divine revelation?”

Xaden clenched his jaw. “A lead.”

Liam’s brows shot up, unimpressed. “What lead?”

Xaden’s nostrils flared. “A note from my father.” He lifted the sheet between them. 

Liam’s mouth parted slightly. “That’s it?” His voice rose, incredulous. “That’s your grand plan? Whisper into a rock and hope the universe answers?”

“You said I didn’t have a plan,” Xaden shot back. “Now I do.”

“That’s not a plan,” Liam growled. “That’s a wish.”

Xaden’s patience frayed. He stepped forward until there was barely a breath of space between them. The map crinkled in his grip. “Come with me,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Or shut up.”

The air between them sparked, heavy with tension and barely restrained frustration.

For a second, Liam looked like he might throw a punch. Then he exhaled hard through his nose, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “idiot,” and gave a single, sharp nod.

“Lead the way, then. Let’s see where your miracle takes us.”

They stepped out into the night, boots brushing through half-crushed wildflowers. 

The woods around the cabin were hushed, like they were listening.

Xaden held the folded piece of vellum tight in one hand as they approached the edge of the wardline. The stones that circled the property were small and unassuming, half-swallowed by roots and soil, but power pulsed off them in quiet, unmistakable waves.

“That one,” Xaden said, pointing to the northernmost wardstone. His father’s note had been clear: Only call him through the northern wardstone. 

Liam raised a brow. “So… what now? You knock three times and say healer, healer, healer ?”

Xaden shot him a glare. “I don’t see you coming up with a better idea.”

“Because I don’t make promises I don’t know how to keep,” Liam replied, voice low but edged with frustration. “You’re just out here whispering sweet nothings to a rock.”

Xaden ignored him and crouched beside the stone. The surface was rough beneath his palm, warm despite the cool night air. The pulse of ancient magic tingled up his arm, familiar but wild, like a breath he couldn’t quite catch.

“I don’t know who you are,” he said quietly, “or where this leads. But if you’re the one this magic reaches… she needs you. We need you.”

Liam leaned against a nearby tree, arms crossed, unimpressed. “Oh good. We’re doing the mysterious call into the void part. Really inspires confidence.”

Xaden closed his eyes. “I’m calling in a debt. A legacy. Whatever the hell this house meant by he will always answer healing , I’m asking it to work.”

The forest stayed quiet.

No crack of thunder. No glowing light. No shimmer in the air or ripple in the wardline.

Xaden felt ridiculous. He clenched his jaw, lowering his head until his forehead pressed against the stone.

“ Please. ”

Liam shifted uncomfortably, like he wasn’t sure whether to mock him or feel something dangerously close to hope.

Then, a low hum vibrated through the ground—soft and resonant, like the forest itself stirred. A breeze kicked up, scattering leaves in every direction, lifting strands of hair and tugging at cloaks like unseen fingers.

And then— pop .
A faint pressure wave rippled outward, and Liam flinched. “Holy shit.”

Xaden stood slowly, heart hammering in his chest.

There, about five paces from the wardstone, stood a man—tall, with red-brown hair tousled like he’d raked a hand through it too many times. His dark shirt was rumpled and half-unbuttoned beneath a well-worn jacket that didn’t quite match the rest of his outfit—like it had been thrown on in a hurry. Ink stains marked the cuff of one sleeve, and his boots were polished but scuffed, more suited to stone floors than muddy trails. 

“Which one of you called for healing?” the man asked, voice rough like he didn’t have time for pleasantries.

Xaden blinked, mouth parting slightly. “You’re—”

“Yeah,” the man cut in dryly, shifting the satchel on his shoulder. “Brennan Sorrengail. Nice to meet you. Sorry my mom tortured you, and I’m mostly over your dad murdering me, so let’s call it even. Now—who’s hurt?”

Liam’s jaw dropped. “Wait—wait. Brennan?” His eyes narrowed as he stared, putting the pieces together too slowly for his own comfort. “Sorrengail Brennan? As in dead Brennan?”

“Yes. That Brennan.” Brennan’s tone was already laced with impatience as he stepped past them both, heading for the house like he already knew where to go. “And no, not actually dead, thanks to a very elaborate healing, a rebellion, and some extremely inconvenient magic. Now which one of you summoned me through an ancient wardstone and interrupted a very tense conversation about underground supply chains and burned-out caches?”

Xaden let out a slow breath, gaze locked on Brennan’s back like he wasn’t sure whether to follow… or just stand there and marvel.

“I did,” he finally said. “Our friend Imogen, she broke her arm. She fell. Hard. And it’s… it’s bad. We’ve been trying to manage it ourselves, but—”

“You’re not healers. I get it.” Brennan waved a hand dismissively, already halfway up the steps of the porch. 

Liam, still wide-eyed, gave Xaden a sidelong look. “You summoned Brennan Sorrengail like he was a damn house elf.” He hesitated, then added under his breath, “I didn’t even know he was alive.”

“Wasn’t like I had a menu to pick from,” Xaden muttered, finally starting after him. “And I didn’t know it would be him .” He hesitated, then added under his breath, “I didn’t even know he was alive.”

“Yeah, well, next time maybe give a little more warning before raising the not-so-dead.” Liam shook his head and followed.

Inside, the cabin’s air was thick with low firelight and the scent of herbs steeped in hot water. Brennan paused in the doorway of the back room, his expression shifting in an instant from flippant to focused. 

“I’ve got it from here,” he said over his shoulder. “But don’t go far.”

Xaden exchanged a glance with Liam. Don’t go far? Where the hell would they even go? They were probably fugitives now, out of safe houses and short on allies.

For a long second, neither of them said anything. The door had barely finished swinging shut behind Brennan, but the air still felt charged—like the ghost of what they’d just seen hadn’t quite left the room.

Liam’s jaw shifted, teeth clenched. “You knew.”

Xaden’s brow furrowed. “Knew what?”

“That Brennan might still be alive.” Liam’s voice was quiet, but pointed. “Did you know? Before two minutes ago—before he popped out of the damn forest like it was just another day?”

Xaden exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing. “I just told you I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well.” Liam crossed his arms, jaw tight. “You also didn’t tell me the revolution didn’t die with our parents. That it just went underground. That you’ve been part of it this whole time.”

Xaden’s shoulders tensed. “That wasn’t about not trusting you .”

“Wasn’t it?” Liam asked, voice rising slightly. “Because it sure as hell feels like it now.”

Silence stretched between them. The fire popped behind them, and still, Xaden didn’t look away.

“I took you in,” he said finally—calm, quiet. No heat, no defensiveness, just steady truth. “Not because I had to. Not because it was strategic or useful or ordered. I took you in because I saw you. Because I knew you needed someone who wouldn’t just survive beside you—but stand beside you.”

Liam’s throat bobbed, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything.

Xaden stepped closer, not crowding but not letting the moment slip away. “I know it’s hard to trust. I know you’ve been through... more than you talk about.” His voice gentled, barely above a whisper. “But I’m not whoever came before. And I’m not asking you to believe in a cause, or even in Brennan. Just… believe me.”

Liam looked away, blinking hard. His jaw shifted again, a twitch of pain passing through his expression, but he nodded once. Slow. Reluctant. Honest.

Xaden held the silence for a breath, then added, “Once we fix this shit situation we’re in… we’ll find Sloane.”

Liam’s head snapped back toward him, the name like a gut-punch and lifeline all at once. But Xaden didn’t flinch.

“Promise you,” Xaden said quietly.

Liam gave a choked sort of laugh, shaking his head. “You say that like this isn’t going to be a shit situation until the day we die.”

Xaden huffed a dry breath of agreement, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, well. Might as well make it a meaningful one.”

Liam’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile fully. Still, something loosened in his posture, a little of the iron tension easing from his shoulders. “Meaningful’s a high bar.”

“I’ve always been ambitious.”

“Reckless is more like it.”

“You’re not wrong,” Xaden muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. “But if reckless gets us out of this with Imogen alive and Sloane safe, I’ll take it.”

This time, Liam didn’t argue.

Chapter Text

The door clicked softly behind Brennan as he stepped into the room, and the world narrowed to a single point of focus.

Imogen.

He does not know her. Not really. Only her name, passed along by Xaden in a clipped, grim tone that suggested weight—significance. He assumes she’s important to the rebellion in some way—someone worth saving, worth risking a retrieval for—but that hardly matters to him now as he takes her in. Importance doesn’t mean much when someone is broken in front of you.

She lay sprawled on the narrow bed, her light hair sweat-damp and tangled across the pillow, her face a pale wash of pain beneath the flicker of firelight. Her arm was bent at an unnatural angle, swaddled in linen that reeked faintly of panic. The bone had splintered close to the joint—clean breaks were easy. This wasn’t.

But it wasn’t the arm that drew Brennan’s attention first.

It was the boy at her side.

He sat hunched on a low stool, his body rigid, fists clenched between his knees like he might fall apart if he let go. His knuckles were white, his breathing shallow.

He didn’t look up as Brennan crossed the threshold.

Brennan hesitated, studying him for a moment. He didn’t recognize the face, but that didn’t mean much these days—names moved faster than introductions in the rebellion.

“I’m Brennan.” Brennan said simply. 

That got a reaction. Garrick’s head turned just enough to register him—eyes narrowing, assessing. “ That Brennan?”

Brennan didn’t answer right away. He didn’t particularly like what that implied. 

Garrick gave a stiff nod. “Didn’t expect you to look so normal.”

“She’s not dying,” Brennan added, more gently now. “I’ve seen worse. A lot worse.”

“That’s not exactly comforting.” Garrick’s eyes didn’t leave her face. “She shouldn’t have to keep surviving worse.”

“No, she shouldn’t,” Brennan agreed softly, fingers ghosting over the swelling. 

He pressed his palm lightly to the broken limb, closed his eyes, and reached.

The magic came slow at first—reluctant, rusted from disuse—but steady. He hadn’t had to heal many people while in hiding. And hiding was all he had really been doing, if he was honest—drifting from one safehouse to another, patching up the occasional injury when absolutely necessary, but mostly keeping his head down, his presence quiet. This— them —was different. Now that he thought about it, the marked ones might be the first group of new people he’d seen in months. Strangers, technically, though that word doesn’t quite fit anymore. For a moment, he wondered if this should feel like more of a milestone, if he should feel something larger about it. But the thought was brief, gone before it can root. There was still work to do.

It moved like water through a narrow channel, filling the space between bone and marrow with something warmer than fire, something older than pain. Flesh knit. Tendons tightened. Bone began to fuse, bit by bit, like pieces of shattered glass returning to shape.

Imogen stirred and winced, brow furrowing.

Garrick’s whole body tensed, like he might jump to his feet or break apart at the same time. “Is she—”

“She’s fine,” Brennan cut in. “But you might want to talk to her. Sometimes the mind doesn’t know it’s safe unless it hears something familiar.”

Garrick swallowed. Hard.

Then, slowly, he leaned in, brushing a strand of hair back from Imogen’s face. His voice, when it came, was raw. “You’re okay, Im. We’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Her lashes fluttered. A murmur of breath escaped her lips, but not a word.

Still, Garrick kept talking, murmuring words even he didn’t register half the time. “You scared the hell out of me, you know. Again. Not that that’s new.” He tried for a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t think there’s been a week since I’ve known you where you haven’t scared me.”

Brennan said nothing—just kept his hands steady and his magic flowing.

Garrick’s voice dropped to a whisper, softer now, almost like he was speaking only to her. “You always land on your feet. You always do. Don’t make a liar out of me now.”

Brennan didn’t mean to listen. But the words clung to the room like smoke, impossible to ignore.

He glanced between the boy and the girl on the bed—no, not a girl. A survivor. Just like the boy beside her. Just like so many others who had grown up too fast under banners painted in blood and fire. He thought of the other young faces he’d seen in the rebellion—bruised, brave, half-shattered. Children , he thought, with a pang that settled somewhere deep in his ribs. These are children.

And they’re all that’s left.

His thoughts flicked—uninvited, unwelcome—to Violet. His youngest sister would be their age now. Older than he had left her. Most likely wiser. Maybe just as breakable. He didn’t know what she looked like anymore. Not really. He didn’t know who she had become.

He couldn’t afford to.

The ache of it rose too quickly.

Imogen didn’t stir this time at Garrick’s voice, but her breathing had evened. Whatever nightmare her body had been holding onto had started to loosen its grip.

Brennan exhaled, letting the last pulse of healing magic fade. “That’s it,” he said softly. “She’s stable. The bone’s back where it belongs. She’ll be sore for a few days, but there’s no more to do. No lingering damage.”

Garrick’s eyes were still locked on her face.

“She’s going to be okay,” Brennan repeated.

“I know,” Garrick said, voice so low Brennan almost didn’t hear it. “But it doesn’t feel like enough.”

Brennan stood slowly, stretching his back. “It never does. Not when it’s someone you—” He caught himself, studying Garrick with quiet curiosity. “Anyway. She’ll need food and rest.” 

He didn’t wait for a reply. The room was heavy with things left unsaid, and Brennan had never been one to linger in the aftermath of grief or fear. He moved quietly toward the door, casting one last glance over his shoulder at the boy still perched beside the bed. Garrick hadn’t moved, his hand hovering just close enough to Imogen’s without touching her, as if his presence alone could anchor her to this world.

Brennan stepped into the hall, the faint smell of sweat clinging to his clothes like old memories. The sound of voices—low and sharp—led him to the back room of the cabin. Xaden stood near the hearth, arms crossed, brow furrowed in that way that always suggested he was planning three things at once and trusting no one with any of them.

Liam was there too, pacing in short, tense lines, the soles of his boots scuffing softly against the wood. He looked up first, relief flickering across his face as Brennan entered.

“Well?” Xaden asked, voice taut with something too close to hope.

“She’s fine,” Brennan said simply, wiping his hands on a rag someone had left on a chair. “The break was bad, but clean enough to set. She’ll need a few days, maybe more. But she’ll make it.”

Xaden’s jaw clenched. He didn’t respond right away, just nodded once, slowly.

Liam let out a shaky breath and slumped into the nearest chair. “Fuck,” he muttered. “That’s… that’s good. That’s really good.”

Brennan leaned against the wall, watching them both with a measured expression. “She fought,” he said after a moment. “Whatever happened … it didn’t break her.”

Xaden’s eyes darkened. “It wasn’t for lack of trying.”

“Then she’s stronger than whoever tried,” Brennan said. He tilted his head slightly. “She always been like that?”

Liam glanced at Xaden, who didn’t answer. Not right away.

“Yeah,” Liam said finally, his voice quiet. “She always has.”

Brennan nodded once and folded his arms. “Then maybe we still have a fighting chance.”

Chapter Text

The cabin was quiet.

After Brennan’s report, Xaden had vanished into one of the smaller rooms, locking the door behind him with a sharp flick of his wrist. Liam had stayed at the table for a while, elbows braced against the wood, staring at nothing. When he finally stood and left, the sound of his retreating footsteps had echoed like gunfire through the narrow hallway.

Now, only Garrick remained by Imogen’s side, the fire burning low, casting long shadows that crawled over the ceiling. Outside, wind scraped against the eaves, cold and constant, like the world itself was holding its breath.

Imogen stirred again.

Garrick was at her side in an instant, leaning forward just as her brows pinched together. Her breath hitched. Her eyes opened.

And immediately, she winced—not in fear, but like someone annoyed to find themselves still alive.

“Ugh,” she rasped, voice rough with dehydration. “Either I’m dead and hell has a draft, or we made it out.”

Garrick blinked, momentarily stunned. “You’re—”

“—in one piece?” she interrupted, trying to push herself up with her good arm. “Debatable.”

He reached for her instinctively. “Im, slow down—”

“I’m fine,” she muttered, clearly lying. Her face was pale and clammy, her body trembling with the effort of even sitting. 

She squinted at him. “You look like shit.”

He huffed a half-laugh, chest tightening. “Thanks. So do you.”

Imogen groaned as she shifted, pain flaring in her side. “Yeah, well. Married a monster, dove out a window, and woke up in what I assume is the rebellion’s version of a rehab center. Could be worse.”

“You need to lie down,” Garrick said, trying to ease her back.

Imogen shot him a look sharp enough to slice parchment. “We’ve been over this. I don’t like being told what to do.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like you dying from internal bleeding,” he replied, voice low but firm. “That puts us at an impasse.”

“You’re not doing anything right now except staying conscious,” came Brennan’s voice from the threshold, arms crossed.

Imogen looked him over with mild suspicion. “Let me guess. You’re the healer.”

“And you’re the pain in my ass who dislocated half her body,” Brennan said without missing a beat. “Bone’s set. Doesn’t mean you won’t snap it clean again if you keep flailing like that.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know you.”

“No, you don’t. But I just put your arm back together, so maybe give me five minutes of your trust. Or silence. Either works.”

Imogen arched a brow. “You always this charming, or am I just the lucky one?”

“You’re feverish, and refusing to stay still,” Brennan replied, flat. “I’d call you lucky if you passed out again.”

She blinked, deadpan. “Huh. So that bedside manner thing—you skipped it entirely?”

Garrick pinched the bridge of his nose, but said nothing.

Brennan stepped closer, not looming, but not backing down either. “You don’t have to like me, Imogen. But you do have to stop moving before you tear your arm again and make all my work useless.”

She smirked faintly. 

They stared each other down—her chin lifted defiantly, his gaze level, clinical but… not cold.

“Some bedside manner you've got,” Imogen muttered, shifting again despite the sharp protest of her ribs.

Something flickered across his face—humor? Annoyance? It vanished too fast to tell.

“You’re memorable,” he said at last.

Imogen tilted her head. “Huh. No offense, but you don’t strike me as the average underground medic.”

“No offense,” he echoed, dry. “But you don’t strike me as the average cadet.”

“I’m not a cadet. Not yet.”

“Right,” he said. “You’re the girl who threw herself out a window to escape a monster.”

“Wasn’t the first monster I’ve met,” she muttered.

Silence settled for a beat. 

Then she spoke again, quieter this time. “You know my name. But I never caught yours.”

Brennan hesitated. Barely a pause—but she caught it.

“Brennan,” he said finally. “Brennan Sorrengail.”

Imogen blinked.

Her gaze sharpened. Brow furrowed. “Sorrengail?”

Brennan said nothing.

And then she put it together. Her voice dropped. “You’re that Brennan.”

His jaw flexed, just slightly.

Imogen stared at him, eyes narrowed. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Most things in this war are supposed to be something.”

Her lips pressed into a hard line. “Xaden father—”

“It doesn’t matter now.” Brennan cut in quietly. Not angry. Just… final.

She held his gaze. “It matters to me.”

Something unreadable flickered in his expression. And then it was gone.

“You’re alive,” she said, more to herself than him. “You’ve been alive this whole time.”

“I’ve been working,” Brennan replied. “Hiding. Surviving. The usual.”

“And lying.”

“To keep people alive.” His voice didn’t rise. If anything, it softened. “Not exactly something I’ll apologize for.”

“You going to lecture me next?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m going to tell you to stay in the damn bed, and then I’m going to walk away before we both say something we regret.”

She huffed a small, begrudging laugh. “That’s almost considerate.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

But the way he reached to adjust the blanket over her shoulder—gentle, brief, like it didn’t mean anything—betrayed him.

Imogen caught the motion, narrowed her eyes slightly, but didn’t call him on it. Instead, she shifted again, wincing as pain flared low in her side. “Fine. I’ll stay horizontal. But if I’m not allowed to stand, someone better bring Xaden to me.”

Garrick, seated nearby, perked up like he’d been waiting for the moment to be useful. “I can get him.”

But before he could stand, Brennan’s voice cut in like a blade.

“No.”

Both of them turned toward him.

Imogen narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Brennan said, already halfway to the door, “and you’re definitely not talking to Xaden until your fever breaks and you stop swaying like a drunk cadet.”

“That wasn’t a request,” she snapped. “I want to see him.”

“And I want you to stop getting on my nerves. Looks like neither of us gets what we want.”

Garrick opened his mouth—probably to say something placating—but one look from Brennan shut him up.

Imogen bristled. “You don’t get to decide who I talk to.”

“In this room?” Brennan said, turning back to her fully. “While your body is still in shock, your pulse is erratic, and your fever’s pushing dangerous? Yeah. I do.”

Her nostrils flared. “That’s convenient.”

Imogen scowled. “No. You don’t get to just walk away after that. Why can’t I talk to him?”

Brennan didn’t answer right away.

“I’m serious,” she snapped, trying to sit up again despite the stabbing pain in her side. “If you’re so determined to keep me horizontal, then fine. But at least give me a real answer. Not this cryptic, controlling bullshit.”

Garrick shifted in the chair beside her, clearly uncomfortable. “Im…”

She ignored him. “Does he not want to see me? Is that it? Because if he’s mad, he can tell me to my face.”

“I don’t think it’s that,” Garrick said slowly. “He… he hasn’t said much. Barely came out of that room since we got here.”

Imogen’s brows drew together. “Then what is it? What aren’t you telling me?”

Brennan had paused in the doorway, his back to them. For a long moment, the only sound was the wind scraping against the cabin walls.

Then, finally—quietly—he said, “It’s grief.”

Imogen blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Brennan turned slightly, just enough for her to catch the edge of his expression. He looked tired. Older than he had a moment ago. Like he’d seen too many people bleed and too few come back.

“He thought he lost you,” he said simply.

The words hit harder than she expected. Cut deeper.

Her mouth opened, but she didn’t know what she meant to say.

And before she could figure it out, Brennan was already gone—vanishing down the hall with a soft click of the door behind him.

Imogen stared at the empty threshold, the firelight casting flickering shadows across the worn floorboards.

She laid her head back against the pillow, heart thudding.

He thought he lost you.

She wasn’t sure what to do with that.

Not yet.

“God, he’s infuriating,” she muttered.

Garrick made a low sound that could’ve been agreement or amusement. 

She stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then, voice quiet, she asked, “Is Xaden okay?”

Garrick hesitated. “He’s…quiet.”

She exhaled slowly, pain still sharp in her chest. “I need to talk to him.”

“I know,” Garrick said softly. “And when you’re strong enough to drag him out of that room yourself, I won’t stop you.”

Imogen smirked faintly. “Good.”

Chapter Text

The fever broke sometime near dawn.

Imogen woke to the sound of rain tapping against the windows and the faint crackle of dying embers in the hearth. Her skin was clammy, hair plastered to her forehead, but her mind—finally—was clear.

Mostly.

Her arm ached. Her ribs ached. Her whole body ached. But the sharp edge of panic had dulled, replaced by something quieter, heavier. Like her body had finally realized it was safe enough to feel the aftermath.

She turned her head carefully, eyes landing on the armchair beside her cot.

Empty.

No Garrick. No Brennan. Just quiet.

Good.

She shoved the blanket off and sat up slowly, every movement deliberate. Her head spun, but she stayed upright.

Bare feet touched the floor—cold. Grounding.

The room was still. The fire was fading. Her tunic was folded neatly on a chair, boots scrubbed and drying nearby.

Someone had cleaned them.

Her fingers curled around the back of the chair for balance as she stood. Her knees wobbled but held.

Then, without overthinking it, she made her way down the hall.

The floorboards groaned beneath her weight. The cabin was old, weather-beaten and tired, like everyone inside it. No point in stealth. Not that she cared.

She stopped in front of the closed door.

His door.

Xaden hadn’t come to see her since they arrived. Brennan had tried—awkwardly—to explain, but Imogen had already known. She’d seen the way Garrick kept glancing toward the hallway. The way everyone went quiet whenever she asked about him.

Her hand hovered near the handle.

She considered knocking.

Didn’t.

“I’m not dying,” she said softly. “In case you were wondering.”

Silence.

“I figure that’s why you’ve been hiding. Because you thought I was gone.”

Still nothing.

She pressed her palm to the door—not pushing, not knocking. Just grounding herself.

She closed her eyes. “I need to see you, Xaden. Please.”

A pause.

Then: the soft, unmistakable click of a lock turning.

The door cracked open a few inches.

Imogen stepped back as Xaden appeared in the gap, looking wrecked. His jaw was shadowed with stubble. His hair was a mess. And his eyes—

Gods.

She’d seen grief in him before. Fury. Defiance. But this?

This was something else. Something raw.

“I thought you were dead,” he said, voice rough and hoarse.

“So did I,” she said quietly.

“You jumped out a window.”

She gave a humorless snort. “It was a tactical decision.”

He didn’t smile.

Instead, he reached for her—then froze, uncertain—before wrapping her in a hug that was equal parts desperate and careful. Like he didn’t trust the world not to rip her away again.

She winced as her ribs protested but didn’t pull back.

“I didn’t sleep.”

She blinked. “What?”

“The whole time you were unconscious. I kept waiting to hear you stop breathing. Every time the fire popped or your breathing changed, I thought—” He broke off, jaw clenched. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

“You didn’t,” she said again, quieter now.

“I’m not built for helplessness,” he said, eyes dropping to the floor.

“No,” she agreed. “You’re built for control. Strategy. Strength. You hate the parts of this war that make you feel human.”

His gaze lifted. 

“I thought I lost you too,” she said. “When I hit the ground… I didn’t think anyone was coming. I didn’t even blame you for it.”

His throat bobbed. “You should have.”

“I couldn’t,” she whispered. “Because I still believed you would. Come for me, I mean. Even if it was too late.”

Xaden felt then like her words had reached into his chest and curled around something raw and festering. It would’ve been easier if she had blamed him. If she’d spat the anger he thought he deserved. At least then he could’ve met her fury with his own—could’ve had something to fight against instead of the quiet devastation of her faith .

Because he didn’t deserve it.

Not her belief in him. Not her forgiveness. And certainly not her trust.

He'd frozen. When he’d realized she’d gone missing, when the Garrick said she'd been taken. The world had gone muffled around him. 

Because he’d known. Deep down, in that hollowed-out part of him where hope had always gone to die, he knew what happened to women in the hands of men like Morhold.

He hadn’t just feared he’d lose her.

He had accepted it.

He’d buried her in his mind. Seen her face every time he closed his eyes. Heard her screams echo in the dark, even when she’d been unconscious and safe in the room beside him.

That wasn’t something you came back from.

And yet here she stood. Cracked, but whole. Looking at him like she still believed in him.

Like he was someone worth trusting.

She could feel it—how hard he was holding it in. The guilt. The fear. The helplessness that neither of them ever said out loud.

“I fought,” she said softly. “He didn’t get what he wanted.”

Xaden’s arms tightened. “I should’ve burned that whole place to the ground.”

“You would’ve died trying.”

“Maybe.” He exhaled, long and slow. “But at least I wouldn’t have been locked out while my sister was fighting for her life.”

Her breath caught.

He rarely said it aloud. Rarely called her that.

But it was the truth between them. Always had been.

They weren’t blood. But they’d survived the same fires. Lost the same family. Bled in the same war.

That made them siblings more than anything else ever could.

After a while, she leaned back just enough to meet his eyes. “You locked yourself in this room for two days.”

He looked away.

“I didn’t know how to face you,” he muttered. “Didn’t know what to say if you woke up and looked at me like I’d failed you.”

“You didn’t.”

His brow furrowed, but she shook her head firmly. “You were there when it counted. I survived. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He huffed a shaky breath and finally— finally —nodded.

Eventually, she pulled away with a grunt. “Okay, hugging hurts. You’re big and bony.”

His mouth twitched. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“You going to drag me back?”

She rolled her eyes and winced. “Alright, fine. Maybe I moved too soon.”

Without another word, he scooped her up—grumbling under his breath—and carried her back down the hall.

“I can walk, you ass,” she muttered.

“You limp like a drunk goat. Sit down.”

Back at the cot, he set her down gently and sat beside her, not letting go of her hand.

They didn’t speak for a while.

Then, she asked, “Did you cry?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

He smirked faintly. “Shut up and rest.”

She gave him a weak shove. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

A soft smile tugged at her lips. The ache in her ribs dulled, just a little.

They didn’t get many soft things in this life. But this—whatever this was, whatever they were—it mattered.

She squeezed his hand.

Then Xaden shifted beside her. She felt it before he moved, the tension in his body, like he’d suddenly remembered something.

“I’ll be back,” he said quietly, standing.

She didn’t stop him. Didn’t ask where he was going.

He returned a few minutes later with something bundled carefully in his arms, wrapped in a weather-stained canvas bag. He knelt beside the cot, unwrapping it like it was something fragile. Sacred.

Imogen blinked down at the soft grey fabric in his hands.

Her old sweatshirt.

The one from their last foster home, oversized and worn nearly threadbare. The one she used to sleep in every night. 

She reached out and touched it. The fabric was cold but familiar, still faintly smelling of pine and something like the old soap Liam always bought from town. 

“I brought this when we left,” he said, his voice gruff like he regretted bringing it. “I don’t know why I took it. Thought maybe… I don’t know. Maybe it’d matter.”

Imogen stared down at it for a long moment, then up at him.

“It does.”

He looked away again, jaw tight, like he didn’t quite know what to do with the emotion curling between them.

“I thought you’d want something familiar,” he added after a beat. “Something that still feels like… before.”

She pressed the sweatshirt to her chest, eyes burning. Not crying, but close.

A silence stretched between them—gentle this time. Unhurried.

Imogen tugged the sweatshirt over her head with slow, clumsy movements. It was threadbare at the collar, and worn nearly transparent at the seams. But when it settled over her, it was like slipping into another life. Another version of herself—softer, maybe. A little more whole.

She curled back against the cot, dragging the edge of the fabric up to her chin.

Xaden sat back beside her, quiet, and took her hand again.

She didn’t say thank you.

He didn’t need her to.

Because this—this moment, this sweatshirt, this silence between them—it was the thank you.

And for the first time since Morhold’s estate, Imogen didn’t feel like she was drowning in the aftermath of what had happened.

She just felt home.

Chapter Text

Imogen had always imagined that if Xaden Riorson ever let his guard down enough to sleep beside someone, he’d do it in total silence—like everything else about him: quiet, calculated, barely taking up space unless he wanted to.

She was wrong.

So, so wrong.

Because Xaden Riorson snored.

Not soft, tolerable snores either.

Horrendous, room-shaking, furniture-rattling snoring.

Imogen stared at the ceiling, wide awake, one arm flung over her face in agony. Her ribs ached, her head throbbed, and the warm, comforting silence she’d been so desperate for had been obliterated by what sounded like a bear dying in slow motion beside her.

She groaned and turned her head. There he was—half sprawled across the tiny cot, arm flung over her like some kind of territorial dragon. One leg was hooked over the blanket, his mouth open just enough to let loose another thunderous, ragged snore.

“I liked it better when you were brooding,” she muttered.

He snored in response.

Imogen flopped onto her side, trying to jostle him enough to make it stop. It didn’t. If anything, the change in angle made it worse. Now it came in waves—loud inhale, stuttering exhale, followed by an almost delicate whistle at the end, like some kind of deranged symphony composed entirely by a man with too many unresolved emotions and a deviated septum.

“Unbelievable,” she whispered, more to herself than anything else. “I survived a forced marriage and a fall from a window for this?”

The door creaked open.

She turned her head, expecting Brennan but found Garrick, carrying two mugs of tea and an expression somewhere between hopeful and cautious.

His gaze swept the scene, lips twitching. “Is he… okay?”

“No,” Imogen said flatly. “He’s dying. Loudly. And I hope it’s fast.”

Garrick snorted and stepped inside, nudging the door closed with his foot. “I heard the snoring from the hallway.”

“He’s been at it for hours.”

“Want me to roll him off the cot?”

“Tempting.”

Garrick smiled and handed her one of the mugs, then sat on the edge of the cot—carefully, so he didn’t disturb the human foghorn lying beside them.

They sat in silence for a moment, sipping tea. Xaden snored again.

Imogen exhaled slowly. “I don’t think I can sleep with that happening.”

Garrick took another sip of his tea, clearly weighing something.

Then he set his mug down on the side table and murmured, “Do you want to go somewhere quieter?”

She studied his face in the dim light—how the flicker of the lamp haloed the sharp lines of his jaw, the dark shadows under his eyes, the worry etched in the crease of his brow that never really went away.

She nodded once. “Please.”

Garrick stood, holding his hand out without hesitation, like he’d been waiting for her to ask all night. She slid her hand into his—calloused fingers curling gently around hers—and let him help her to her feet. Her ribs protested the movement, sending a sharp pulse through her side, but she bit back the wince.

They left Xaden to snore himself into oblivion, the door clicking quietly shut behind them.

Garrick didn’t speak as he guided her down the hall, his hand steady at her back, but she caught the tension in his posture. 

His room was small, barely wider than the beds, but it was warm and smelled faintly of soap and worn leather. Liam’s pack was shoved in the corner, a half-eaten biscuit perched on the windowsill, but otherwise he was nowhere to be found. His blankets were rumpled, as if he’d been here recently and left in a hurry.

Imogen sat on the edge of the Garrick’s bed with a slow exhale, letting herself take up the space. Garrick shut the door behind him and hovered for a beat, like he wasn’t sure if he should sit or stay standing.

“You’re going to get your ass chewed out by Brennan for this,” she said softly, breaking the silence.

“I know,” he said, finally sitting beside her. “Worth it.”

Imogen turned her body, just enough to look at him fully. His eyes met hers. Steady. Unflinching.

“I’ve been trying not to say it,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “For a long time. Because everything’s been so messy, and I didn’t want to make it worse. I didn’t want to make you worse.”

He didn’t speak, but his hand slid over hers again, slow and warm, like he could anchor her with just that.

She inhaled shakily.

“I’ve loved you for a while,” she said finally. “I just couldn’t say it. Not with everything else falling apart. Not after the things I’ve done. The things I’ve had to become.”

Garrick’s eyes didn’t waver. His voice was quiet, but sure. “You don’t scare me, Im. Not your sharp edges. Not your scars. Not any version of you.”

She laughed under her breath, the sound more sad than amused. “I’m something sharp and scarred and bleeding. And you’re the one thing that makes it all feel… survivable.”

He reached for her face then, fingers brushing her jaw like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. 

His voice was barely a whisper. “Every time I looked at you, I hoped you’d look back and see it—that I was already yours.”

Imogen leaned into his touch, her ribs flaring with pain, but she didn’t pull away. She couldn’t. Not now.

She closed the distance between them, slowly, cautiously, and pressed her lips to his. It was soft, like she didn’t trust the world not to shatter around them. 

When they finally broke apart, her breath was shaky against his.

“I love you,” she whispered again, like maybe saying it twice would make it stay. “I love you, and it terrifies me.”

“I know,” he said, resting his forehead against hers. “It terrifies me too.”

His hands slid gently to her waist, careful not to press too hard against the bruised parts of her body. Even so, pain surged when she adjusted, her expression tightening as a sharp wince escaped her.

He pulled back immediately, concern etched deep across his face. 

“Don’t stop,” she said, reaching for his hand. “I’m not asking for more than this. Just… stay.”

“I’d stay forever if you asked.”

She smiled then, small but real. 

He lay down beside her, curling his body protectively around hers, his palm resting lightly over her heartbeat.

For a while, they said nothing. Just breathed.

Then, softly, she whispered, “When I was alone with Morhold I used to imagine what it would feel like. To be safe. To not have to watch every doorway, measure every word. I didn’t think it would ever be real to me again.”

She looked at him then—really looked at him—and something in her chest cracked open. “But I do feel safe now. With you.”

She turned in his arms, her movement slow but certain, until they were face to face. The shadows painted soft lines across his cheekbones, the stubborn set of his mouth, the careful way he looked at her—as though she was something he’d carry until his last breath if she asked.

“I hated that you saw me like that,” she confessed. “After Morhold. After the fall. I was a wreck. I still am.”

“I didn’t see a wreck,” he said gently. “I saw someone who survived.”

Her eyes shimmered, but she didn’t cry. She hadn’t in days, and she wasn’t sure she could anymore. She leaned forward, brushing her mouth against his. 

“I love you,” she said again, firmer this time. A truth she could finally stand inside without it splintering her.

He kissed her then. Deeply. Slowly. Not demanding. Not rushing. Just a long, quiet unraveling of every moment they hadn’t said it out loud.

His fingers traced down her arm, careful of every bruise. Her hands slid up the back of his neck, into his hair, anchoring herself there, in the place where his body met hers and the world finally felt still.

He kissed her again, slower this time, as though memorizing the shape of her mouth, the weight of this moment. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, breath warm and shallow between them.

“Im…” he began, voice barely above a whisper. His hand stilled at her waist. “We don’t have to. You’re still hurting. I don’t want—”

“I know,” she said, her thumb brushing over his cheek. “But I’m not made of glass. And I don’t want to wait anymore. Not for this. Not with you.”

His brow furrowed, the conflict clear in his eyes. He’d waited this long—he’d wait forever if she asked. But she didn’t look unsure. She looked steady. Certain. 

“We’ve been dancing around this for so long,” she whispered. “Surviving everything just to get here. Let me have this. Let me choose it. Choose you.”

His resolve cracked at the edges, softened by her honesty, her strength. He kissed her once more, reverent and slow, as if asking again, Are you sure?

She answered without words—fingers guiding him gently, a nod that said yes.

They moved carefully, a slow, tender alignment of skin and trust. He was mindful of every wince, every breath she took, his touch reverent, protective. She let him see the places that still hurt, the ones that might always—but never flinched away. 

They didn’t rush. Didn’t need to.

It wasn’t about urgency or escape. It was about anchoring themselves in something real, something that had survived fire and fear and silence.

When it was over, Imogen curled into the crook of his arm, the blanket tucked around them, her fingers still tangled with his.

Garrick pressed a kiss to her temple, then her shoulder. “I love you,” he said, quietly. Not like a confession. Like a promise.

She closed her eyes, finally letting her body soften. “I know.”

And in the hush that followed, wrapped in each other and the safety they’d fought so hard to find, they finally slept.

Together.

Chapter Text

Imogen woke slowly, as if surfacing from deep water. For one brief, weightless moment, she felt only warmth. The bedsheets tangled around her limbs were soft, and the room was still dark save for the faint gray light of early morning leaking through the cracked shutters. 

Garrick lay sprawled beside her, one arm draped loosely across her waist, his dark hair a chaotic mess against the pillow. His mouth was slightly open, breath slow and even. Peaceful.

She watched him for a moment. So peaceful. So Garrick.

A shaky smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Her chest ached, not with pain, not like before, but with something much deeper. Something warm and terrifying.

She’d told him she loved him. Really told him.

And he hadn’t pulled away. He hadn’t let go.

Imogen exhaled through her nose and let her eyes close again.

For five full seconds, she allowed herself to feel safe.

Then the weight of reality came crashing down like a landslide.

She shot upright so fast it tugged at the healing wound on her arm. Her hand went instinctively to it, and the dull throb beneath the bandage grounded her in the truth: this wasn’t peace. This was a pause. A moment carved out in the wreckage of everything they had just destroyed.

The memories returned too fast. The screams. The blood. The shirt torn at the shoulder. The panic that clawed through her as she fled Morhold’s estate, barefoot and bleeding.

The Rebellion’s last safehouse. The people sleeping under this roof who had no idea how close they'd come to losing everything.

All because of her .

She turned away from Garrick, pressing the heel of her palm to her eyes as the room tilted around her. Her breathing sped up. Her chest clenched.

What had she done?

The silence pressed in like a vice, thick and suffocating.

Imogen sat on the edge of the bed, her feet bare against the cold floorboards, her thoughts knotted in sharp, spiraling loops. The early morning air stung against her skin, but she barely noticed. She couldn’t stop shaking.

She had wanted to be saved. Gods, of course she had.

She’d needed out. She’d needed to escape the nightmare, the way Morhold had watched her like she was a prize he was owed, the sickening implication in every smile, every caress of silk against her skin.

But wanting freedom wasn’t the same as deserving the cost it took to claim it.

Because they’d come for her.

Garrick. Xaden. Liam.

They’d burned through whatever plans they had. They’d dropped everything. Risked everything.

Imogen clenched her jaw as her eyes stung.

It should’ve been a victory. She was free.

But all she could feel was guilt curdling in her gut.

What if they’d just exposed the rebellion’s last vein of safety, all because she couldn’t stomach another second under Morhold’s roof?

And wasn’t that the cliché of it all?

The girl. Locked in a room. Threatened with a fate worse than death. Saved by men with swords. 

She wasn’t supposed to be the one who needed rescuing. She’d survived foster homes, years of loneliness, Basgiath was coming for her. She’d fought her way through pain and battle and loss and made herself sharp. She was supposed to know better. She was supposed to be better. 

But all her training hadn’t stopped her from being dragged into that marriage.

From being marked.

From being used as bait in someone else’s game.

A rustle behind her made her spine go rigid.

Garrick stirred, mumbling something incoherent as he shifted beneath the blankets. She felt his eyes on her before she heard his voice.

“Im?”

She didn’t answer right away. She didn’t trust herself to.

He sat up, pushing the sheets off with a lazy arm, still half-asleep. “It’s early. Why’re you up?”

Imogen stared out the window.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Garrick blinked at her silhouette. “Your arm—does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

Everything, she wanted to say. Everything and nothing and I don’t even know where to begin.

“I ruined it,” she said instead. Her voice was brittle.

Garrick’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t rush her. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and waited.

“I ruined whatever Xaden was doing,” she continued, voice low. “Whatever he had in motion. The rebellion was staying hidden. Smart. Strategic. And now—because of me—it’s all blown wide open.”

Garrick didn’t speak. His silence wrapped around her like a net.

She curled her arms around her knees. “I hate that I needed to be saved.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said, voice quiet but certain.

“You don’t know that,” she snapped. Her voice sharpened, brittle as glass. “Xaden’s been working in the shadows. We didn’t even know what was in motion and you’re his best friend. You think this safehouse is just some rustic escape in the middle of nowhere? It has to be one of the last strongholds they have. What if I led Morhold’s people here? What if we’re exposed now? What if they come back for me and they bring every loyal bannerman with them?”

Her voice cracked. “What if this gets all of us killed?”

The room fell silent but for the thud of her heartbeat. Garrick didn’t move.

“We’re as good as dead anyway,” he said, voice low, almost like it hurt to say aloud. “We’re marked ones, Imogen. This doesn’t really change much of anything.”

Imogen stood, pacing across the floor with arms folded tightly against her chest. Her hair was a tangled mess down her back, her bandaged arm pulled stiff against her side.

“I should’ve endured it,” she muttered. “Just one more day. Just one more night. I was so close—if I’d waited, maybe there would’ve been a better exit. A safer one. One that didn’t put everyone at risk.”

“You don’t mean that,” Garrick said softly, rising to his feet.

“I do,” she snapped. “I was weak. I panicked. I ran. I jumped out of a window like a lunatic. And you all came charging in like a godsdamned hero and now—now we’re here, hiding in some cabin on the edge of nowhere while the entire rebellion could be collapsing around us. A rebellion we just found out existed mere days ago!”

Her breathing was fast and shallow now. “I didn’t just burn a bridge, Garrick. I lit a signal fire. If they come, they’ll come for all of us.”

Garrick stepped toward her, his brows drawn together, his voice still steady. “Im, breathe—”

“Don’t say that to me!” she burst out, her voice like glass shattering, eyes bright with panic. “You think I haven’t been thinking about this since the moment I woke up? You think I don’t see it when Xaden looks at me like he’s doing the math in his head—calculating what he’s lost? You think I don’t feel the weight of every risk you took for me?”

Her voice cracked again, quieter now. “You were supposed to make it. You were supposed to stay alive, Garrick. I wanted one of us to make it. ”

She said it so quietly, like the words were peeled out of her chest. Like she had already accepted her fate back at the estate. Like some part of her had never expected to walk free of it.

“I still plan to,” he said, stepping forward. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you would’ve,” she whispered. “You would’ve died to pull me out of there. And I don’t deserve that.”

She turned away, bracing one hand against the wall like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Garrick stood frozen, jaw clenched.

Because gods help him—she wasn’t wrong.

He had been reckless. With everything. And he’d do it again. Even knowing the fallout.

Because he couldn’t watch her suffer another second.

“I don’t know what Xaden’s planning,” he said finally. “Not the full extent. I don’t know how far the rebellion reaches, or what safehouses are compromised or which ones are ghosts. But I do know one thing.”

Imogen turned her head slightly toward him, silent.

“I wouldn’t change what I did,” Garrick said. “Even if it cost me everything.”

She flinched at that.

“Because I saw your face the night we came for you. I saw what he did to you, or what he wanted to do. I saw what that house was turning you into. And there is nothing, no mission, no strategy, no rebel cause worth leaving you in that room.”

Her lips trembled, but she didn’t speak.

“I know it wasn’t clean. I know we didn’t think it through. But I don’t care. I’d tear down every castle in Navarre if it meant getting you out again. And if that makes me reckless—then fine. I’m reckless.”

He stepped in front of her now, close enough to reach out but careful not to. “But don’t stand here and tell me you should’ve endured it. Don’t you dare tell me you should’ve waited for something worse. You survived. And I’d rather run for the rest of my life than let you go back there for one more night.”

He paused, his voice roughening with something darker—older.

“You think I don’t know what Morhold is capable of? I may not have been there with you this time, but I was there back then. I saw the bruises you wouldn’t explain. I locked our door at night. I watched you shrink in his shadow and pretend it didn’t hurt. I know what he was, Imogen. I knew it even before we had the words for it.”

He swallowed hard.

“So no, you didn’t jump out a window like a lunatic. You jumped because you had to. Because you knew if you stayed, you wouldn’t make it out. And if anyone has the audacity to call that weakness, they’ve never spent a night in that house.”

Imogen’s hand dropped from the wall. Her eyes shimmered, wild and hollow.

And then, so quietly it was almost missed: “I thought I’d die there.”

Garrick’s breath caught.

“I thought that was how it ended for me. That someone would come looking months from now and find whatever was left.”

His hand twitched at his side before he finally took the step to close the space between them. “Not while I’m alive.”

She looked up at him, her expression wrecked, her voice small and worn: “And what if this gets you killed?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Then I’ll die knowing I did the only thing that’s ever mattered.”

Imogen stared up at him, her expression flickering between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. 

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides like she didn’t trust herself not to reach for him.

“You can’t say things like that,” she whispered.

“I just did.”

She shook her head, but it was weak, unconvincing. “You don’t mean it.”

“I do,” he said. “More than anything.”

There was no waver in his voice, no second-guessing. Just that same stubborn certainty that had always been part of him. 

Imogen turned away again, but this time he didn’t let her go far. His hand brushed her arm, lightly, like he was asking permission. When she didn’t pull away, he stepped closer and rested his hand over hers, his palm warm against her shaking knuckles.

“You survived him,” Garrick said, softer now. “You survived the fall. You survived all of it. So don’t you dare tell me you were weak.”

Her throat worked around a lump she couldn’t swallow. “I feel like I’m still falling.”

“Then I’ll catch you,” he said, without hesitation. “Every godsdamned time.”

A ragged breath escaped her, half-sob, half-laugh, her whole body trembling from the effort of holding it all in.

He moved then, gently, wrapping his arms around her, 

“I can’t go back there,” she whispered.

“You won’t.”

“I won’t survive it again.”

“You won’t have to.”

They stayed like that for a long time, rain beginning to patter softly outside. 

Garrick didn’t speak again. He just held her, one hand stroking gently over the back of her hair, the other braced around her waist, grounding her in the here and now this cabin, this moment, this breath.

Chapter Text

Imogen sat cross-legged on the worn rug in the center of the living room, her injured arm resting in her lap, blanket forgotten beside her. Garrick was on the floor beside her, one knee bent, arms looped around it. Across the room, Liam paced near the windows, occasionally glancing out at the treeline like he expected it to move.

Xaden stood at the hearth, back straight, eyes fixed on the flames as though he could pull answers from the fire. Brennan leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, watching them all, unreadable. 

“So,” Liam said finally, breaking the silence. “What now?”

No one answered right away.

We killed a man,” Imogen said softly. “Trashed his estate. And we ran.”

“We saved you,” Garrick corrected.

She didn’t argue.

The silence that followed crackled like tension before a storm, broken only by the pop of the fire. Brennan shifted where he leaned against the wall, eyes sharp.

“You still need to be resting,” he said.

Imogen didn’t meet his gaze.

“And before you lie to me,” he added, “I know you weren’t in your room last night.”

Her shoulders tensed, but his tone was measured—no accusation, no judgment. Just a fact.

Across the room, Garrick didn’t so much as blink, his posture still and steady beside her. But Liam, who had been pacing near the windows, stopped in his tracks and smirked faintly, amusement flickering across his face before he turned away. 

Brennan sighed. “I’m not your keeper. I’m not asking for explanations. But if you don’t take the time to recover, you won’t get a second chance later.”

Imogen frowned. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you’re pretending it doesn’t apply to you,” Brennan said, and his voice softened in a way that made Imogen glance up. “And I think once you leave this house, I won’t be able to help you. I’ve stayed longer than any healer would’ve. Longer than I should have.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, searching for something beneath the words but Brennan just looked away, jaw tight.

“You’re not obligated to—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “That’s not the point.”

Liam broke the silence that filled the room, voice laced with bitter humor. “We’re fugitives, whether we wanted to be or not. What does that make us? Rebels? Traitors? Dead men walking?”

Brennan’s eyes flicked to him. “It makes you survivors.”

Xaden didn’t look away from the fire. “It also makes us targets.”

Garrick exhaled slowly, his voice low. “Navarre won’t let this go. Morhold might’ve been a monster, but he was a powerful one, and well connected. His death won’t just be ignored.”

“And neither will ours if we run,” Xaden added. “We’ve all got marks. They’ll come for us eventually. Especially me.”

Imogen glanced at him. “Sorrengail’s marks?”

He nodded. “Those marks weren’t just vengeance. They were a vow. I took responsibility for every child of the revolution. Every marked one. If we disappear, Navarre will call it a betrayal. They’ll retaliate not just against us, but against any marked kid they can get their hands on.”

Silence fell again, thick with the weight of truth.

Liam stepped forward, fists clenched at his sides. “Then we find my sister.”

All eyes turned to him. His voice didn’t tremble, but there was something raw beneath it. “You promised me, Xaden. You said we’d go for her next.”

Xaden’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer right away.

“I did,” he said finally. “And I meant it. But I didn’t know we’d be dragging a trail of corpses behind us when we did.”

Liam didn’t flinch. “She’s still in that system. You know Morhold’s not the only monster. You think she’s safe?”

“No,” Xaden said, sharp. “But we can’t run around burning estates and killing every noble who lays a hand on one of us. That’s not a plan. That’s a death sentence.”

“And returning to the foster system isn’t?” Imogen asked, eyes flaring. “You think they’ll welcome us back? Give us a stern lecture and a warm meal?”

“They’ll kill us,” Garrick said flatly. “On sight. The minute they see us. You know that.”

“I know what I promised,” Xaden snapped, a rare flicker of emotion bleeding into his voice. “But I also know what I’ve done. What we’ve done. And I will not abandon the rest of the marked ones to chase ghosts, no matter how noble the cause. I’d rather die than see them suffer because of me.”

Imogen stood now. “Then die for them if that’s your choice. But don’t pretend we all signed up to be sacrifices.”

“We didn’t ask for any of this,” Liam added, his tone controlled but sharp. “We didn’t choose to be born to traitors. We didn’t choose the marks. We didn’t choose the war.”

“I did,” Xaden said coldly. “When I took those 107 names, I made that choice. You think I don’t lie awake every night wondering if I already failed them?”

“You haven’t failed anyone,” Liam said, voice rising. “But if we keep sitting in this house debating philosophy while my sister rots in some monster’s basement, then you will.”

The room went still.

Xaden’s face was unreadable, but his hands were clenched at his sides. Torn. He knew Liam was right. He knew he’d made a promise. And even if the weight of his 107 was crushing him, he had sworn something else too.

Brennan cleared his throat, tone diplomatic. “You need to stop pretending we have time. The moment you walk out that door, everything changes.”

A long pause followed, broken only by the low hiss of the fire and the whistling wind outside. Then—

“What do you know that we don’t?” Garrick asked. His voice was low, but edged with tension.

Brennan didn’t flinch. “Enough.”

“No,” Liam snapped. “You’ve been here for days. Healing. Watching. Listening. You show up out of nowhere the night Imogen nearly dies and just—stay?”

“I don’t answer to you,” Brennan said sharply.

“No?” Garrick leaned forward. “Then who do you answer to? Because we’re already in this revolution whether we like it or not, and we deserve to know what that means.”

“You deserve to rest and stay alive,” Brennan said, the sharpness in his voice cooled into something more measured, but no less final. “You’re not ready.”

“Don’t do that,” Liam said, stepping forward, shoulders squared. “Don’t look at us like we’re children. We’ve fought. We’ve bled. We killed a man to get her back.” He gestured toward Imogen, who stood still in the corner, watching the tension rise like floodwater. “You think we haven’t already paid the price?”

“I think you have no idea what price is still coming,” Brennan snapped.

The room erupted into overlapping voices—Garrick accusing, Liam demanding, Brennan deflecting with rising frustration. The noise swept around Imogen like wind whipping through a canyon, loud and endless and wild.

Imogen stared into the fire, letting the heat lick at her face as the argument escalated.

They always shouted around her. Never at her. As if breaking her body had also broken her capacity for confrontation. As if being hurt made her something delicate, untouchable. They screamed for her, because of her, about her—but never to her.

It was both infuriating and strangely isolating.

She didn’t want their protection. Not like that. Not like she was a symbol. A wound they all carried. She wanted to be a person in the room, not a cause to defend or a reason to fight.

The fire cracked, sending a thin arc of sparks into the air.

“Enough!” she said suddenly, louder than she intended.

The room froze. All eyes turned to her.

“I’m not going to sit here while you all yell at each other,” she said, voice tight. “We don’t need more noise. We need answers. And if Brennan won’t give them to us, then we need to decide what we’re doing next—without him.”

Brennan’s jaw clenched. “It’s not that simple.”

“No shit,” she shot back. “But we’re past the point of pretending nothing is happening. You said it yourself the moment we walk out that door, everything changes. So help us, or don’t. But don’t stand there acting like we’re too fragile to know what’s coming.”

Silence reigned again, but this time it felt charged—like something had shifted.

Brennan didn’t speak. Neither did Xaden.

The silence stretched taut, heavier now, more uncertain. The fire cracked, the only sound daring to break it. Imogen inhaled slowly, then lifted her gaze.

“We should go get Sloane,” she said quietly, but with conviction.

Liam's head snapped up, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before something deeper settled in—hope, maybe. Or desperation. Maybe both.

“We don’t even know where she is,” Xaden said, voice tight. He didn’t raise it—he didn’t need to. His words cut clean and cold. “We’ve heard nothing since she was taken. No trail. No names. Just guesses. That’s not a mission it’s a suicide pact.”

Imogen didn’t flinch. “We had no idea where you were when Garrick and I ran from Morhold. But we found you.”

Xaden’s jaw twitched.

“That was different,” he muttered.

“It wasn’t,” she said firmly. “It was dangerous. Reckless. But we did it anyway.”

Liam stood, eyes fixed on Xaden. “She’s my sister. I haven’t seen her since the day the dragons burned our parents alive. She was screaming. I still hear it. I don’t even know if she is alive.”

Xaden didn’t look away, but his expression didn’t soften. “And if she isn’t? If we walk into a trap chasing ghosts?”

“Then at least we’ll know,” Liam said, voice quiet but edged like broken glass. “And I’ll stop wondering.”

Garrick hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. He sat on the arm of the couch, thumb tracing the edge of a small chip in the woodgrain beneath him, brows furrowed but unreadable. If he had an opinion, he was keeping it to himself.

Brennan let out a sigh through his nose, glancing at Imogen like she was the lit fuse in a powder room. “She still isn’t fully healed. Her body’s been through hell. You want to go hunting through Navarre for a girl with no trail, while she’s like this?”

“We’re not leaving tomorrow,” Imogen said, nodding. “But we can start planning. Start looking. And I’ll heal.”

“You’re not invincible,” Brennan said.

“Good thing I’m not going alone,” she shot back.

Brennan gave her a long look, one that didn’t carry judgment so much as deep worry, and something else—something almost parental. He didn’t say it, but she knew he wanted to. He had stayed longer than any healer should’ve. He cared, even if he pretended otherwise.

The room held its breath as all eyes returned to Xaden.

He stared into the fire for a long moment. When he spoke, it was low, almost like he was talking to himself.

“We've already lost too much.”

No one interrupted.

Finally, he nodded once, sharply, like it physically hurt him to agree. “Fine. We’ll try to find her. But we do this smart. Quiet. We gather what intel we can, and we move when Imogen’s healed.”

It wasn’t consent as much as reluctant surrender, but it was enough. He didn’t believe in the plan. But he believed in them. That, at least, was clear.

Imogen exhaled, the knot in her chest easing just slightly. Liam looked like he might finally be able to sleep.

And for the first time in days, the next step didn’t feel like a cliff’s edge.

It felt like a direction.

Chapter Text

The cabin slept in shifts after that.

Xaden disappeared for hours at a time, silent and brooding, eyes ever scanning the edges of the tree line like something might crawl through it. Liam barely left the common room, always stationed near the front window, fingers drumming on the wood, as if Sloane might walk up the path at any second.

And Imogen spent her days pacing between recovery and resolve.

She wasn’t healing fast, not in the way Brennan wanted. But the fire inside her was back now, burning under her ribs. She could breathe through the pain. Could think clearly again. Could plan.

That mattered more than bruised bone and half-healed muscle.

On the third morning after the vote, she woke early—before even the birds stirred—and padded into the living room where Garrick already sat with his boots off, poring over a yellowed map splayed across the floor.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asked softly.

He didn’t look up. “Didn’t try.”

She joined him, careful with her arm. “What are you looking for?”

Garrick didn’t answer at first. His eyes weren’t on the pages. They weren’t really focused on anything.

“I’m not sure,” he said finally. His voice was low, quiet enough that it didn’t echo beyond the corners of the room. “Something that feels like a place to start.”

Imogen stepped closer, her shoulder brushing his as she sat to look at the map.

“We’re chasing ghosts,” Garrick added, almost to himself. “No names. No sightings. Just Sloane. A memory.”

“I want to help,” he said, turning toward her. “I do. I want to do something that matters. But the longer we’re out here... the worse this gets for Xaden.”

Imogen blinked at him, surprised. “Xaden?”

Garrick nodded. “He was already pushing the limits. Stretching the rules. If Navarre thinks he’s turned rogue—if they find out what happened at Morhold’s—they’ll come down on him like hellfire. Not just him, either. Anyone who bears a mark. Anyone he’s ever risked anything for. You.”

She didn’t say anything right away. She just watched him, studying the lines around his eyes, the way his jaw worked as he stared at the worn book in his hands. The way he said you , like it was both inevitable and unbearable.

“You worry too much,” she murmured, trying for something light, but it came out too tired to be teasing.

Garrick closed the book and set it down, then turned to face her fully.

“You nearly died, Imogen.”

She looked down at her arm like she could argue with the evidence. The half-healed bruises. The exhaustion still tangled in her bones.

“It’s not the first time,” she said quietly.

“That’s the problem,” he snapped. Not loud, but sharp enough that it cut between them. “It’s never the first time. You always survive. You always claw your way back from whatever hell you’re thrown into but barely. And every time you do, I’m the one who has to look at what’s left and try to believe you’re okay.”

Imogen looked at him, heart thudding a little harder than she liked. His face was open in a way it rarely was unguarded and pained.

“I’m not your responsibility,” she said softly.

“No, you’re not,” Garrick replied. “But I love you anyway.”

The words hit the air like a strike of lightning—unexpected, electric, irreversible.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to take them back. He just stood there, breathing hard. 

She shook her head, throat tight. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?” he asked. “Because from where I’m standing, it sure as hell looks like you don’t think you get to survive this war. Like you think being marked means you’re already half-dead, so why not burn the rest of the way out?”

Imogen stepped back instinctively. His expression softened immediately.

“I’m not accusing you,” he said. “I’m begging you. To take care of yourself. To let someone else care about you without pushing them away or pretending you don’t need it.”

She swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t have to carry that.”

“I don’t care what I should have to carry,” he said, voice rough. 

Silence settled between them, heavy with things unspoken.

She looked up at him, saw the worry carved deep into his features, the quiet desperation beneath his restraint.

“You’re stuck in the middle of all of this,” she said quietly, the words forming with careful honesty. “A battlefield without a front line.”

Garrick’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt.

“You love me,” she said, and there was no hesitation now, no fear in naming it. “And Xaden’s your best friend. One of us is always bleeding, or reckless, or pushing just a little too hard against whatever line is supposed to keep us safe. And you keep standing in the space between, trying to hold both of us up.”

He didn’t deny it. He just watched her with eyes that felt too full of truth.

“And Liam,” she continued, softer now. “He’s not reckless, but he’s just as desperate. Just as willing to throw himself into the fire for the people he cares about. And Sloane is all he has left.”

Garrick glanced away then, jaw tight, and she knew it was because she was getting too close to the part of him he rarely let anyone see. The part that carried everyone else’s weight, quietly and without complaint.

“I’m not trying to be anyone’s hero,” he said hoarsely.

“I know,” she said.

He huffed, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “Then you can start helping by doing something heroic like staring at maps with me for the next two hours until our eyes bleed.”

Imogen snorted. “That’s your idea of heroism? Cartography?”

“Well, someone’s gotta be the nerd in this relationship.”

“We’re in a relationship now?” she teased, but her voice was gentle, fond.

Garrick looked like he might argue, might fumble around for a safer word, but Imogen leaned in and pressed a soft, fleeting kiss to the edge of his mouth before he could.

His breath caught. Whatever comeback he had vanished in the space between them.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she murmured, brushing past him to the makeshift table cluttered with maps and discarded notes.

“Didn’t Bohdi get sent somewhere near the Border?” Imogen asked, tracing a faint line on the map with her finger.

Garrick squinted at the area. “Yeah, but I think it was temporary. He mentioned he was being relocated in his last letter to Xaden and we haven’t heard any news since.”

“Still,” she murmured, circling it in pencil. “That whole region’s sparsely populated. Low traffic. Easy to move people in and out without drawing attention.”

Garrick nodded, but the frown didn’t leave his face. “This whole thing feels like throwing darts in the dark and hoping to hit something that doesn’t scream.”

Imogen offered a small smile. “Hey, at least we’re organized about our wild guessing.”

They kept working, drawing lines between the foster homes, trying to find something, anything, that connected them. Distance. Dates. Patterns. But the map remained frustratingly flat, all their lines leading to dead ends.

“What if they’re not placing kids by geography?” Imogen said, chewing her bottom lip. “What if it’s something else, like age?”

“Could be,” Garrick said. “But even then, there’s no consistency.”

“Or maybe there is,” she muttered. “We’re just not seeing it.”

They lapsed into silence again, the kind born of too much thinking and too few answers. The fire crackled quietly in the background, a soft counterpoint to the scribble of pencil and the rustle of parchment.

Garrick tapped the edge of the map with the eraser end of his pencil. “This is hopeless.”

“It’s not hopeless,” Imogen said. “It’s just hard. And frustrating. And probably going to get worse.”

“Well, now you’re just being motivational.”

She grinned. “You love it.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, not looking up. “I do.”

Before she could respond, the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a force that made both of them jump.

Xaden stood in the doorway, dirt-streaked, blood drying along his temple, rage and relief fighting for space across his expression. Liam hot on his tail. 

“I know where she is,” he said.

The room went still.

Chapter Text

Imogen’s world narrowed to a pinpoint.

The air in the cabin held so still, it felt like even the fire stopped crackling. Garrick straightened beside her, slowly rising to his feet, but Imogen couldn’t move. Her fingers curled into her palms, nails biting into skin.

“You’re sure?” Garrick asked, his voice calm but taut with the same strain twisting through Imogen’s spine.

Xaden didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

The answer was too fast. Too flat.

Before either of them could press further, another door slammed open. Brennan strode in, shirt wrinkled and half-buttoned, dark eyes sparking with fury.

“You want to try that again?” he snapped. “Where the hell did you get that intel? The rebellion doesn’t even have that intel.”

Xaden didn’t answer right away. He turned from the others and braced a hand on the edge of the fireplace mantle, his jaw tightening as he stared down the flames.

“It’s good intel,” Xaden said without looking up. “That’s all you need.”

“That’s not all I need,” Brennan shot back. “You’ve been gone for hours. You show up looking like you were chewed up by a manticore, and now you’re saying you know where they’ve stashed Sloane? Forgive me if I’m not feeling blindly optimistic.”

Imogen looked between them, her pulse pounding. Xaden hadn’t just disappeared into the trees. He’d done something. Risked something.

Garrick shifted beside her but said nothing.

Xaden finally turned. The firelight carved hard shadows across his face—jaw clenched, one eye already swelling from a blow, blood dried in the curve of his ear. But it was the way he moved that gave him away. The stiffness in his spine. The way he favored one side. The near-imperceptible tremor in his hand as he reached for the back of a chair to steady himself.

Brennan’s eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, gaze raking over Xaden with the precision of a healer. Then he stopped.

The tension between them snapped taut.

“Turn around,” Brennan said, voice low.

Xaden didn’t move.

“Turn. Around.”

Still, Xaden didn’t budge. He just gripped the back of the chair harder, white-knuckled and silent.

Brennan took another step forward. “If you think I’m going to let you bleed out on the hearth like a martyr—”

Without warning, Liam crossed the room.

And with a sudden, frustrated motion, he grabbed a fistful of Xaden’s shirt and ripped it clean down the back, fabric tearing.

Xaden flinched, not from the force, but from the exposure.

Gasps filled the room.

His back was a mess of blood and torn flesh—scars that had clearly been reopened, carved fresh along old paths. Some had been split with precision, others with cruel efficiency. All of them bled.

Imogen staggered forward instinctively. Garrick swore under his breath. Even Brennan—who had seen more wounds than most soldiers—looked stricken.

“Gods,” Imogen whispered.

“You let her reopen the marks?” Garrick asked, voice low and horrified.

Xaden didn’t look at any of them. “I didn’t take new ones. They were just… revisited.”

“Just revisited,” Liam echoed, his voice low and sharp with disbelief. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I made a deal,” Xaden said, finally facing them again. His jaw was set, but his hands trembled slightly at his sides. “It means General Sorrengail gave me the location of the facility where they’re keeping Sloane—and in exchange, she wanted blood.”

“And you gave it to her,” Brennan growled. “Again.”

His voice wasn’t loud, but it landed like a thunderclap. 

“She’s insane,” Brennan said, the words edged with disbelief and fury. “Godsdamn unhinged. Who tortures a child—again—for information he shouldn’t have needed to bleed for? For a girl he’s not even related to? You’re a kid, Xaden.”

“I’m not—” Xaden started.

“You’re barely older than they are,” Brennan snapped, pointing to Liam, and Imogen. “And you’re letting her carve you open like it’s your penance? You think that’s justice?”

Xaden didn’t flinch. “I knew what I was agreeing to. She made the terms clear.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” Brennan barked. “It makes it sick. ”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Liam stepped forward.

“This isn’t what I asked for,” he said quietly, but the words cut like steel. “I asked for help. For a chance to find my sister. I didn’t ask you to bleed for it. I didn’t want you—”

“I didn’t do it for you, Liam,” Xaden interrupted, voice hard, controlled, but shaking just beneath the surface. “I did it because it was the only option. Because no one else was going to give a shit about one more marked girl gone quiet in some godsdamn backwater place.”

“You should have let us figure it out together,” Liam said. “We were trying. We weren’t going to stop.”

“I didn’t have time to wait,” Xaden bit out. 

He turned slightly, wincing as Brennan’s hands began to glow softly with healing light, working on the torn flesh along his back. His body was rigid with the pain, but his voice remained steady.

“I made the choice,” Xaden said. “Because someone had to.”

“And that gives you the right to make the call for all of us?” Liam demanded. “To take on the fallout? To decide how far is too far?”

Xaden turned his head slightly. “You didn’t want to carry the weight. That’s fine. I’ll carry it.”

Brennan swore under his breath and muttered, “Godsdamn martyr complex.”

“I’m not a martyr,” Xaden said, eyes dark. “I’m just what’s left.”

Imogen’s stomach twisted, and she looked to Garrick, who was watching Xaden with a mixture of fury and heartbreak. No one spoke for a long beat. Only the hiss of magic and the faint rustle of the fire filled the space.

Xaden met his gaze. “I know what I’m doing.”

“The hell you do,” Garrick snapped. “She could’ve killed you.”

“She didn’t.”

“Not the point.”

Garrick took a step forward, gesturing to the maps and scrawled papers behind him. “Imogen and I were working on this. We weren’t just sitting here waiting for a miracle. We had theories. Plans.”

Xaden scoffed, a bitter sound. “You mean the scribbles and arrows you two kept rearranging into different shapes? You weren’t close.”

“We were trying,” Imogen cut in. “We were doing something without letting anyone torture us for it.”

Xaden didn’t look at her. His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking there like the words tasted sour in his mouth. 

Garrick stepped forward, folding his arms tightly across his chest. “What exactly did she tell you?”

Xaden exhaled, slow and sharp, like the breath itself stung on the way out. “She told me where Sloane is.”

“And?” Garrick pressed.

“She’s been placed near the southern border,” Xaden said, his voice low and tight. “Some isolated house the government uses for... problem cases. Wayward marked ones. Kids who don’t fall in line fast enough. Kids like Sloane.”

The room went silent.

Imogen felt her chest tighten, but she didn’t interrupt. Not yet.

“She’s not alone,” Xaden added after a beat. “Bohdi’s there too.”

Liam jerked his head up, startled. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” His voice was resolute. “They’re being kept together—for now. Under surveillance. The woman running the place has a reputation. She doesn’t tolerate rebellion.”

Garrick’s arms tightened across his ribs. “What did she say, Xaden?”

Xaden's mouth twitched, something bitter pulling at the edges. “She said we have to go to them.”

Silence fell, sharp and brittle.

Imogen stiffened. “Go to them?” she repeated. “You mean to the house?”

Xaden nodded once. “She made it clear. That was the deal.”

Brennan’s brow furrowed, hard lines digging into his face. “You’re not serious.”

“It’s not a suggestion,” Xaden said. “It’s the cost of keeping Sloane and Bohdi alive.”

Imogen pushed up from the arm of the chair she’d been sitting on. “You want us to go live there ? Under their thumb?”

Xaden looked at her, eyes heavy with something unreadable. “It’s not about what I want.”

“That’s a suicide mission,” she said. “We’ll be walking into a trap. Giving ourselves up.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Xaden snapped, then winced, hand unconsciously going to his ribs.

“Then why?” Brennan cut in sharply. “Why the hell would you agree to that?”

Xaden didn’t look at him. “Because she would’ve sent someone after them if I didn’t.”

“After who?” Garrick snapped, stepping forward. “Sloane? Bohdi? Or us?”

Xaden’s jaw clenched.

“You made that call without even talking to us,” Brennan growled. “You put a target on your back—and ours—and for what? For a maybe? For the mercy of a woman who’s never shown you anything but cruelty?”

Xaden turned, slow and steady, his expression carved from stone. “I made the call because I had to.”

“No,” Garrick said, voice suddenly low and dangerous. “You made the call because you thought you were the only one who could. Because you still think you have to bleed for all of us to be worth anything.”

Xaden didn’t answer.

Brennan narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. “Why her? Of all people. You went back to my mother.”

Xaden’s lip curled. “She’s the only one who still holds the strings. Everyone else cut theirs a long time ago.”

“That’s bullshit,” Garrick said, taking another step toward him. “You don’t go back to the woman who carved your back open unless there’s more on the line than you’re admitting.”

Xaden didn’t flinch. Didn’t deny it.

“What aren’t you telling us?” Garrick asked, softer now. “What else did she say? What else did she threaten?”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Xaden said tightly.

“You are,” Garrick said, not budging. “You always do. You’re hiding something, and it’s going to get us all killed.”

Imogen’s pulse beat against her ribs like a war drum. 

“So now we just crawl back to the system?” she said, voice rising as she finally broke the spiral. “Let them leash us like dogs and hope they don’t put us down?”