Chapter 39 - Her fault

  The silence pressed down like a weight. No wind. No chirping. Just the faint drip of water echoing somewhere deeper in the hollow.

  Lilia didn’t dare move at first. Every sound felt too loud.

  Her heartbeat, her breath, even the scrape of her sleeve against stone.

  Her limbs trembled, muscles twitching with the aftershock of running for too long. Dust clung to her tongue, coating her throat like ash. The air was thick with the smell of blood and sweat, theirs or Ryn’s, she couldn’t tell anymore.

  For a moment, all she could do was sit there in the dark, clutching her knees, and hope the silence meant safety… even if it didn’t feel like it.

  Ryn's breath came shallow and uneven, his skin pale beneath the faint moonlight leaking through the cracks of their shelter. Sweat clung to him, and when Lilia leaned close, she could feel the heat radiating through the bandages.

  She peeled the cloth back just enough to check the wound. The edges were sealed, blackened from the iron, but the flesh beneath looked raw, angry, and wrong.

  Lilia swallowed hard, her hands trembling as she pressed the bandage back down. “He’s going to get better,” she whispered, voice cracking. “He has to.”

  Her palm stayed against his chest a moment longer, feeling the weak, uneven rhythm of his heart. Each beat felt like a fragile promise, one she wasn’t sure he could keep, no matter how tightly she willed it.

  “Hey, Lilia?”

  The whisper broke the silence like a stone dropped into still water.

  Lilia looked up from where she sat, her hands leaving Ryn's chest. The hollow was pitch-dark except for the faint gray light leaking through a crack above them.

  Ariel was sitting now, half-shadowed, her hair clinging to her face. Her eyes caught what little moonlight there was, dull gold, unfocused but… off. Not blank, not afraid, something harder to name.

  “Where…” She hesitated, her gaze drifted toward the slumped figure beside them. “Where is Ryn’s arm?”

  For a moment, Lilia just stared at her. The words didn’t sink in right away, then they did. Her stomach turned.

  Her throat tightened. She turned her head away from Ariel.

  Ryn lay still, breaths shallow, his right side swathed in cloth gone dark with blood. The space below it was empty.

  “…It’s gone,” Lilia whispered, her voice shaking. “The burns were spreading—I had to… If I hadn’t… he would—he would’ve died.”

  Ariel’s expression didn’t change. She only blinked once, slowly, her gaze returning to the hollow’s ceiling.

  “I see,” she murmured.

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  Her gaze dropped to Ryn’s side again, to the space where his arm should’ve been. The silence that followed stretched long and heavy, pressing between them until even the moonlight seemed to dim.

  “Hey, Lilia?”

  Ariel’s voice trembled.

  Each word wavered.

  Her hands twisted faintly in her lap, pale knuckles slick with dirt.

  When she looked up, her face was almost blank — too still, too careful — but her eyes told a different story.

  They were wide, unfocused, trembling in their sockets, the faintest glimmer of gold flickering and dying like a candle in the wind.

  Her lips twitched, a smile or a sob, it was hard to tell.

  Her lips parted again, voice low, fraying at the edges, a whisper.

  “This is all my fault, right?”

  Lilia’s throat went dry. “Ariel, don’t—”

  But Ariel kept staring at the place where Ryn lay, and when she spoke again, it was barely more than a breath.

  “If I hadnt… if I didn’t…”

  The rest never came. She just pressed a trembling hand to her chest, as if trying to quiet something that wouldn’t stop breaking inside her.

  Lilia reached forward before Ariel could say another word and pulled her into a tight embrace.

  Ariel didn’t resist, just stiffened, her breath catching against Lilia’s shoulder. And then, slowly, the tension gave way. Her hands clawed weakly at Lilia’s tunic, and the first tear slid down her cheek.

  “I-It isn’t your fault, Ariel,” Lilia whispered, her voice trembling but steady. “N-None of this is.”

  Ariel’s breath hitched, a small, broken sound that barely escaped her lips. Then came the tears, sudden and quiet, spilling down her face in trembling waves. She didn’t sob at first; she just shook, her fingers clutching at Lilia’s sleeve like a child afraid to let go.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I’m so sorry.”

  Lilia said nothing. She only held her tighter, one hand pressed against the back of Ariel’s head, feeling each shudder pass through her. The warmth of tears soaked into her shoulder, seeping through the thin fabric.

  Time blurred. The hollow was still, save for the uneven rhythm of their breathing.

  Eventually, Ariel’s cries began to slow, soft gasps giving way to quiet sniffles. Her grip loosened, her trembling faded, and the silence that followed felt too heavy to belong to peace.

  Lilia brushed a thumb against Ariel’s hair, uncertain whether to say anything.

  Ariel pulled back slightly, eyes still glassy, but there was something different now, a dull steadiness behind them, a resolve that hadn’t been there before. Her lips parted once, then closed again, as if she had to gather the strength to speak.

  When she finally did, her voice was low, hoarse, but steady.

  “We can’t stay here...”

  Lilia turned to her. The princess’s face was pale beneath the streaks of ash, her hair tangled, her eyes hollow, but there was something else in them now. A quiet clarity.

  Lilia followed her gaze to Ryn, still slumped against the wall, his breath shallow but steady.

  “I know…,” Lilia nodded. “But where would we even go?”

  For a long time, Ariel didn’t answer. She just sat there, staring at the narrow crack of moonlight cutting through the cave’s mouth. Then, slowly, she lifted a trembling hand and pointed toward it.

  “They’re watching, Lilia,” she whispered. Her voice trembled, but her tone wasn’t quite fear; it was certainty. “Out there. They’re waiting for us to come.”

  Lilia’s stomach turned cold. “Who’s watching?” she asked, but Ariel didn’t look at her.

  Instead, her golden eyes stayed fixed on the light beyond the hollow, wide, glassy, and unblinking.

  When she finally spoke again, her words came low and unsteady, but sure enough to chill the air.

  “We need to do a trial.”