The Weight of What Remains
"No," she said. "But it ends it."
The words landed like stones—softly spoken, yet heavy enough to silence the night.
Leon froze where he stood, eyes catching the faint glint of moonlight on her face. Her voice wasn't desperate. It wasn't a cry for help. It was calm. Terrifyingly calm. The kind of calm that came from someone who had already decided there was nothing left to lose.
For a heartbeat, he didn't breathe.
The wind whispered across the scorched courtyard, carrying the faint hiss of embers and the metallic tang of blood. The ground still smoked around the crater's edge, cracked and uneven beneath his boots. Every breath burned with the scent of ash.
"Natsha…" Leon's voice came low, quiet enough to tremble. "You really think I'll raise my blade against you after all this?"
Her eyes, dark and hollow from exhaustion, found his. "Then let me do it myself."
