They left the Cairn at dawn, riding hard, putting miles between them and the place where Cassian had laughed at their pain.
No one spoke for the first day.
Star rode in the middle of the column, face pale, eyes fixed on nothing. The new hollow inside him was the worst yet: the moment he had chosen to die for Elandor. Without it, every time he looked at the king he felt a flicker of confusion—why am I here? Why does this hurt so much?—before love rushed in to fill the gap. But the rush came slower each time, like water trying to refill a cracked cup.
Elandor rode beside him, close enough that their knees brushed with every stride. He hadn't let go of Star's hand since the Cairn, not even to readjust the reins.
On the second night they camped in a ruined village swallowed by vines. The houses were empty, roofs caved, but the well still held clean water. Lila built a small fire. Duchess Calera took first watch.
Star sat apart, staring into the flames.
