Chapter 142 - 2)
"I... I can only pretend not to notice."
Zephyr's voice was a whisper now—hoarse, brittle.
"I act like I don't hear it when she muffles her sobs at night. I act like it doesn't tear me apart. Because if I show even a hint of weakness… she'll break. And if she breaks…"
He trailed off, eyes distant, jaw clenched so tightly it trembled.
"…then we both fall apart."
Aman remained silent, every instinct screaming to offer something—comfort, a joke, even just a curse to spit at whatever twisted force hunted them—but nothing came. Not when faced with that quiet, naked grief. Not when the scars ran deeper than words could reach.
For a moment, neither spoke. The wind whispered between the shattered training dummies, the scent of scorched wood and poison still lingering. Aman let the silence stretch, honoring the weight of what Zephyr had just admitted. But Zephyr wasn't done.
His voice came again, quieter than before, like something unearthed from the coldest part of memory.
"She counts every death. Every pain. Every injury. Every burned village. Every incident. As if her mere existence summoned the darkness."
Aman saw it then—the memory flashing behind Zephyr's eyes like a wound ripped open: Luna curled in some moonlit corner, her small frame shuddering with silent sobs, fingers clawing at her own arms as if she could scrape away whatever mark they believed she carried.
"Last winter," he whispered, "she tried to walk into a blizzard. Said the monsters would stop hunting if they had her."
Aman's eyes widened, but Zephyr didn't look at him. His knuckles whitened around his sword hilt.