The nights in Preta had become longer. The fires burned low, smoke curling into a sky that refused to show its stars. Gemma sat at the edge of the encampment, knees drawn to her chest, her fingers buried in the damp earth. She tried to feel something, heat, tremor, light, but the silence inside her was deafening. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard the voice.

  “You can’t hide from what you are.”

  Esyra’s words drifted through her like a whisper trapped in her skull. She didn’t know if it was memory or madness anymore. Her powers had been gone since the night of the battle, when she’d drawn the bow and nothing had come. The Light didn’t answer. The flame didn’t burn. And Aros had bled because of her.

  The thought coiled around her chest until she couldn’t breathe. She pressed her palms together, forcing them to spark, to tremble, to do something. Nothing. Not even warmth.

  Her throat tightened, and the tears came quietly, spilling down her cheeks in a slow, steady rhythm. She wiped them away, angry at herself for crying again. The others were resting; some sleeping, some drinking, some praying to a god that had never listened.

  “Hey,” a voice called softly behind her.

  Gemma turned. Broko stood there, his wide frame backlit by the flicker of a nearby fire. He had a cut across his cheek and his hands were still wrapped from the fight, but he smiled anyway.

  “Thought I’d find you here,” he said, sitting down beside her. “You’ve been gone a while.”

  She didn’t answer.

  He looked out toward the woods. “You shouldn’t be alone. After what happened, no one should.”

  “It’s my fault,” she whispered.

  Broko frowned. “What is?”

  “Aros. All of it.” She stared at her hands. “If I still had my powers, he wouldn’t have had to save me. He wouldn’t have been there.”

  “Gemma.” His voice was soft but steady. “You can’t put that on yourself.”

  “I can.” She looked up, her eyes red. “He almost died because of me. Because I was useless. Because I...”

  “Stop.” Broko’s tone sharpened, but not in anger. He turned to her fully, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “You didn’t make him get stabbed. You didn’t make this war. You’re a girl, Gemma. A brave one, but still a girl. You don’t control the Light. None of us do.”

  She shook her head. “Then what good am I?”

  Broko sighed, looking away. The firelight caught the edge of his expression, half pity, half weariness. “You think being what you are is supposed to make sense? Look around. Nothing does anymore.”

  Her lips trembled. “That doesn’t help Aros.”

  He paused, then said quietly, “He’s not dead.”

  “It’s been five days,” she said. “Five.”

  “Yeah,” Broko admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I’ve seen worse. He’s stubborn. He’ll wake up.”

  She wanted to believe him. Wanted to cling to it the way she used to cling to her bowstring, to the small tension before release. But the hope felt thin, fragile.

  Broko stood, brushing dirt from his knees. “Come on. Sandra’s still watching him. You should see for yourself.”

  Gemma hesitated. The thought of walking into that tent terrified her. But the fear of not seeing him again was worse.

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  The tent smelled of herbs and old blood. Candles burned low on the table beside the cot, their wax melted into strange shapes. Sandra, one of the women who had fled Bondrea, was wringing a cloth in a bowl of water. Her sleeves were rolled up, arms thin but steady.

  Gemma froze at the entrance, staring. Aros lay pale and motionless, his chest rising just enough to prove he was still in the world. His skin had lost its warmth; he looked carved from ash.

  Sandra glanced up. “He’s resting. The fever’s down today.”

  “Will he live?”

  The woman hesitated. “It’s a deep wound. The sword went clean through. If it doesn’t rot, he’ll wake within weeks. If it does…” She didn’t finish.

  Gemma’s voice cracked. “Can I stay with him?”

  Sandra nodded. “For a while.”

  Gemma stepped closer, every breath heavier than the last. She sank to her knees beside the bed, fingers brushing the rough sheet that covered him. His hand was cold. She pressed it between her palms and bowed her head.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should’ve protected you. You always protect me, and I just...” Her throat broke around the words. “Please don’t leave me like everyone else.”

  For a long time, there was only the sound of the wind outside the tent. Then, faintly, like air escaping from a cracked bellows, she heard him.

  “Gemma…”

  She lifted her head, eyes wide.

  Aros’s lips barely moved. His voice was hoarse, dry, barely a sound. “Gemma… forgive me.”

  And then silence again. His hand twitched once, then went still.

  Gemma stayed frozen. She didn’t know how long she sat there before her tears ran out. When her eyes burned too much to keep open, she rested her forehead on his chest and whispered a prayer she didn’t believe in.

  At some point, exhaustion took her. The candlelight faded, and the murmur of the camp blurred into dreams. She dreamt of rivers made of glass, of voices calling her name from beneath the water. Esyra’s face surfaced for an instant, pale, inhuman, beautiful, and then shattered into light.

  When Gemma woke, the world had turned to silver. The moon was high. The camp was quiet except for the occasional cough or the shifting of armor. She rubbed her eyes and realized she’d fallen asleep beside him.

  She stood carefully, pulling the blanket higher over Aros’s shoulder, and slipped out of the tent.

  The air outside was cold and clear. A mist clung to the edges of the trees. Somewhere, an owl called, and the sound seemed impossibly distant.

  As she made her way toward her tent, a shadow stepped out from between the trees.

  “Couldn’t sleep?”

  Gemma stopped. The voice was unmistakable.

  Jori leaned against a tree trunk, arms crossed, a faint smile on his lips. His cloak was darker than the night around him.

  Her stomach turned. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just walking.” He tilted his head. “How’s Aros?”

  She glared at him. “Don’t pretend you care.”

  He shrugged. “Alright. I won’t.” His grin widened, almost playful. “You’ve been crying.”

  She turned to go, but he spoke again, his tone softening. “Did you think about what I told you?”

  Gemma stopped. “You said a lot of things.”

  “The important one.” He took a slow step toward her. “That I can help you get your power back.”

  Her pulse quickened. “Why me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “What do you need from me?”

  Jori’s eyes gleamed faintly in the moonlight. “Because there’s something I can’t do alone.”

  Gemma frowned. “What?”

  He looked past her, toward the horizon, as if the word itself was dangerous. “There’s a man...a hunter. He kills beings like you and me. Beings of Light. If he finds me first, I’m gone. But if I find him first…” He smiled again, softer now. “Then neither of us has to hide anymore.”

  Gemma stared at him. “You want me to help you kill someone?”

  “I want you to help me stop someone who hunts what you are.” His voice was calm, persuasive, the tone of someone explaining inevitability. “He’ll come for you too, Gemma. For all of you. And you won’t be ready if you keep living like this... We don't really need to kill him. I can just steal his powers.”

  “I don’t even have my powers.”

  “You will.” He took another step forward. “If you trust me.”

  She shook her head slowly. “You’re lying.”

  “Maybe,” Jori said with a small laugh. “But maybe I’m your only chance.”

  “Go back to your tent,” he said softly. “Think about it. When Aros wakes, he’ll need you whole again. He’ll need the Light.”

  Gemma didn’t answer. She turned and walked away, her steps unsteady. She didn’t look back, but she could feel his gaze on her until she disappeared between the tents.

  When she reached her own, she sat on the bedroll and stared at her hands. They were trembling again. She pressed them together, whispered a prayer to Esyra, to anyone, to anything.

  Nothing came.

  The night pressed closer around her. Outside, the fires hissed low, and somewhere in the forest, something moved, soft, deliberate, like a breath drawn in.

  Gemma closed her eyes and whispered to herself, “Please, not again.”

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