Guren doesn’t slow as he returns to the UF base.

  The floodlights wash over white concrete and steel, soldiers moving in practiced lines, Wardens being guided back into their hangars. It all looks orderly. Controlled. Clean.

  Too clean.

  Amélia stands near the entrance, arms crossed tight against herself, eyes scanning every passing uniform. Her worry is written plainly on her face. She notices Guren before he notices her.

  When their eyes meet, Guren stops.

  For half a second, he considers lying.

  Then he exhales, rubs the bridge of his nose, and jerks his thumb toward a narrow dirt path slipping away from the base, barely lit by distant lamps.

  “Up there,” he says simply. “He won’t bite.”

  Amélia doesn’t ask questions.

  She doesn’t thank him.

  She just turns and runs.

  The sounds of the base fade quickly—the clang of metal, shouted orders, laughter that feels wrong at this hour. The path narrows as it winds away from Ironford’s lights, the moon becoming her only guide.

  She passes an empty shop, shutters pulled down tight, its sign creaking softly in the night wind. No windows lit. No voices. Just the scrape of her boots against dirt and stone.

  Her breath steadies as the ground slopes upward.

  Then the path ends.

  At the hill.

  At the statue.

  Amélia slows to a stop.

  The figure stands tall against the night sky—stone robes flowing, sword angled forward, finger pointing toward a future that never came. Even carved in stone, Orphelia looks resolute. Unyielding.

  Amélia’s chest tightens.

  She spots Rhys beneath the tree almost immediately.

  He’s sitting with his back against the trunk, knees drawn up, arms resting loosely over them. His face is turned upward, eyes fixed on the moon as if he’s afraid to look anywhere else.

  He looks small.

  Smaller than she’s ever seen him.

  For a moment, Amélia just stands there, unsure. The hill feels sacred. Intrusive. Like stepping into someone else’s grief.

  Then she walks closer.

  Her footsteps are soft, but Rhys hears her anyway. He doesn’t turn.

  They sit in silence for a while—the statue watching over them, the moon hanging pale and distant.

  Amélia finally speaks, voice low.

  “I was looking everywhere for you.”

  Rhys swallows.

  “I figured.”

  She sits beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touch, but not quite. Close enough to be there. Far enough to give him space.

  Silence settles between them.

  Not an awkward one—just heavy.

  The kind that presses against the chest.

  Amélia’s eyes drift to him without meaning to. The moonlight catches uneven shadows along his jaw, the faint swelling beneath his cheekbone. A dark bruise blooms near his lip, half-hidden by the way his black hair falls forward.

  Her breath catches.

  “Rhys…” she starts, then stops.

  He doesn’t look at her.

  After a long moment, he speaks instead.

  “You knew sooner, didn’t you?”

  Amélia blinks, confused. “What?”

  He exhales slowly, like each word costs him something.

  “You kept playing along,” he says. “With the lie. That she was still alive. That she’d come back one day.”

  Her heart drops.

  Rhys continues, voice calm in a way that scares her.

  “You never said it outright, but you never corrected me either.”

  Amélia turns fully toward him now, eyes wide.

  “Rhys, I—”

  He finally looks at her.

  Not angry.

  Just tired.

  “I knew,” he says quietly. “I always knew.”

  Amélia feels the weight of it crash down on her all at once. The meals. The small smiles. The way she avoided his eyes whenever he talked about his mother like she was just… away.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, voice breaking. “I thought— I thought if I told you, it would destroy you.”

  Rhys gives a faint, hollow smile.

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  “So you protected me,” he murmurs.

  Then, softer still—

  “You knew how much I’m a weakling.”

  Amélia shakes her head immediately.

  “No,” she says, a little too fast. “Rhys, you’re not a weakling. You’re—”

  The word never comes.

  She opens her mouth again, then closes it.

  What could she say?

  Strong? She’d seen him break.

  Brave? He was shaking now.

  Resilient? He was bleeding in places no one could see.

  And worse—she has no answer for the lie.

  No reason that sounds clean or just.

  The silence stretches, thick and accusing.

  Rhys’ shoulders begin to tremble.

  At first, he tries to hold it in. His jaw tightens, teeth grinding like he can force the sound back down his throat. He turns his face away, lifting a hand to hide it, fingers digging into his hair.

  Then the breath catches.

  And breaks.

  “They killed her,” he chokes. “They killed her for doing what she was supposed to do.”

  Amélia freezes.

  “What…?” Her voice barely comes out. “Rhys, what do you mean?”

  He presses his palm harder against his face, tears slipping through anyway.

  “She stayed,” he says, voice breaking apart. “She stayed because it was her duty. And they— they left her.”

  Amélia’s chest tightens painfully.

  “The UF,” Rhys continues, words spilling now, raw and unguarded. “They abandoned her. To protect their ‘Order.’ To save numbers. To keep lines clean on a map.”

  He laughs once—short, bitter, almost a sob.

  “She fought alone at Velkaris. Alone.”

  Amélia’s breath stutters.

  Her mind drags her back—violently.

  The smoke.

  The heat.

  The scream of metal tearing itself apart.

  Orphelia standing in the open, coat torn, her Bulwark's blade glowing, facing the Stormbreaker like it was nothing more than another obstacle.

  A single woman against a skyscraper of steel and lightning.

  Amélia remembers grabbing Rhys’ arm. Remembering how hard she pulled him back, how she turned his face away before he could see his mother on the front line.

  Before he could see her burn herself into legend.

  Before he could watch her die.

  Amélia’s hands curl into fists at her sides.

  She doesn’t know what hurts more—

  That Orphelia died like that.

  Or that Rhys was never meant to see it, yet somehow always did.

  Rhys’ voice comes apart as he speaks, like he’s pulling something out of himself that was never meant to be touched.

  “Duty,” he says quietly, bitterly. “That’s what she believed in. Not orders. Not numbers. Duty.”

  He drags a shaking breath, wiping his face with his sleeve, failing to stop the tears.

  “The will to protect someone else’s life more than your own. That’s what she taught me. That if you can stand in front of someone, you do. Even if you’re scared. Even if it costs you everything.” His voice cracks. “And now they say that will is a mistake.”

  He laughs again, hollow, almost hysterical.

  “They abandoned it. The UF—the one thing that was supposed to embody that belief—turned their backs on it. They left her alone because saving civilians wasn’t efficient enough. Because she chose people over protocol.”

  Rhys curls forward, clutching at his shirt like his chest hurts.

  “So tell me—what makes a soldier’s life more valuable than a civilian’s?” he demands, voice rising, desperate. “Because they wear a uniform? Because they’re trained to die on command? Does that make a mother worth less than a rifle? Does it make a child expendable?”

  His shoulders shake violently now.

  “If kindness gets you killed… if doing the right thing makes you a liability… then what’s left?” he whispers. “A cold morality that says the weak can be erased to preserve something ‘greater’?”

  He presses his forehead into his hands.

  “She died alone because she wouldn’t accept that logic,” Rhys sobs. “And now they call it disobedience.”

  There’s no answer.

  Only the question, burning and unanswered in the dark.

  Amélia stays quiet for a long moment.

  Not because she doesn’t want to answer—

  but because she knows there is no answer.

  “I don’t have one,” she says softly at last. “To your questions. About duty. About value. About why the world decides who gets to live.”

  Her fingers curl into the fabric of her apron, knuckles white.

  “But I know this,” she continues, voice trembling but steadying as she speaks. “Your mother didn’t fight for ideas. She didn’t fight for the UF. She didn’t even fight for ‘humanity’ the way they like to say it.”

  She turns toward him.

  “She fought for you.”

  Rhys stiffens.

  Amélia swallows, forcing herself to go on.

  “She wanted you to live. To grow up without becoming someone who only follows orders. She wanted you to keep that part of her—the part that listens when someone cries, even when the world tells you to look away.”

  Her voice softens, almost breaking.

  “The UF can call her disobedient. They can write whatever they want in their reports. It doesn’t matter.” She shakes her head. “She lived as an honorable person. She died as one. Honest. Kind. Brave enough to hear suffering and not turn away from it.”

  Rhys doesn’t respond.

  So Amélia keeps going—quieter now, cheeks warming, words coming out uneven.

  “And… those values,” she says, barely meeting his eyes, “they’re the reason I’m alive.”

  He looks at her then.

  “If she hadn’t chosen to pull me out of those ruins—if she hadn’t taken me into her home—I would’ve died there.” Her voice wavers. “I wouldn’t have met you.”

  She draws a breath, heart pounding.

  “And I’ve never known anyone more honest than you, Rhys. More kind. Even when you’re hurting. Even when you’re angry.” Her face burns red. “She would be proud of you. I know she would.”

  Silence falls between them.

  Rhys slowly tilts his head back, staring up at the moon, its pale light washing over the statue, the tree, the quiet hill.

  “Maybe the UF will remember her as a soldier who disobeyed,” he says quietly. “As someone who died because of her own choices.”

  His voice steadies—not hard, but certain.

  “But I won’t.”

  He exhales.

  “In my heart… she died a hero. An honorable person.” His jaw tightens. “And because of her, hundreds of people are still alive. Families. Children. People who will never even know her name.”

  He closes his eyes.

  “That’s enough for me.”

  The wind moves gently through the leaves above them.

  And for the first time since the statue, Rhys doesn’t feel completely alone.

  Amélia hesitates.

  Her fingers twist together in her lap, her shoulders tense, as if she’s bracing herself for something she’s never said out loud before. When she speaks again, her voice is softer—too soft—and her face is burning red under the moonlight.

  “Then… don’t change,” she says. “Please.”

  Rhys glances at her.

  “Stay like this. Stay… kind. Honest. Stupidly stubborn.” She forces a small laugh, but it trembles. “Even if the world keeps telling you that it’s wrong. Even if the UF tries to grind it out of you.”

  She looks down, embarrassed, words spilling faster now.

  “That part of you—your heart—that’s not weakness. It’s the strongest thing you have. And if you lose that…” She trails off, swallowing hard. “Then everything your mother stood for really will disappear.”

  Her shoulder brushes his.

  She doesn’t pull away.

  For a heartbeat, she waits. Heart racing. Breath shallow.

  Rhys is quiet.

  Then he turns to her—not seeing what she’s offering, only what she’s giving.

  “Thank you,” he says sincerely. “For staying with me.”

  Amélia freezes.

  “For not leaving,” he continues, voice calm, steady. “I don’t think I could’ve handled this alone.”

  Her chest tightens.

  Then—slowly—she exhales, a small, crooked smile forming despite herself.

  She bumps her shoulder gently against his.

  “You’re welcome, dummy,” she mutters, still red. “And don’t let those UF idiots change who you are.”

  She looks at him again, eyes warm.

  “You’re yourself. That’s enough.”

  Rhys nods, grateful, unaware.

  And Amélia—heart pounding, feelings safely hidden—stays right there beside him, close enough to be there.

  Rhys exhales, then pushes himself up from the ground, brushing dirt from his trousers. He turns back and offers Amélia his hand.

  She blinks.

  For a second, she just stares at it—then takes it. His grip is warm, steady, and as he pulls her up, she feels her face heat up all over again.

  Still red.

  Still flustered.

  She clears her throat, glancing up at the sky, grasping for something—anything—to say.

  “…The moon looks beautiful tonight.”

  Rhys follows her gaze. The pale light spills over the statue, the tree, the quiet town below.

  “Yeah,” he says simply. “It does.”

  He turns and starts down the path, then looks back over his shoulder.

  “Come on.”

  Amélia hurries after him, a step behind. A tiny spark of frustration flickers in her chest.

  He really doesn’t get it…

  She presses her lips together, then her expression softens.

  And that’s not his fault.

  The thought settles heavier than the embarrassment. Using that moment—his grief—to confess something selfish… the idea makes her stomach twist.

  She slows just a little, watching him walk ahead, silhouetted by moonlight.

  I’ll stay, she decides. Not because I want something back. Just because I want him to be okay.

  Her cheeks are still red.

  But she smiles anyway.

  And follows him home.