The ruins stood hollow against the night, a skeletal remnant of a world long forgotten.
Broken concrete and rusted beams cast jagged shadows under the faint moonlight, offering just enough cover for the Clan to take temporary refuge. It wasn't much, but it was all they had.
No one spoke.
The only sound was the occasional crackling of a small fire that Shade had built, its weak glow barely enough to cut through the cold.
Echo sat near it, knees drawn up, his usual playful air stripped away. His fingers tapped against his thigh—restless, impatient, but otherwise silent.
Cipher was off to the side, eyes fixed on his wrist device, scrolling through feeds with practiced urgency. Every so often, his jaw tensed, his expression darkening with whatever he wasn't finding.
Myst didn't have to ask to know what he was doing.
He was searching for Blaze.
Razor stood apart from them all, a dark figure against the crumbling walls. His back was turned, rigid and unmoving, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His silence was heavier than anyone else's.
Myst felt it creeping into her chest, pressing down on her ribs.
This was just like before.
Blaze. Loud, unshakable, infuriatingly stubborn Blaze. The one who charged in headfirst, who always made it out. Why?
The weight of it sat like a stone in her throat.
Myst shifted, suddenly unable to stay still. Without a word, she stood and stepped away from the group, just far enough to escape the suffocating stillness. She stayed within sight, but she needed space.
Blaze wouldn't like recklessness, she almost muttered to herself.
She exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders. Her muscles still ached from the fight, but she ignored it.
She had to do something.
Her hand curled into a fist. She focused. Nothing happened.
Myst grit her teeth, frustration coiling tight in her chest. She had spent months honing control over her abilities, feeling them become an extension of herself.
And now, nothing. Ever since he—
Her breath hitched, and she forced the thought down.
She swung again, this time aiming at the rusted remains of a nearby pillar. The impact sent a dull ache through her knuckles. She welcomed it.
She hit it again. And again. Still, nothing.
A quiet sigh cut through the night air.
Myst stilled, her breath uneven as she turned slightly.
Nyx was watching her from a few feet away.
He had been leaning against a broken wall, arms crossed, but now he straightened. He didn't say anything—just stepped closer, his eyes steady, unreadable in the dim light.
"You're going to hurt yourself," he said quietly.
Myst scoffed. "Wouldn't be the first time."
She swung again.
This time, Nyx caught her wrist before she could land the hit. His grip was firm but careful, fingers warm against her skin.
Myst tensed. Her frustration boiled over. "Let go."
Nyx didn't move. His gaze flickered over her knuckles, already bruising. He exhaled through his nose, almost in disappointment, before finally releasing her wrist.
But he didn't step back.
"You think punishing yourself will bring him back?" Nyx asked, his voice lower this time.
Myst felt her throat tighten. "No. But it's better than standing around, doing nothing."
He studied her for a moment, then shook his head. "You're not doing nothing. You're still here."
She let out a sharp breath, turning away. "Doesn't feel like it."
Nyx hesitated. Then, carefully, he stepped closer. "Myst."
She clenched her jaw.
"Look at me," he said softly. And she did.
Myst's breath hitched. Her whole body trembled; her hands clenched so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. The pressure in her chest swelled, pushing against her ribs, raw and unbearable.
She had been holding it in for too long.
Blaze was gone.
The war was still closing in on them.
And she was powerless.
Her vision blurred, but she refused to wipe the tears away. What was the point? No one was looking—no one except Nyx.
She didn't know what she expected from him. A quiet apology? An empty reassurance that everything would be fine? Maybe a plea for her to stay strong, to keep moving forward.
But he said nothing.
Instead, he moved toward her, slow enough for her to stop him if she wanted to. When she didn't, he closed the distance, reaching out with a hesitance she had never seen from him before.
Then, without a word, he wrapped his arms around her.
Myst stiffened, her first instinct to pull away—but his warmth settled against her, and suddenly, she couldn't find the strength to leave.
He held her like she was something fragile, like he knew she could shatter at the wrong move. His hand settled between her shoulder blades, firm yet careful, while his other arm curled around her waist, drawing her closer.
For a moment, she resisted. But when the silence between them stretched, unbroken by words, her body gave in to the exhaustion, and she sank against him.
Her fingers curled into his shirt, gripping it tightly as the dam broke. Her tears were hot against his collarbone, but he never flinched. Instead, his hold on her tightened—not possessive, not demanding, just there.
Just something solid in the wreckage.