The first light of dawn seeps through the cracks in the stone walls, casting eerie golden streaks across my room. The warmth of it should be comforting, but it only reminds me that I didn't sleep. Not even for a moment.
I stare at the mark on my wrist—the inked name burning into my skin as if it knows what I've done. As if it knows what I failed to do.
Killian.
For years, I believed that my freedom would come when I killed him. That once his blood was on my hands, I could finally leave this wretched cycle.
And yet, he still breathes.
Because I saved him.
Because I let him go.
Because, for some unexplainable, illogical, unforgivable reason—I couldn't bring myself to drive my blade through his heart.
I drag in a sharp breath, my fingers curling into a fist. The mark doesn't disappear. It doesn't fade. It lingers, like a cruel whisper of fate.
A knock at my door shatters the silence.
I straighten, pushing away the haze of exhaustion. "Enter."
The door swings open, revealing Commander Rathos. His tall frame casts a shadow over my room, his sharp eyes scanning me like he already knows what's tormenting me.
"You look like you haven't slept," he says, voice unreadable.
"I haven't," I reply. There's no point in lying.
He steps inside, shutting the door behind him. He doesn't offer reassurances or empty words. He simply observes me, waiting.
"You did the right thing," he finally says. "Sending him back prevented a war."
I nod, but the weight in my chest doesn't lessen.
He tilts his head slightly. "That's not what's keeping you up, though."
A sharp exhale escapes me. I hesitate before finally speaking. "Killian has a mark too, doesn't he?"
Rathos's face hardens.
I already know the answer, but I need to hear it. I need confirmation that my sinking suspicion isn't just a paranoid thought clawing its way into my skull.
"Who's his last mark?" I ask, my voice quieter this time.
A tense silence follows.
Then—
"You already know," Rathos says, his voice heavy.
My breath stills.
The room feels smaller, like the walls are pressing in on me. The blood in my veins turns to ice, my pulse thudding painfully against my skull.
Me.
I am Killian's last kill. His path to freedom leads straight through my heart.
The realization slams into me, knocking the air from my lungs.
"So why hasn't he done it? Why didn't he tell me?"
Silence.
I press my hand over the mark, my fingers trembling. All this time, I thought he was the only one standing in my way. That if I could just kill him, I would be free.
But fate—fate is cruel.
I don't even realize I'm pacing until Rathos speaks again.
"What are you going to do?"
I stop.
That is the question, isn't it?
I should have an answer. I should have certainty.
But I don't.
Because this changes everything.
Will he hesitate the way I did? Or will he do what I couldn't?
''I don't know''
And that terrifies me more than anything.
Rathos studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Then you need to figure it out. Fast."
With that, he turns and leaves, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.
I let out a slow breath, pressing my back against the cold stone wall.
But I know one thing—
This war between us isn't over.
It has only just begun.
After Rathos leaves, I force myself to sit at the edge of my bed, my hands gripping the blanket as if the fabric could somehow hold me together. My mind spins, drowning in possibilities.
Will he hesitate? Will he kill me? Will he fight fate as I did?
A bitter laugh escapes me. I've seen Killian fight. I've seen his ruthlessness, the sharpness in his gaze when he strikes down an opponent. He doesn't hesitate.
But he hesitated with me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn't help. The ache in my chest deepens, something sharp curling inside me, something I don't dare name.
The thought rattles me. If he knew and he let me live, then why? What does that mean?
Does he want to be free?
And why didn't he tell me?
I don't realize I've been gripping my dagger until my knuckles turn white. My fingers loosen, the blade slipping back into its sheath at my thigh.
I can't stay here.
I push to my feet, ignoring the exhaustion pulling at my limbs. The weight of the truth still sits heavy on my shoulders, but I refuse to let it crush me.
There is only one way to end this.
And I need to be the one who controls how it ends.