Chapter 20: What We Carry

  Before the cave. Before the fire. Before she understood what any of it cost.

  The Holy Kingdom spread across the heart of the continent — a nation of white towers and golden spires, of temples and bells and roads that pilgrims walked for months to reach.

  Its capital held the greatest cathedral in the known world. A mountain of white stone rising from the city's center. Walls that glowed pink at dawn and gold at dusk. Towers where bells never stopped ringing.

  Behind those walls, past courtyards where priestesses walked in silent rows, the training grounds waited.

  Emma stood among the wooden dummies.

  Some bore scorch marks from fire magic — black patches spreading across chests and faces. Others had chunks torn from their bodies by ice and wind. A few had been reduced to splinters by heroes who had already found their strength.

  Emma faced the one at the end of the row. Untouched. Waiting for her.

  *Okay. Just like they taught us.*

  She raised her hand. Felt for the warmth inside her chest — the place where the magic lived. The blue panel flickered at the edge of her vision. Words she could read as easily as breathing. Health. Mana. Level. All the things that made her a hero now.

  *Focus. Channel. Release.*

  Fire gathered at her palm. Orange light dancing between her fingers.

  *Good. Good. Now just—*

  She pushed it forward.

  The fireball sailed across the distance. Struck the dummy's chest. Wood blackened. Smoke curled upward.

  Pain lanced through her hand.

  *Ow.*

  She pulled her arm back. Looked at her palm. The skin had reddened — tender and hot, like she'd pressed it against a stove.

  *Why does it hurt so much?*

  She shook her hand. Blew on her fingers. The redness stayed.

  *The others make it look easy.*

  She watched a group across the yard. Three heroes throwing spells at their targets. Fire. Ice. Lightning. Laughing between casts. Comparing scores on their panels.

  *They throw magic like it costs them nothing.*

  *Why does mine hurt?*

  She raised her hand again.

  *Maybe I did it wrong. Maybe my form was off. The priestess said form matters.*

  Fire gathered. She released it.

  The dummy's shoulder caught flame.

  Her palm screamed.

  *Ah!*

  She clutched her wrist. Squeezed her eyes shut. The skin was worse now — redder, angrier, heat radiating from her own flesh.

  *Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.*

  *Heroes don't cry.*

  *That's what the priestess said.*

  *Heroes don't cry. Heroes fight. Heroes win. Heroes save the world.*

  She blinked until the tears retreated. Looked around the training yard.

  Groups everywhere. Twos and threes and fours. Laughing. Practicing. Forming teams. Blue panels floating beside them, numbers climbing, skills unlocking.

  *They all have friends already.*

  *They all belong here.*

  *And I'm alone.*

  *Burning my own hands.*

  *Failing at the one thing I'm supposed to be good at.*

  She turned back to the dummy.

  *One more time.*

  *Just one more.*

  *If I can get it right once — just once — maybe it won't hurt.*

  *Maybe I'll figure out what I'm doing wrong.*

  *Maybe I'll understand why everyone else can do this and I can't.*

  Fire gathered at her palm.

  She released it.

  The pain came sharper this time. Deeper. She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper.

  *Why?*

  *Why, why, why?*

  *The priestess said we were chosen.*

  *She said the light blessed us.*

  *She said we were special.*

  *She said this world needed us.*

  She stared at her palm. At the redness spreading across the skin. At the blisters starting to form at the base of her fingers.

  *If I'm so special—*

  *—why does it hurt to be me?*

  "Hey!"

  A voice from behind.

  *Oh no.*

  *Those two again.*

  She turned.

  Two figures crossed the training yard toward her. She recognized them — they had tried to talk to her yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that.

  The one in front had hair the color of wet sand, cut short in a style that looked wrong for this world. A sword hung at his hip, polished until it caught the sunlight and threw it back. His smile arrived before he did — wide and bright and completely unearned.

  The one behind him was massive. Shoulders like a fortress wall. Arms thick enough to crush stone. His face was broad, his expression soft in a way that seemed wrong for someone built like a weapon. He moved carefully — each step measured, like he was afraid the ground might break beneath him.

  *The loud one and the mountain.*

  *What do they want now?*

  "I'm Kyle!" The sandy-haired one stopped in front of her. Gestured at himself like she might have forgotten since yesterday. "And this big guy is Marcus!"

  Marcus raised a hand. Smiled.

  *That smile.*

  *Why does he always smile like that?*

  *Like he's actually happy to see me.*

  *Stop. Focus.*

  "We're heroes!" Kyle spread his arms wide. "Well, obviously. Everyone here is a hero. But we're forming a team! A real one!"

  *Here it comes.*

  "I'm the swordsman." He tapped the blade at his hip. "Frontline fighter. The guy who charges in first, grabs the enemy's attention, and looks good doing it."

  He struck a pose. Hand on his sword. Chin raised. The morning light caught his armor just right.

  *Is he serious?*

  *He's serious.*

  *He actually thinks that looked cool.*

  "Marcus, here is our shield." Kyle slapped the big man's arm. The sound echoed across the training yard. "Toughest guy I've ever met. He can take hits that would kill anyone else. Enemies break themselves trying to get through him."

  Marcus shrugged. The motion moved his entire upper body.

  "I like protecting people."

  *Four words.*

  *That's more than yesterday.*

  "But we need someone who can hit hard!" Kyle pointed at her. His finger almost touched her nose. "A damage dealer! Someone with magic! Range! Power!" His eyes sparkled. "And you're a fire mage, right? I saw you practicing yesterday. You've got serious talent!"

  *Talent?*

  She looked at her palm. At the redness spreading beneath the skin. At the blisters forming where fire kept betraying her.

  *He thinks this is talent?*

  "I'm training."

  The words came out flat. Cold. A door closing.

  *Go away.*

  *Please just go away.*

  Kyle blinked. The smile flickered. "Oh. Right. Sorry. We just thought maybe you'd want to—"

  "I said I'm training."

  She turned her back to them. Faced the dummy. Raised her hand.

  *Leave me alone.*

  *I don't want to join your team.*

  *I don't want to be anyone's damage dealer.*

  *I don't want to pretend I belong here when I can't even cast a spell without burning myself.*

  Silence behind her.

  She waited for the sound of footsteps walking away.

  "Okay!" Kyle's voice came bright. Unbroken. "We'll try again tomorrow!"

  *What?*

  "Come on, Marcus. Let's go find some lunch. I'm starving."

  "You're always starving."

  "Growing heroes need food!"

  Their voices faded across the training yard. Laughter mixed with argument. The sound of two people who had already found what they were looking for.

  *Why do they keep coming back?*

  *I told them no.*

  *I keep telling them no.*

  *Why won't they just leave me alone?*

  She stared at the dummy.

  *Because they need a damage dealer.*

  *That's all.*

  *They don't actually want me.*

  *They just want what I can do.*

  *If I can ever figure out how to do it without destroying myself.*

  She raised her hand.

  Fire gathered.

  She threw it.

  Pain answered.

  And Emma kept training — alone, burning, wondering if tomorrow would be the day she finally broke.

  The sun moved across the sky.

  Emma lost count of how many fireballs she threw. How many times her palm screamed. How many times she bit her lip and swallowed the sounds that wanted to escape.

  The dummy stood blackened now. Scorch marks layered over scorch marks. Smoke rising from wounds she had carved into wood that would never feel pain.

  *Must be nice.*

  *Being made of wood.*

  *Nothing hurts you.*

  She raised her hand again.

  *One more.*

  *Fire gathered. She released it.*

  Her palm split.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Not much. Just a small crack in the skin where the blisters had grown too tight. Blood welled up — thin and red, mixing with the clear fluid already weeping from burns she had ignored for hours.

  *Oh.*

  She stared at her hand.

  *That's new.*

  Her stomach growled.

  *When did I last eat?*

  *This morning? Yesterday?*

  *I can't remember.*

  She thought of her mother's kitchen. The smell of bread baking. The sound of pots clanking against the stove. The way sunlight came through the window above the sink made everything glow golden in the afternoon.

  *Mom always knew when I was hungry.*

  *She'd call me down before I even realized my stomach was empty.*

  "Emma! Dinner!"

  And I'd run downstairs, and the table would be full and—

  Her throat tightened.

  *Stop.*

  *Don't think about that.*

  *They're not here.*

  *None of them are here.*

  She thought of her brother. Probably at school right now. Or home. Playing games in his room. Eating snacks he wasn't supposed to have before dinner.

  *Is he worried about me?*

  *Does he know I'm gone?*

  *Does anyone know?*

  *Do they think I'm dead?*

  *Do they think I ran away?*

  *Are they looking for me?*

  *Are they—*

  "Young one."

  A voice. Behind her.

  Emma spun around.

  A woman stood at the edge of the training yard. White robes trimmed with gold. A headdress that framed her face like a halo. Hands folded in front of her, fingers laced together, posture perfect.

  A priestess.

  *Oh no.*

  *Did I do something wrong?*

  *Am I in trouble?*

  *I've been training all day — that's what they told us to do — but maybe I stayed too long — maybe I—*

  "The grounds are closing for evening prayer." The priestess smiled. Soft. Warm. The kind of smile that belonged on paintings of saints. "You should return to your quarters."

  *Evening?*

  Emma looked at the sky. The sun had fallen behind the cathedral towers. Shadows stretched long across the training yard. The other heroes had left — she hadn't noticed when.

  *I've been here all day.*

  *Alone.*

  *Burning.*

  "Yes, sister." The words came out quiet. Obedient.

  The priestess's eyes moved to Emma's hands.

  To the redness.

  To the blisters.

  To the blood.

  "You've been working hard."

  *Is that approval?*

  *Concern?*

  *I can't tell.*

  "The fire affinity is a gift." The priestess stepped closer. Her robes rustled against the stone. "But gifts require sacrifice. The flesh pays what the spirit cannot."

  *What does that mean?*

  *Is she saying this is normal?*

  *Is she saying it will always hurt?*

  "Rest tonight. Pray. Tomorrow, the light will give you strength."

  The priestess turned. Walked away. White robes disappearing into the shadows, gathering beneath the cathedral walls.

  Emma stood alone in the empty training yard.

  *The flesh pays what the spirit cannot.*

  She looked at her bleeding palm.

  *How much am I supposed to pay?*

  *How much until it stops hurting?*

  *How much until I'm strong enough?*

  Her stomach growled again.

  *I miss Mom's cooking.*

  *I miss Dad's bad jokes at dinner.*

  *I miss my brother stealing food from my plate when he thought I wasn't looking.*

  *I miss home.*

  Tears pricked at her eyes.

  *Stop.*

  *Heroes don't cry.*

  *Heroes don't miss home.*

  *Heroes save the world.*

  She wiped her face with her sleeve. Smeared blood across her cheek without realizing.

  And walked back toward the quarters — alone, hungry, bleeding, dreaming of a kitchen she might never see again.

  The next day came too quickly.

  Emma woke with her hands throbbing. The blisters had scabbed over during the night — ugly patches of dried skin that cracked when she moved her fingers. She wrapped them in cloth strips torn from her spare clothes. The priestesses had bandages, probably. Medicine. Healing magic.

  She didn't ask.

  *Heroes don't complain.*

  *Heroes endure.*

  The training grounds looked different in the morning light.

  Groups gathered near the main gate. Fives and sixes clustered together, checking their panels, adjusting their gear, laughing about something she couldn't hear. A priestess stood before each group with a scroll in her hands — mission assignments, Emma realized. Tasks for the chosen ones. Monsters to kill. Villages to save. Experience to earn.

  *They're leaving.*

  *They're actually going out into the world.*

  She watched a group of four pass through the gate. Swords and staves and armor that gleamed in the sun. Confidence in every step. Purpose in every movement.

  *They know what they're doing.*

  *They know who they are.*

  *They belong here.*

  More groups followed. Tens became twenties. The training yard emptied like water draining from a basin — slowly at first, then all at once.

  Emma stood among the wooden dummies.

  Alone.

  *Where's my group?*

  *Where's my mission?*

  *Why isn't anyone calling my name?*

  She looked at her wrapped hands. At the bloodstains already seeping through the cloth.

  *Because I don't have a team.*

  *Because no one wants someone who burns herself every time she casts a spell.*

  *Because I'm—*

  A group passed close to her. Three heroes — two swordsmen and an archer. They glanced at her standing among the dummies. One of them whispered something. The others laughed.

  *What did they say?*

  *Were they laughing at me?*

  *They were laughing at me.*

  She turned away. Faced the dummy she had burned yesterday. The scorch marks still covered its chest — proof that she had been here, that she had tried, that she had done something even if it cost her.

  *I'll just keep training.*

  *That's all I can do.*

  *Train until someone notices.*

  *Train until I'm good enough.*

  *Train until it stops hurting.*

  She raised her hand.

  The wrapped cloth pressed against her blisters. Pain shot up her wrist before she even summoned the fire.

  *It's fine.*

  *I'm fine.*

  Just one spell.

  *Just—*

  "Still here?"

  A voice. Behind her.

  She turned.

  Kyle stood at the edge of the training yard. Marcus loomed beside him. Both of them carrying packs — supplies for a journey, food, rope, and things adventurers needed.

  *They got a mission.*

  *Of course they did.*

  *They have a team.*

  *They have each other.*

  "We're heading out." Kyle jerked his thumb toward the gate. "Goblin nest about three days from here. Low-level stuff. Good for beginners."

  *Why are you telling me this?*

  *Why do you keep talking to me?*

  "You could come with us." Marcus's voice rumbled like distant thunder. Soft thunder. The kind that didn't scare. "We still need a damage dealer."

  *There it is.*

  *They need someone to throw fire.*

  *They don't want me.*

  *They want what I can do.*

  "I'm training."

  The same words. The same door closing.

  Kyle sighed. Ran a hand through his sandy hair.

  "Yeah. Okay." He turned toward the gate. "Come on, Marcus. Let's go kill some goblins."

  Marcus didn't move.

  He stood there — massive, solid, immovable. His eyes found Emma's. Held them.

  "We'll be back in a week." His voice came quiet. Gentle. "If you change your mind."

  *Why do you care?*

  *Why does it matter to you?*

  *I'm nobody.*

  *I'm just a girl who can't stop burning herself.*

  She didn't answer.

  Marcus nodded once. Turned. Followed Kyle toward the gate.

  Emma watched them go. Two figures shrinking against the morning light. Walking toward adventure. Walking toward purpose. Walking toward everything she wanted and couldn't reach.

  The training yard stood empty now.

  Just Emma.

  Just the dummies.

  Just the silence of everyone else's absence.

  *I'm fine.*

  *I don't need them.*

  *I don't need anyone.*

  She raised her hand.

  Fire gathered.

  And she was alone.

  The day stretched long and empty.

  Emma threw fire until her hands bled through the bandages. Changed the wrappings. Threw more fire. Changed them again. The dummy at the end of the row had started to crumble — wood turned to charcoal, held together by nothing but stubbornness.

  *Like me.*

  The sun climbed high. Fell toward the western towers. Shadows grew long across the training yard.

  No one came.

  No one called her name.

  No one noticed the girl burning herself one spell at a time.

  *I'm hungry.*

  *I'm tired.*

  *My hands hurt so much.*

  *But I can't stop.*

  *If I stop, I'll think.*

  *If I think, I'll cry.*

  *If I cry—*

  Footsteps behind her.

  Soft. Measured. The particular rhythm of robes brushing against stone.

  Emma turned.

  A priestess crossed the training yard toward her. White robes trimmed with silver — higher rank than the one from yesterday. Her face was smooth, ageless in the way holy women often seemed. A smile curved her lips like a painted moon.

  *Why is she coming to me?*

  *Did I do something wrong?*

  *Am I in trouble again?*

  The priestess stopped before her. Folded her hands. That smile never wavering.

  "Child."

  Her voice flowed like honey poured from a jar. Sweet. Thick. Almost too much.

  "Why are you still here?"

  *What?*

  "The other heroes have departed for their missions." The priestess gestured toward the empty yard. The silent dummies. The gate where groups had vanished hours ago. "They walk the path the light has chosen for them. They grow stronger with every step."

  *I know.*

  *I watched them go.*

  *Every single one.*

  "Yet you remain." The priestess tilted her head. A bird examining something small. "Standing alone among training dummies. Why?"

  Emma's throat tightened.

  *What am I supposed to say?*

  *That no one wants me?*

  *That I can't find a team?*

  *That I'm broken?*

  "I'm... training, sister."

  "Training." The priestess repeated the word like she was tasting it. Finding it sour. "The others train as well. But they train together. They form bonds. They build the teams that will carry them through the darkness ahead."

  *I know.*

  *I know I know I know.*

  "Why have you not done the same?"

  The question hung in the air. Simple. Direct. Impossible to dodge.

  Emma looked at her hands. At the bandages soaked through with red and yellow. At the proof of everything wrong with her.

  "My hands."

  The words came out small. A whisper meant for no one.

  "What about your hands, child?"

  "They... they hurt." Emma swallowed. "Every time I cast. The fire burns me. I don't know why. The others can throw spell after spell, but I—"

  She stopped.

  *Don't cry.*

  *Don't cry in front of her.*

  *Heroes don't cry.*

  "I'm scared, sister."

  The admission escaped before she could catch it. Flew out of her mouth and hung between them — naked, trembling, true.

  "I'm scared it will always hurt. I'm scared I'll never get stronger. I'm scared I—"

  *Stop.*

  *Stop talking.*

  *Why are you telling her this?*

  The priestess stood silent.

  That smile remained fixed on her face. But something behind her eyes had changed. Shifted. Cooled.

  "I see."

  Two words. Flat as stone.

  The priestess stepped closer. Leaned down. Her face inches from Emma's ear. That honey voice dropping to something else. Something cold. Something meant only for her.

  "The light chooses its champions for a reason."

  A whisper. Barely louder than breath.

  "Perhaps it made a mistake with you."

  Emma's heart stopped.

  "The weak have no place among heroes. The frightened belong back in whatever world spawned them. If you cannot burn without bleeding—"

  The priestess pulled back. That painted smile returning. That sweetness sliding back into place like a mask.

  "—then perhaps you were never meant to burn at all."

  She turned.

  Walked away.

  White robes disappearing across the empty training yard. Footsteps fading into the silence that had swallowed everything.

  Emma stood frozen.

  *The weak have no place among heroes.*

  The words echoed inside her skull.

  *Perhaps it made a mistake with you.*

  Bounced off the walls of her mind.

  *Perhaps you were never meant to burn at all.*

  Settled into her chest like stones dropped into deep water.

  *She's right.*

  *Isn't she?*

  *I can't do this.*

  *I can't be what they want.*

  *I'm scared and weak and broken and—*

  Her legs gave out.

  She sat in the dirt of the training yard. Among the dummies. Among the scorch marks. Among everything she had tried to build and failed.

  *I want to go home.*

  *I want my mom.*

  *I want my brother.*

  *I want someone to tell me it's going to be okay.*

  The sun touched the cathedral towers.

  Shadows swallowed the training yard.

  And Emma sat alone in the growing dark — the priestess's words carved into her heart like wounds that would never heal.

  The sun bled red across the sky.

  Emma sat against the cathedral wall. Knees pulled to her chest. Arms wrapped around them. Making herself small. Making herself invisible. Making herself into nothing at all.

  *Perhaps it made a mistake with you.*

  The words kept coming back. Over and over. A knife twisting in the same wound.

  *The weak have no place among heroes.*

  *Perhaps you were never meant to burn at all.*

  She looked at her hands. Unwrapped them slowly. The bandages peeled away from raw skin — blisters broken, flesh cracked, dried blood flaking onto her robes.

  *She's right.*

  *Look at me.*

  *I can't even throw fire without destroying myself.*

  *What kind of hero am I?*

  The tears came.

  She didn't try to stop them this time. No one was watching. No one was here. Everyone had gone — off to their missions, their teams, their futures.

  Everyone except her.

  *Mom would know what to say.*

  The thought arrived before she could push it away.

  *She'd make tea. The kind with honey that I always pretended to hate but secretly loved. She'd sit with me at the kitchen table and listen. Really listen. Not like the priestesses who only hear what they want to hear.*

  More tears. Hotter now.

  *Dad would make a joke. Something stupid. Something that shouldn't be funny but would make me laugh anyway because he'd say it with that face — the one where he's trying so hard to be serious and failing completely.*

  Her shoulders shook.

  *And my brother...*

  *He wouldn't say anything.*

  *He'd just sit next to me.*

  *Close enough that our shoulders touched.*

  *And that would be enough.*

  *That would be everything.*

  She pressed her face against her knees. Let the sobs come. Let them shake her whole body. Let them pour out all the things she'd been holding since she woke up in this world of white stone and empty promises.

  *I want to go home.*

  *Please.*

  *Please let me go home.*

  *I don't want to be a hero.*

  *I don't want to save the world.*

  *I just want to see them again.*

  *I just want to hear my mom's voice.*

  *I just want—*

  "Hey!"

  A voice. Cutting through the tears.

  *No.*

  *Not now.*

  *Please not now.*

  "The beautiful lady shouldn't cry under such a beautiful sunset!"

  *Go away.*

  *Please just go away.*

  *I can't do this right now.*

  *I can't pretend to be strong.*

  *I can't—*

  Footsteps approached. Two sets. One light and quick. One heavy and slow.

  She didn't look up. Kept her face pressed against her knees. Maybe if she ignored them, they would leave. Maybe if she stayed small enough, they wouldn't see her.

  "My lady!"

  Kyle's voice rang out like a trumpet. Loud. Bright. Ridiculous.

  "Fear not! For I — the great hero Kyle — have arrived to vanquish your tears!"

  *What is he doing?*

  She heard the scrape of steel. The sound of a sword being drawn.

  *Is he... is he serious right now?*

  "Behold!"

  She looked up.

  Couldn't help it.

  Kyle stood before her. Sword raised toward the setting sun. The light caught the blade and scattered red and gold across his face. His pose was absurd — legs spread wide, chest puffed out, chin tilted at an angle that had to hurt his neck.

  "I am Kyle! Champion of light! Defender of crying maidens! Slayer of bad moods!"

  *He looks ridiculous.*

  *He looks completely ridiculous.*

  "No sadness can withstand my blade! No tear can survive my charm! For I am—"

  "You're going to hurt yourself."

  Marcus's voice rumbled from behind Kyle. The big man stood with his arms crossed. His face was serious, but something flickered in his eyes. Something warm.

  "I'm making a speech!" Kyle didn't break his pose. "Great heroes make speeches! It's in the handbook!"

  "There's no handbook."

  "There should be! And if there was, it would say — great heroes make inspiring speeches while the sun sets dramatically behind them!"

  "The sun is in front of you."

  Kyle faltered. Looked over his shoulder. The sun was indeed setting in front of him — not behind him at all. His dramatic silhouette was nothing but shadows falling the wrong way.

  "That... the sun moved!"

  "The sun doesn't move for you, Kyle."

  "It should! I'm a hero!"

  Emma stared at them.

  *What is happening right now?*

  "Anyway!" Kyle sheathed his sword. Planted his hands on his hips. "My lady! We have come to rescue you from the evil clutches of—"

  He stopped.

  Looked at her face.

  At the tears still wet on her cheeks.

  At the redness around her eyes.

  At the proof that something had actually hurt her.

  "Wait." His voice changed. Dropped the performance. "You're actually crying."

  *Don't.*

  *Don't be kind.*

  *I can't handle kind right now.*

  "What happened?" Kyle crouched in front of her. That ridiculous hero persona falling away like a mask removed. Just a boy now. A worried boy. "Did someone hurt you? Who made you cry? Tell me and I'll—"

  "You made her cry."

  Marcus's voice came flat. Certain.

  Kyle spun around. "What?!"

  "Your speech." Marcus shook his head. "It was so bad it made her cry."

  "My speech was INSPIRING!"

  "It was embarrassing."

  "It was HEROIC!"

  "You didn't even know where the sun was."

  "THE SUN MOVED!"

  "Suns don't move."

  "This one did! This world has weird suns!"

  "The sun is the same everywhere, Kyle."

  Kyle grabbed his hair with both hands. "I'm going to kill you!"

  "You can try."

  "Don't think I won't!"

  "You tried yesterday. You tripped over your own sword."

  "That was a tactical retreat!"

  "You fell into a bush."

  "A TACTICAL BUSH!"

  Marcus moved toward Kyle. Kyle grabbed for his sword. Marcus raised his fists. Kyle struck a fighting pose that looked copied from a painting somewhere.

  "I'm the greatest swordsman in this world!"

  "You've been here three weeks."

  "THE GREATEST!"

  "You can't beat a training dummy."

  "THE DUMMY CHEATED!"

  Emma laughed.

  The sound surprised her.

  It burst from her chest — sudden and sharp and completely unexpected. A laugh that shook her shoulders. That pushed the tears aside. That filled the space where sadness had been sitting.

  Kyle and Marcus froze.

  Turned toward her.

  She sat against the cathedral wall — tears still drying on her cheeks, hands still raw and bleeding, heart still aching for home.

  But laughing.

  Actually laughing.

  "See?" Kyle pointed at Marcus. "She's laughing! My speech worked!"

  "She's laughing at you. Not with you."

  "Laughter is laughter!"

  "No, it isn't."

  "Ye,s it is!"

  Marcus looked at Emma. That serious face softening into something else. That warm flicker in his eyes growing brighter.

  "Are you okay?"

  Two words. Simple. Direct. Real.

  She wiped her face with her sleeve. Smeared tears, snot, and dirt across her cheek.

  "I don't know."

  The truth. Finally. The only thing she had left.

  Marcus nodded. Didn't push. Didn't ask more.

  Just turned back to Kyle.

  "See? She's not okay. And you made it worse with your speech."

  "I made her LAUGH!"

  "After you made her cry harder!"

  "I didn't—she was already—YOU'RE the one who—"

  They were arguing again.

  Circling each other like cats deciding whether to fight or flee.

  Ridiculous.

  Stupid.

  Wonderful.

  Emma pulled her knees tighter to her chest.

  Watched these two idiots argue about who had made her cry.

  And felt something crack inside her.

  Something that had been frozen since she arrived.

  Something that might — if she let it — become warm again.

  *Maybe...*

  *Maybe I don't have to be alone.*

  The sun sank below the cathedral towers.

  The sky turned from red to purple to the deep blue of approaching night.

  And Emma sat in the growing dark — still broken, still scared, still bleeding.

  But not alone.

  Not anymore.