Morning arrived before I was ready for it.
My body felt heavy, but my thoughts were worse—still tangled in last night, in Eimeh's questions, in the fear that everything was changing before I even understood what was happening.
Mom called from the kitchen, telling me to remind Mozad, Jinnia, and Moria about dinner this Sevenday.
I pretended to answer. I just needed air—space where no one expected anything from me.
I slipped outside and shut the door quietly behind me.
The morning air tasted like dew and dust—ordinary, familiar—but something inside me wasn't familiar anymore. Something was shifting.
My steps slowed near the fence.
That's when I saw him.
Cabe.
By the wheat fields behind his family's barn, next to Mr. Waber.
Cabe wasn't speaking. He just stood there—still, silent, unreadable. The same place he always lingered before training… yet he wasn't the same boy.
His shoulders were rigid. His jaw tight. His eyes darker—like someone had laced them with shadows.
I should've kept walking.
But my breath caught, and I hesitated.
As if he sensed it, Cabe turned.
Our eyes collided.
Not gently. Not by chance.
It felt like he wasn't just looking at me—he was seeing me. Seeing something I didn't even understand in myself.
Heat rushed up my neck. My pulse jumped. I looked away so quickly it almost hurt.
I didn't greet him. I didn't think.
I ran—across the field and away from whatever that look had awakened.
I wasn't afraid of Cabe.
I was afraid of the part of me that reacted to him.
And I hated that I couldn't explain it.
"Sibefer! Wait!"
Only two people in Mythandri said my name like that—one with kindness, and one like she owned it.
This was the second.
Rasaz approached, Ayri beside her, both moving quickly. Ayri's braid swung like a banner; Rasaz's steps were sharp, impatient.
"Why didn't you wait for us?" Rasaz demanded without greeting.
Ayri nudged her. "Ignore her. She woke up dramatic."
I forced a smile. "My mind's… elsewhere."
"Well, drag it back," Rasaz snapped. "We won't have mornings like this forever."
Her tone wasn't angry—it was tense. Like she was racing toward something unseen.
Ayri tilted her head at me. "You look different today."
Her eyes scanned me like she was reading a hidden message.
"Your hair, your face… you look like someone who already made a choice."
My stomach tightened.
"I haven't," I said. "I think I know, and then I don't."
Rasaz laughed—too loud for the quiet road.
"So it's true," she said. "You want Varien's place. Teaching. Books. Two paths, same ending. Impressive. Predictable."
"I never said—"
"You didn't have to." She stepped closer, invading my space. "When you want something, your whole body leans toward it."
Something flickered in her tone. Admiration—mixed with something sharper. Something that wanted.
Ayri leaned in. "So the library, then? Rebuilding the archives?"
Air caught in my throat.
I hadn't even said that out loud—not fully—not even to myself.
Dad mentioned yesterday that the capital is reopening parts of the old library.
I didn't think much of it—until Rasaz did.
"Is that your big plan?" Rasaz pressed. "Books instead of… whatever else you used to dream?"
"I don't know what my plan is," I snapped. "I'm trying to be realistic."
Rasaz's smile tilted, thin and sharp.
"Well," she murmured, "decide soon. Opportunities vanish."
She didn't explain. She didn't need to.
For the first time, I realized:
Rasaz wasn't listening to my dreams.
She was measuring them.
Ayri sensed the tension and stepped between us. "Whatever happens, you'll make the right choice. You always do. Come on. Varien's waiting."
I wished I believed her.
But my dreams felt like birds without wings—loud, frantic, trapped.
"What about you?" I asked quickly. "Neither of you has said what you want."
Ayri shrugged. "Training with Seniakad's child tutors. Maybe. If I don't fall apart first."
She laughed, but it was hollow.
Rasaz didn't laugh. She looked somewhere past me.
"I don't need to decide yet," she said. "Some paths open when others hesitate."
Her eyes flicked to me for half a heartbeat.
And I understood:
She wasn't choosing her own dream.
Rasaz walked off without looking back—like she'd already made a decision she wouldn't share.
My chest tightened again, heavier this time.
I didn't know why it bothered me so much.
But someday, I would.
Much sooner than I liked.
The fenced garden of the fellowship appeared ahead—petunias blooming in colors too bright for a land still healing. Two girls stood at the gate, their backs turned.
I didn't need their faces to know who they were.
Mozad—dark curls falling perfectly down her back, pale skin untouched by work, dramatic eyes framed by brows drawn like declarations. She smiled the way performers breathe: constantly, deliberately.
Everything Mozad did felt like she expected applause.
Beside her stood Moria—shorter, quieter, skin warm like sun-baked clay, hair long and thin like ink trailing down her back. Her expression barely moved; her lips twitched more than they smiled.
They whispered like conspirators protecting secrets that weren't even interesting.
I inhaled deeply and spoke before they turned.
"Sevenday night," I said. "Dinner at our house. Tell your families. Mom doesn't want surprises."
Mozad spun toward me, hand over heart, smile dramatic as always.
"Oh, I swear I can smell Aunt Zinaro's cooking already! Honestly, Sibefer, that woman could feed the entire royal guard."
It was praise.
Wrapped in poison.
"Just make sure you come," I replied, voice flat. "Both of you. And tell Jinnia."
Moria nodded once—quick, unreadable. A silent punctuation mark.
I turned toward Varien's office, relieved to walk away.
A tiny sense of victory settled inside me. I'd survived Mozad's theatrics without losing my temper. That counted for something.
But somewhere behind my ribs, another presence lingered—
Cabe's eyes.
Watching.
Waiting.
Like he knew which path I would choose
before I even stepped onto it.
Only now, his shadow wasn't still.
It was moving.
Following.
Pressing against my thoughts like a second heartbeat.
I didn't know what any of it meant.
Not Cabe.
Not Rasaz.
Not the feeling that the ground beneath Mythandri was shifting.
Somewhere beyond the fields, I felt Cabe's gaze again—
not like a memory, but like a presence walking beside me.
But this morning, for the first time,
the road didn't feel shared anymore.
It felt claimed.
By choices I hadn't made yet.
And by people I didn't fully understand.
Not yet.
But soon.
Very soon.
If goodbyes had a sound, that morning it was the creak of Varien's old door.
We all gathered in the cottage one last time.
Varien stood by the window, the late light sliding across her cheekbones. For once, even Rolas was quiet. No one joked.
She closed the book in her hands with a soft thud.
"From here on," she said, "no one stands in front of you to say 'this is right, this is wrong.
Your paths won't run side by side forever. They're going to split. Bend. Vanish. Reappear. That's not something to fear. It's something to carry."
No long speech. No tears. Just that.
Rolas was the first to move. He lifted his hand, grin finally breaking through the tension.
"Then tonight we celebrate," he declared. "Firal's tavern. All of us. For Varien, for the end of the fellowship… and for whatever comes next."
Cabe slipped out with Nybi and Rolas before I could find my voice.
He didn't look back.
But somehow, I still felt him leaving.
Firal's tavern sat on the slope above the road like it was waiting for us.
Light spilled out of its windows, golden and loud. Laughter, clinking mugs, a fiddle that hadn't been tuned properly in years—everything mixed into one restless noise.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the smell of roasted meat and cheap ale. Long tables were crowded; boots thudded against the floor in an uneven rhythm.
We squeezed in near the back—me, Eimeh, Ayri, Rasaz—on a bench that still rocked from whoever had sat there last.
"Over here!" Rolas waved from the next table. Nybi sat beside him, and on the far side—half in shadow—Cabe. Arms folded. Back straight. Eyes somewhere far beyond the wall.
"Hey," Eimeh said softly, raising her mug toward them. "For the future."
Rolas snorted. "For the future and the fact that we still have one."
He tilted his cup toward Varien, who'd taken a seat near the fire. "And for the woman who dragged us this far."
We all drank.
The liquid burned down my throat, but it didn't warm the tight place in my chest.
Conversations tangled in every direction. Mozad's laugh flashed across the room, loud and sharp. Moria sat beside her, quiet, watching more than speaking. Jinnia leaned in now and then, eyes always moving, like she was storing every word away.
I answered Eimeh's questions, smiled when Ayri tried to tease me, pretended Rasaz's smirks didn't bother me.
But my attention kept slipping—past them, past the flickering candles—back to the shadowed side of the table.
To Cabe.
He hadn't loosened his cloak, even in the heat—kept it wrapped around him like armor. The callus on his knuckle caught the light when he turned his mug—small, rough, the mark of too many arrows drawn and released.
"Cabe."
The name came from Eimeh, not me. Her cheeks were flushed; the drink had softened her voice.
"It's been so long," she said, leaning in a little. "Even when you're in town, it's like you're not here. Did you decide anything? About what you'll do next?"
The table quieted, word by word, until only his answer had space to exist.
Cabe lifted his mug, emptied what was left in one swallow, and set it down with more care than it deserved.
His gaze didn't rise all the way to meet ours. It landed somewhere between the wood and his own hands.
"I'm waiting for the next war," he said simply. "Have been for a while."
Eimeh's fingers tightened around her mug.
He went on, calm, like he was reciting something inevitable.
"For me, for Rolas, for Nybi… there isn't much to decide. The army always has room."
Ayri's brow furrowed. "So we're going back?" she asked quietly. "Again? Is there news?"
Cabe finally looked up—at her, then at all of us in one sweep.
"News or no news," he said, "peace like this doesn't last here. You know that."
Rolas exhaled, a sharp breath through his nose. "He's right," he muttered. "We've just been in between storms."
Nybi gave a humorless smile. "At least we got to breathe for a bit."
Rolas leaned closer to me. "And you?" he asked. "Still planning to follow in Varien's footsteps? Helping people, going from house to house? Teaching the kids no one else remembers?"
I tried to smile. It didn't quite fit.
"If I knew it would matter," I said, "yes. I'd do it tomorrow. But staying here, hands tied while everything falls apart…"
I shook my head. "Sometimes it feels like doing nothing at all."
Nybi reached out and took my hand briefly, squeezing.
"Don't say that," he said. "When we're out there, freezing and scared, it helps knowing someone like you is still here—planting things, fixing things, remembering us. That's not 'nothing.'"
His words should have comforted me.
They hurt instead.
Because they felt like a promise I wasn't sure I could keep.
From the next chair, Rasaz slid a little closer, eyes bright with something that wasn't entirely kindness.
"So," she said, loud enough for half the table to hear. "Has everyone heard? Sibefer has grand plans. Libraries. Saving the world one dusty book at a time."
Rolas grinned. "I think it's perfect," he said. "I can already see it—kids hanging on to every word."
Heat flared in my face, half from embarrassment, half from something like anger.
"This isn't 'grand,'" I protested. "I'm just… tired. Tired of watching everything break and pretending it's fine. If I can fix even a small corner—through in a library, or helping rebuild… then maybe I'll feel like I'm doing more than just breathing."
My voice dropped without my permission.
"If I let myself dream, really dream… I see myself beyond the border. In the cities near the wall."
Silence settled over our table—not heavy, not hostile. Just… listening.
Until Rasaz broke it, her mouth twisting slightly.
"It's a nice picture," she said. "But people are leaving, not sending their children to sit in neat rows and read. If another war comes, Sibefer… who's going to care about lessons and libraries? You might end up alone in an empty room, talking to shelves."
Her words were like a splash of cold water.
Not because they were cruel.
Because a part of me feared she was right.
I met her gaze.
"This isn't about what other people believe in," I said quietly. "It's about what refuses to die in me. Even if it sounds foolish. Even if it means I stand in an empty room."
I swallowed, feeling my own truth settle like a stone.
"If I'm going to be afraid anyway, I'd rather be afraid while doing something that feels alive."
For a moment, no one said anything.
Then a voice I knew too well cut through the noise.
"Good."
Cabe.
I hadn't even noticed him move, but now he sat a little closer, elbows on the table, eyes on me.
They were still dark, still guarded—but there was something warmer beneath the shadow.
"That's all we wanted," he said. "For you to believe yourself more than you doubt this place."
We.
Not I.
My heart stuttered, tripped, caught itself.
I didn't trust my voice, so I just nodded.
The night blurred after that—more toasts, more laughter that didn't always reach the eyes, Varien leaving quietly while no one was looking.
But that one word stayed.
Good.
By the time I reached home, the sky was ink-black.
For a long time, sleep didn't come.
Behind my eyes, the tavern replayed itself in pieces:
Rolas's bravado.
Eimeh's worried stare.
Rasaz's tilted smile.
Nybi's warm grip.
And, again and again—
the way Cabe had said we.
We wanted that.
We wanted you to believe.
I pressed the heel of my hand against my chest, as if I could steady whatever was beating too fast in there.
War.
Choices.
Dreams that might never survive the next season.
I hadn't chosen a road yet.
But somehow, tonight, it felt like the road had started choosing me.
My thoughts finally began to blur around the edges.
The darkness in my room grew softer, like it had stepped back from the bed a little.
Just before sleep pulled me under, I could've sworn I heard a voice in the quiet—low, familiar, threaded through with shadow and something gentler than I'd ever heard in it before.
Not loud.
Not clear.
More like a whisper caught between memory and dream:
Whatever path you take…
My heart answered before my mind did, beating too hard, too fast.
When I woke the next morning, I couldn't remember the rest of the sentence.
Only the feeling it left behind—like something had already been set in motion.
I hadn't chosen a road yet.
But somewhere in the dark, someone had already chosen it for me.
And the worst part wasn't that I had no say in it—
but that a part of me didn't want to resist anymore.
I thought I was choosing a path.
But somewhere in his quiet, unreadable gaze,
I realized the path wasn't mine anymore.
It belonged to him.
And the most frightening truth?
A part of me was relieved.
My wrist throbbed again, faint and inexplicable, as though something beneath my skin was stirring… waiting.
It wasn't fear.
It wasn't desire.
It was a call.
And I didn't know whether that call was leading me toward Cabe—
or away from myself.