The twenty-three hours stretched ahead like a desert.
The fan pushed the dry, stale air over the remnants of our argument—the cold acceptance of my new authority and the crushing reality of the debts we shared. Ryan slept, or feigned sleep, conserving the life the silver was determined to leach out of him. I sat by the window, but the glass was too dirty, the view too exposed. I closed my eyes and listened.
Silence was the loudest sound. It was Valen's sound—the sound of a predator moving carefully, confident in the trap.
I kept the dagger sheathed but close, resting against the raw skin of my waist. Every hour, I moved. I checked the perimeter—not the physical perimeter of the shack, but the sensory one. I pushed my awareness out, tasting the wind for the faintest trace of foreign oil, cheap cologne, or the specific, stale scent of the royal guards' uniforms.
The morning bled into the room without ceremony. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light that cut through the window. It hit Ryan's cot, illuminating the fever sheen on his skin, making the silver tracks on his chest glint like threads of frozen mercury.
He woke silently. His gaze found mine across the room. No words passed between us. I read his question: How long? I answered with my expression: Too long.
He struggled to sit up. I crossed the room and pressed him back down. The black vein on my temple throbbed with the exertion.
My hand settled on his uninjured shoulder. I didn't ask how he felt. I knew the silver was winning inches every hour. Instead, I told him what I heard.
"They're not using vehicles yet. They're too close. They're on foot, scouting."
He nodded, a sharp, minimal movement that cost him pain. He reached up, his fingers brushing the fabric of my shirt near the silver scar I carried from the Citadel. I knew he was tracing the space where the Tear of Lunas should have rested on his own family line—a symbol he sacrificed to buy me time. The exchange had been brutal: my debt for his family's lost history.
He didn't speak of it. He spoke of the defense.
"The south side. That shed," he rasped, his voice raw. "If they circle, they'll use it for cover before the final push."
I left him. I moved to the south side of the shack, assessing the terrain. A rusted toolshed stood twenty feet away, the perfect blind spot. I couldn't risk a direct fight. I needed silence and speed.
I rummaged through the small pack we'd carried, finding the last of the wolfsbane pellets and two small pieces of silver wire I'd salvaged from the prison. My fingers worked with cold efficiency, lacing the silver into thin threads, mixing the wolfsbane dust into thick grease.
I smeared the concoction onto the ground near the shed's doorway, camouflaging it with dirt and dry leaves. The smell of the wolfsbane was sharp and medicinal. It wouldn't kill, but it would slow them down, confusing their senses and fouling their scent trails. It was a desperate, cheap trick, but desperation was our only asset.
Hours crawled toward noon. The sun became a weight pressing down on the hideout, sucking the oxygen out of the air. The silence became oppressive, a drumbeat leading to inevitable violence.
Then, the air changed.
It wasn't a sound. It was a scent. Old leather, cheap tobacco, and the distinct, aggressive musk of Alpha guards. They were close.
I froze against the wall. Every muscle locked. Ryan's breathing, shallow and fast, was the only thing I allowed myself to hear.
They weren't using the road. They were coming through the thicket.
I pulled the dagger, pressing my body into the corner where the shadows were darkest. I could hear the faint crunch of boots on gravel, then silence, then a low, guttural murmur—too quiet to distinguish words, loud enough to confirm they were hunting.
My heart didn't race. It hammered with cold precision, focused entirely on the distance between their boots and my spine. I pushed my sensory awareness to its limit, visualizing their path. They were flanking the north side, sweeping toward the shed.
I silently thanked the silver and wolfsbane I'd laid out. If they walked through that, they'd pause, confuse their dogs, and perhaps move on, thinking the scent was old.
The boots stopped. Right outside the south wall.
I tasted metal and blood in my mouth. My fingers tightened on the dagger hilt. Ryan's tension was a physical force, radiating off him in silent waves, but he remained still, trusting my silence, trusting my command.
A low voice, muffled by the wall, snapped a command. They were inspecting the shed. I heard a grunt of confusion, then silence. The pause lasted an eternity, measured only by the slowing of my own pulse.
Then, the scent of the patrol faded. They moved on, sweeping wider, their path carrying them toward the distant highway.
The threat receded, leaving behind only the cold residue of fear and the smell of their aggression clinging to the air.
I stayed locked in place until the last lingering scent of their musk had vanished entirely. Only then did I let out the breath I hadn't known I was holding.
Dusk arrived, bringing relief and deepening shadows. The light through the window turned orange, then purple. The threat was still out there, but the immediate crisis had passed.
I returned to Ryan. He didn't ask what happened. He simply reached for me.
I sat beside him on the cot. I pulled the small, damp cloth from his chest and pressed my palm directly over the blackened scar, sharing my warmth. He sighed, a sound of absolute exhaustion.
"The Tear," I whispered, the word tasting like regret. "Tell me what it looked like when you gave it away."
He shifted, turning his head to look at me. His eyes were softer now, the fever receding slightly with the coming cool.
"It wasn't a tear," he murmured, his voice husky. "It was the first diamond shed by the first Luna when she saw the Eclipse. It was pure white. When I gave it to the Broker, it turned black."
I stroked his hair away from his forehead. "You saved us. You saved me. That stone was just history. We are the future."
"We are chained to the future," he countered, bitterness coloring his tone. "Both of us. You wear the debt on your face."
I let the conversation die. It was better to prepare.
I pulled the final defenses from my pack. Not weapons, but protection. I took the small silver wire I had left and carefully wove it into the seams of the sleeves I was wearing. I mixed the last wolfsbane dust into the lining of the neck of my shirt.
If Silas's men or Valen's hunters touched me, they would find poison and pain. It was a shield, but also a test: anyone who came close would pay. I was the weapon now, armed even in surrender.
The hours drained away into the darkness.
Ryan watched me work, his gaze steady, approving. He knew this was the only way.
We huddled together on the cot, two survivors waiting for the collector. The hideout felt smaller, colder, but we were together. His arms were weak, but they were mine.
The night outside was deep and still.
We didn't need a clock. We felt the change in the atmosphere—a vibration, a distant roar that wasn't thunder.
Ryan's eyes snapped open, bright with adrenaline despite the silver.
"It's here," he whispered.
The sound grew, a low, metallic promise in the black sky. It wasn't salvation. It was just the cost of my debt coming to collect.
I kissed him once, fiercely, briefly. I stood up, my body aching, my heart cold and ready.
Midnight Tomorrow.
The time had finally arrived.
I was ready to face my master.