<b>Chapter 138 </b>
<b>“</b>Nathaniel‘
It was just past dusk when I found Ethan waiting for me near the outer ridge, arms crossed, his silhouette framed by thest strip of golden light bleeding through the trees. The shadows clung to him like armor, like he needed something more than skin to keep himself steady,
He didn’t speak at first. Neither did I.
We had always been like this–saying the most in the silences.
But this silence was different. He wasn’t here to offer quietfort. He was here for something else. I could feel it in the way he didn’t quite meet <b>my </b>eyes. In the way he flexed his jaw, like the words were already there, just waiting for a ce sharp enough tond.
“You shouldn’t have let her go to them,” he said finally.
His voice was low. Controlled. But I knew Ethan well enough to hear the fury woven beneath the surface. Not wild. Not reckless. Focused. Lethal
I took a breath, slow and steady. “She didn’t ask for permission.”
“She didn’t have to.”
He stepped closer, the distance between us dissolving like smoke. “You’re supposed to be the one who keeps her grounded. You’re supposed to know when she’s not ready.”
“And you’re supposed to trust me,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “We used to be able to do that, remember?”
His eyes shed. “That was before she nearly burned herself apart. Before you let her spiral.”
“I didn’t let anything happen to her.”
“You didn’t stop it either.”
We stood there, toe to toe, old wounds surfacing like splinters breaking through skin. There were no raised voices, no shouted me–but <b>it </b>felt heavier this way. Like every word had been forged from guilt and worn thin from being left unspoken too long.
“You think I haven’t med myself?” I asked.
He said nothing.
“I haven’t slept,” I continued, voice rougher now. “Not really. Not since the night she disappeared. And when I finally found her again, she wasn’t just Jiselle anymore. She was fire. Memory. Grief. A living prophecy. And I still wanted her.”
Ethan’s jaw twitched.
“I want her,” I said. “Not because she’s powerful. Not because she’s me. But because she’s herself. The girl who throws punches too early. The one <b>who </b>won’t let go of people even when she should. The one who’d burn down the world for you.”
He looked away at that. Just for a second.
“I know you love her,” I said.
“She’s my sister,” he replied. “Of course I love her.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He didn’t respond, but his silence gave me the answer anyway.
<b>1/3 </b>
Chapter <b>138 </b>
<b>We’d </b><b>both </b>loved her for different reasons. And she had nearly broken under the weight <b>of </b>both.
<b>“</b><b>I’ve </b>made mistakes<b>,</b><b>” </b>I said, softer now. “We both have. But if you still think I’m just here for the me, then maybe we were never <b>brothers </b>at all.
<b>That </b>cut.
<b>I </b>saw itnd. Saw the memory rise behind his eyes–of days in the Academy where we bled side by side, where we made silent pacts <b>in </b><b>training </b>grounds and back alleys. Where we stood over each other’s bodies in mock trials and promised we’d never be the kind of men who took <b>power </b>before trust
Ethan let out a slow breath, the kind that sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for weeks. Maybe longer.
“I <b>don’t </b>think that,” he said atst, voice low, like he wasn’t sure if he should say it or if he’d regret it once it was out.
The tension didn’t vanish. The fire between us didn’t die. But it changed color–anger melting into something older, something heavier<b>. </b><b>Grief</b><b>. </b><b>Worry</b>,
Exhaustion.
“I’ve just…” He dragged a hand through his hair, the gesture rough<b>, </b>as if it might shake the thoughts loose. “I’ve watched her lose too much<b>, </b>Nate. <b>Our </b>parents. Eden. Pieces of herself. Pieces I couldn’t protect.” His voice tightened. “And I was afraid she’d lose you too. Or worse… that you’d lose <b>her </b>and still hold on like it hadn’t already happened.”
My throat clenched.
“I haven’t lost her,” I said, each word slow, measured, like they were a vow I needed to re–swear just by speaking them aloud. “<b>Not </b><b>yet</b>.”
Ethan’s eyes met mine. Something behind them flickered–eptance, maybe. Or hope dressed up as skepticism.
He nodded once, like it hurt to do it. “Then don’t<b>.</b><b>” </b>
We stood in silence again.
But this time it didn’t feel like war.
It felt like memory. Like two boys who used to make blood oaths in training yards, who shared stolen bottles and inside jokes and bruises that healed
faster than trust.
I stepped forward, the space between us narrowing, then extended my arm–slow, deliberate, the way we used to when a fight ended, when nothing more needed to be said but everything still hung in the air.
He stared at it for a beat too long.
Long enough to let pride make its case.
Then he reached out.
Qur forearms locked–tight, steady. The grip of warriors. <i>Of </i>brothers. Of men who had fought over the same girl, and finally realized <b>they </b>were <b><i>on </i></b><b>the </b>same side.
“I never stopped seeing you as my brother,” I said, voice barely above a whisper<i>. </i>
Ethan’s grip tightened. “Then let’s start acting like it.”
We let go at the same time.
Not with dramatic finality, but with something quieter. Something that settled between us <b>like </b><b>a </b>bandage pulled tight.
Not healed.
But held.
13:04 Tue, 27 May MW.
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Before either of us could say another word, the forest rustled behind us. Bastain stepped into the clearing, his face pale, grim, and serious in a way that never meant good news.
“You’ll want toe,” he said, his gaze locked on me.
“What is it?”
“Kael’s demanding to speak,” Bastain said. “And he’s asking for Jiselle by name.”