Ss’ POV


    Her voice cuts into me before I can find the words.


    s


    Freya stands there, her golden eyes-Stormveil-born, blood of the Thornes-fixed not on the documents strewn across the floor, but on me. My face, my faltering breath, the blood draining from my skin.


    “What’s wrong with you?” she asks, stepping closer, concern outweighing suspicion. “You look pale. Are you unwell?”


    The irony sears me. The evidence of my betrayal lies at her feet, yet she doesn’t look at it. She looks at me. Worrying for me.


    My lips tremble as I try to answer. The words I want to speak w at my throat, but none escape.


    She raises her hand, her palm brushing my forehead as though I am the one in need of care. “No fever,” she murmurs, half to herself. “Maybe you’ve been pushing yourself too hard. You don’t rest enough.”


    “Perhaps,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “Perhaps I’m just… tired.”


    Her gaze drops, and then the ground betrays me.


    “See? You’ve dropped everything,” she says lightly, bending without hesitation to gather the scattered pages.


    Panic surges through me. “No-leave it. I’ll handle it.” My voice is too sharp, too urgent, but it’s already toote.


    She has already picked up the top photograph. I hear her soft intake of breath, that small startled sound that cleaves me in two.


    “This picture…”


    My heart stops. Every vein in my body feels like ice, as though my blood has frozen mid-pulse. My fingers twitch, desperate to snatch the photo back. I imagine spinning a lie, weaving some clever excuse-but she despises lies. She told me so once, her voice unyielding, her eyes burning with truth. I had sworn never to deceive her.


    And yet… if she knows, if she truly knows what I’ve kept from her, there will be no going back.


    Her gaze sharpens, and then she says it-words I dreaded, words that twist the knife. “Why do you have pictures of my brother?”


    Eric Thorne. The ghost that haunts me every night.


    I choke on silence. My tongue lies heavy, useless in my mouth.


    Her hands flip through the rest of the photos, and there he is again and again-Eric’s face in different years, different shadows. His scarred shoulder, his sharp jaw, his eyes that resemble hers. Among the files are reports, dossiers, proof I have tracked him far longer than I have admitted.


    1:16 pm P pp.


    s


    “Is it… is this because you’ve been helping me search for him?” she asks suddenly, her voice softening. Her eyes glimmer as she clutches the papers tighter. “Ss… thank you.”


    Her gratitude strikes me harder than any de. If only she knew the truth. Yes, I searched for him. Yes, I gathered everything. But it was not merely to help her. My motives were darker, heavier, soaked in blood.


    “Could you… make me a copy of these?” she asks, almost timidly, as if afraid of overstepping. “Some of these photos-I’ve never even seen before.”


    “Of course,” I force out. My voice sounds strange in my own ears.


    She lifts one photo closer to her face. Eric’s bare shoulder is visible, the scar across his flesh a cruel brand of memory. “I wonder when I’ll see him again,” she whispers. “I miss him so much. Do you know… this scar, here on his shoulder-it’s because of me. He was protecting me.”


    My stomach knots. My fingers curl into fists so tight my knuckles whiten.


    Her voice softens into memory, into sorrow. “We were abroad with our parents when the attack came. Explosions everywhere. mes and smoke. Eric shielded me with his body, pinned me against him so the shrapnel wouldn’t tear me apart. He nearly died that day. If not for him, I wouldn’t be standing here.”


    Her eyes glisten, the scent of salt and grief touching the air.


    “You love him deeply,” I murmur, though the words taste like ash on my tongue.


    “Of course I do,” she answers without hesitation. “He’s my brother. I will find him, no matter how many years it takes. I will never stop searching until I do.”


    The conviction in her tone slices me open. For a long moment, I can only stare at her, the weight of my silence pressing me down.


    “What if…” The words slip out before I can stop them. “What if someone had wronged your brother? Would you forgive them?”


    Her head tilts, her brows furrowing at the strangeness of my question. “That wouldn’t be my choice, Ss. Forgiveness-if it came-would belong to Eric alone.”


    “But you?” I press, my voice hoarse, ragged with fear. “Would you forgive?”


    She frowns, studying me as if sensing the storm beneath my skin. “Depends on what they did. If it put his life at risk… if it endangered him… then no. Never. That’s something I couldn’t forgive.”


    Her words hit like a death sentence. My throat closes around the confession I will never speak.


    I lower my eyes as she sets the photos down, her face still clouded with worry. “You really don’t look well. You should rest.”


    “Yes,” I mutter, though my voice barely carries.


    And then her hand slides into mine. Her fingersce with mine, warm, alive.


    “Your hand is freezing!” she exims softly, sping both her hands around mine. “How can it be so cold? It’s autumn, not winter, and the room’s warm enough.”


    1:16 pm


    I can’t meet her eyes.


    “Are you cold?” she asks again.


    “A little,” I whisper.


    s


    She bends her head, rubbing my hands with her palms, breathing warm air over my skin. “Here. I’ll warm them for you.”


    The sensation shatters me. My body stiffens, but slowly, under her touch, warmth seeps back into my hands. Into my veins. Into the parts of me I thought had gone numb forever.


    And yet, beneath the heat, I tremble. Because I know this warmth is a lie. One day, when she learns the truth, her hands will never hold mine again.


    1:16 pm PP