Page 91 of Shadows Rising

This is what she looks like when she remembers she's a Valkyrie.

The camp transforms around her, shifting from travel formation to strike preparation in the space of heartbeats. Orders flow without being spoken. Equipment appears without being requested.

I should be helping. Should be coordinating our approach, planning contingencies, doing what I've done for centuries.

Instead, I find myself standing at the edge of it all, watching her move like the commander she was always meant to be.

She doesn't cry. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't let emotion cloud her judgment or compromise her effectiveness.

But I saw it. Just for a second. That break in her voice when she asked if I was sure. That look in her eyes when the possibility became certainty.

Whatever that hair means to them, it's carved something raw into her—like something that was never allowed to heal.

The thought sits in my chest like a physical weight as I finally move to join the preparations. As I fall into the familiar rhythm of pre-battle planning, checking weapons and reviewing approaches.

But my eyes keep drifting back to her. To the way she holds herself now—taller, sharper, more dangerous than the girl I carried into my sanctuary.

She's becoming exactly what she needs to be.

And I wonder—if she ever forgives me—will I believe I deserve it?

Dawn can't come soon enough.

Chapter 45

Torric

We haven't stopped in six hours.

Kaia sets the pace from Enif's back, her winged mount cutting through Absentia's corrupted air like a blade through smoke. The rest of us follow on horseback, pushing our mounts harder than we should, but none of us dare suggest slowing down.

Not when she looks like that.

Her spine is rigid, shoulders set with the kind of determination that doesn't bend until it breaks. She hasn't eaten since Kieran's report, hasn't spoken except to bark course corrections or wave off offers of food. Even her shadows know she's running on empty—Bob drifts beside her with less of his usual military precision, Patricia's frantic note-taking has slowed to occasional, weary scribbles.

But Kaia doesn't see it. Doesn't want to see it.

When Enif finally touches down for the horses to water at a stream, Aspen approaches carefully.

"She's innocent," Kaia says before he can suggest we rest longer. Her voice cuts like conviction, but there's a tremble in it only someone whoreally knows her would hear. "She doesn't deserve this. If she followed me into this realm because of something I did, something I said..."

She doesn't finish the thought. Doesn't need to. We all hear what she's not saying, that if Seren's capture is her fault, then saving her becomes the only thing that matters. Everything else—rest, food, tactical planning—is just delay.

Aspen falls back without arguing, but I catch the look he shares with Malrik. The same concern that's been eating at me all day, growing heavier with each mile we cover.

No one doubts Kaia's certainty that the purple hair belongs to Seren. But believing it's her and believing we can save her are two different things entirely.

When Callum suggests we slow our pace to account for terrain risks, Kaia's response is sharp enough to draw blood.

"We maintain speed," she snaps, not even turning to look at him. "Every hour we delay gives them more distance."

"But if the horses—"

"The horses are fine." Her shadows flicker with irritation. "We keep moving."

Callum falls silent, but I catch him muttering something about "chasing ghosts" under his breath. The words make my jaw clench, not because he's wrong, but because he might be right.

As the sun begins its descent toward the twisted peaks ahead, Kaia finally calls for camp. Not because she wants to stop, but because even she can't deny that pushing through Absentia's darkness is suicide.

---