The morning came pale and cold, long before the sun had warmed the sand.
Levi hadn't slept. Not really.
He'd dozed once or twice under a spare tarp Kaan had rigged above one of the empty scout stations, but his body stayed half-curled and tense, ears pricked to every footstep, every rustle. The argument with his mother still rang in his bones like the echo of a struck bell.
He sat now at the edge of the camp's rise, watching the sun stain the dunes orange. His eyes were bloodshot. His hands stiff.
He didn't move when the sound of boots crunched behind him.
It was Rafiq.
The older man approached slowly, not trying to startle, not pretending it was casual. He wore the same worn, sand-brushed tunic he always did. His expression unreadable, as usual. But not angry.
Just tired.
"You didn't come home," Rafiq said.
Levi didn't respond.
"You know she didn't sleep either?"
Still nothing.
Rafiq crouched beside him—not close, but near enough. He rested his arms on his knees and stared at the horizon.
"She's not made of iron, Levi," he said quietly. "She's angry because she's afraid. Not of you. Of what comes next. Of how much she still has to hold."
Levi's jaw clenched. "I didn't mean to leave. I just… couldn't go back in there."
Rafiq nodded like he understood. Like he'd done the same once, long ago.
"Your mother," he said, "has known nothing but war and loss. And now she's growing life again, with nothing but scars in her hands to protect it."
Levi turned his head slightly.
"She doesn't need another war in the tent," Rafiq continued. "She needs a son who can be strong beside her. Not for her. With her."
Silence.
Rafiq didn't reach out. Didn't push further. Just stood slowly, brushing dust from his knees.
"You're a man now, Levi. Doesn't mean you have to stop hurting. Just means you have to decide who you'll be once the hurt settles."
He paused, then added, "She's still waiting."
And then he walked away.
⸻
When Levi finally returned to the tent later that morning, the air inside was thick with silence.
His mother was seated on the cot, arms folded, a half-eaten bowl of grains beside her. Her eyes were puffy. Her hair unbraided.
She didn't look at him when he stepped in.
But she didn't tell him to leave, either.
And maybe—for now—that was enough.
The tension in the tent didn't break by morning.
It hardened.
The air felt thicker than usual, like even the fabric of the canvas had absorbed last night's words and refused to let them go. Levi sat on a small mat near the wall, knees drawn up, hands resting loosely between them.
He hadn't said anything since returning.
Neither had she.
His mother had moved through the morning slowly—brushing out her hair, rubbing balm over the stretch of her belly, rinsing her hands in the washbasin with quiet, tired motions. Her eyes flicked toward him once or twice, but she said nothing. Not even when their shoulders nearly brushed as she stepped past him to reach for a blanket.
Levi didn't sleep at all.
The ache in his chest hadn't dulled. He hadn't expected it to.
It wasn't just guilt or regret.
It was something colder. Deeper. Like grief for something that was still alive but slipping from his reach anyway.
When the camp mess call echoed out—a low bell followed by the soft clatter of bowls—Levi stood, movements stiff, and left the tent.
Kaan was already outside, waiting near the back of the mess line. He raised a brow at Levi but didn't speak, just gave a subtle tilt of the head as if to say, You good?
Levi didn't answer.
Not because he didn't want to.
Because he didn't know anymore.
He moved through the line without really seeing it. Took the tin bowl from the server's hand. Let them fill it—flatbread, a scoop of stewed lentils, a few strips of sun-dried meat. A good portion. More than usual.
He walked back slowly.
And stopped just outside the tent.
His mother was still inside, sitting on the cot again, one hand resting lightly over her belly, eyes distant. She hadn't gone to get food.
Without a word, Levi stepped in and crouched in front of her. He didn't meet her gaze. Just placed the bowl on the blanket beside her, gently, like it might break if he moved too fast.
She looked down at it, then at him.
He didn't speak.
Didn't explain.
But she could see it clearly.
His own hands were empty.
Her brows knit together. "Where's yours?"
Levi straightened up. "I'll eat later."
"You gave me all of it," she said, voice barely a breath.
He didn't correct her.
Didn't lie.
He just turned to leave.
But her voice stopped him.
Soft. Uncertain.
"Levi…"
He paused at the flap.
Didn't turn back.
Didn't trust himself to.
So he stood there, shoulders tight, the weight of a hundred unsaid things pressing down on his spine.
And after a moment, he walked out—into the brightness of morning, where the wind didn't feel quite as sharp as it had the night before, but the hollow in his chest stayed the same.
Kaan found him near the edge of camp, crouched beside one of the dry wells where the wind whispered down into the stone. Levi's elbows were braced on his knees, head bowed, fingers fiddling with a pebble he hadn't even realized he picked up.
He looked like he was trying not to breathe too deeply. Like something might snap if he did.
Kaan didn't speak at first. He just sat down beside him, back against the outer rim of the well. The silence between them wasn't awkward—just… stretched thin.
After a while, Levi asked, "You ever feel like you're disappearing? Not all at once. Just… small pieces. Every time you give something up."
Kaan picked at the dust crusted into the edge of his boot. "All the time."
Levi didn't say anything else. But the quiet around him wasn't empty. It was full of the things he couldn't name—grief, maybe. Shame. A dull ache that lived just behind his ribs and refused to go away.
They sat like that a while, until Kaan nudged him with his knee. "You didn't eat."
Levi gave a tired shrug. "Didn't feel right."
"She wouldn't want you starving."
"She's carrying a baby," Levi muttered. "That's more important."
Kaan squinted toward the camp. "Doesn't mean you stop mattering."
Levi didn't answer.
His gaze drifted back toward the tents—toward the one he used to share. He could still see her sitting there in his mind, the way her shoulders slumped after the argument. The way she touched her belly, soft and absent, like the child inside gave her strength he no longer did.
Kaan nudged him again. "You know… you're allowed to be hurt."
"I'm not," Levi murmured.
"Yeah," Kaan said. "You are. You're just not allowed to stay there."
Levi's jaw clenched, but he didn't argue.
The wind kicked up, carrying dust and the distant scent of lentils. Somewhere nearby, kids were laughing—barefoot and quick-footed, chasing a rolling can like it was the most valuable thing in the world.
It made something twist in Levi's chest.
A memory of a time he never had.
Of what he might've been, if the world had been kinder.
Kaan stood up, brushing grit off his pants. "Come on. Let's find something. Water run. Blade check. Something with noise."
Levi didn't move at first.
Then he stood.
Not because he felt better.
But because standing meant not falling.
And right now, that was enough.
They walked back toward the heart of camp, where the wind still whispered and the dust still clung—but the day went on. And for now, so did they. And soon they decided on retrieving water.
The sun was already climbing when Levi and Kaan reached the edge of camp, the weight of their canteens dragging slightly at their shoulders, empty water skins bundled tight against their backs. The sky had lost its early pinks, now a pale and endless blue, and the dunes ahead shimmered with rising heat—a golden sprawl of silence and breathless wind.
It wasn't just water they were after. It was distance.
A reason to keep walking. A job that didn't require conversation, or eye contact, or the awkward sympathy that leaked from every look cast their way. Out here, there were no soft voices reminding them they were safe now. No watchful glances checking to see if they were going to break.
Just water. Just walking. Just work.
Kaan adjusted the strap on his shoulder as they passed the outpost marker—a bent iron stake wrapped with a length of dried crimson cloth, fluttering in the wind like a warning long forgotten. "How far out today?"
"Three hills east," Levi murmured, voice ragged like he hadn't used it in hours. "The deep basin near the black rocks. Still cool down there."
Kaan nodded once. "Good. Means we'll be alone."
They moved in tandem, a quiet rhythm that required no words. Sand shifted softly beneath their boots, the wind curling around them like an old song. Levi kept his eyes forward—not scanning for danger, not today. Just… refusing to look back. Not at the camp. Not at the tents. Not at her.
He hadn't eaten. Not really.
Now the emptiness in his gut matched the hollow settling behind his ribs. Heavy. Quiet. Gnawing.
By the time they crested the second hill, the sun was pressing hot against the backs of their necks. Kaan finally broke the silence.
"You still thinking about last night?"
Levi didn't answer at first. He crouched near a patch of brittle grass to retie the rope on one of the skins, fingers slow and mechanical. "She was already eating when I got there," he said finally. "He had his hands on her stomach. She was laughing."
Kaan didn't speak right away. His brows drew together faintly, but his voice was steady. "She's not laughing at you."
"I know." Levi tightened the knot a little too hard. "It just felt like I wasn't supposed to be there. Like I ruined something by walking in."
"You didn't."
"Felt like I did."
The third hill came into view—low and jagged, crowned by black rock formations that stood like broken teeth against the sky. From here, the land dropped into a narrow basin, shaded and wind-cooled, a pocket of rare peace in the desert's throat. Shrubs clawed along the edges, brittle-limbed and stubborn. At the center, a spring shimmered faintly—small, but real.
Levi descended first, letting the slope carry his weight down. He untied one of the lead skins, crouching at the spring's edge. The water was clear, cold to the touch. He watched the ripples expand outward from the rope.
"I used to dream about wells," he said, voice low, as if afraid to disturb the quiet. "Back when we were in cages. I'd dream about rivers. Big ones. Fast ones. Not the kind they gave us—filthy, stale. These were clean. Shaded. Cool."
Kaan knelt beside him, working a second skin into the pool. "You never told me that."
"There wasn't any point," Levi said. "No one was listening then."
The silence that followed was thick, but not uncomfortable. They worked efficiently—filling skin after skin, sealing the ends, checking the ties. The water sloshed softly in the hollow air. Rope scraped against dry hands. Somewhere above, the wind moved through the rocks with a faint whistle.
It was the closest thing to peace Levi had felt in days.
When they were finished, they leaned back against the canyon wall, letting the cool shadows settle over their skin. Levi's shoulders were damp where the water had splashed. His hands were raw. He didn't care.
He looked down at the lined-up skins, full and heavy. "Sometimes I think if I just keep doing this—moving, working, filling, surviving—I won't feel anything."
"But you do," Kaan said quietly.
Levi didn't answer. He tilted his face up to the sky, eyelids half-lowered, and let the wind say what he couldn't.
Kaan didn't push. He never did when Levi went quiet like this—when his thoughts became too tangled to share. He just leaned beside him, calm and present, like a steady weight that didn't need to be explained.
Then—
A sound.
Not the wind.
Not the creak of a shifting shrub.
Muffled. Sharp.
Levi sat up.
Kaan was already on alert. "Did you hear that?"
"Yeah."
They moved fast, instincts sharp despite the fatigue. Low steps, angled bodies, weaving between rock and dune with the ease of boys who'd been hunted before. The sound came again—closer now.
A cough. Then—crying.
They crested a lower rise and froze.
Below them, half-swallowed by sand and shattered stone, lay a collapsed caravan. Three wagons, once elegant, lacquered wood and silk-framed windows now broken, splintered, and faded from travel. Horses were gone. Wheels shattered. The smell of blood and sun-scorched metal lingered in the air.
And then they saw them.
A woman, kneeling beside one of the carts, her hands pressed to a shape beneath its frame. Her face was smeared with dust. Her hair loose and tangled. Not far from her, a man lay unconscious—his robes torn, one side of his head crusted with blood. Mage sigils marked his sleeves. An instructor, by the look of them. Nobles.
Or something close.
"Camp's too far," Kaan muttered. "They'll never make it on their own."
Levi was already sliding down the slope.
He reached the woman first, crouching to her level. "We're with the Sandwalkers," he said, quiet but firm. "You're safe now."
Her eyes found his, wide and glassy with exhaustion. She blinked like she wasn't sure he was real. "The child," she rasped. "She's still under there. Please—she's small. She's scared."
Kaan was already moving to the wreckage, lifting the torn curtain and wedging his shoulder against a slanted beam. Levi joined him, and together they braced, pushed, shifted—just enough. A soft sob rose from beneath the shadowed space.
A girl. Five years old, maybe younger. Thin wrists, bruised. Her dress torn. Her face streaked with dirt and tears.
She stared at Levi.
He didn't flinch. Just reached out gently, hands steady. "You're okay. I've got you."
She didn't speak. She didn't scream.
She just pressed her face into his neck and held on like the world might collapse again at any second.
Behind them, Kaan helped the woman pull the mage from the wreckage, easing him into the shade. The man groaned faintly, still breathing. Alive.
Kaan met Levi's eyes across the broken camp.
They both knew what this meant.
They weren't going back to camp empty.
They were going back with blood and breath and something that looked a lot like a new burden.
The girl clung to Levi's shoulder, tiny fingers twisted into the fabric of his cloak. She didn't speak, but her breathing was shallow and fast—like she hadn't fully realized she was safe yet. Levi kept one hand steady on her back, cradling her like something fragile. Breakable.
Because she was.
Kaan returned from the shade where he'd helped settle the unconscious mage. "He's alive," he said, crouching beside Levi. "But barely. Looks like a head wound and heat sickness."
Levi nodded, then glanced down at the girl. "She's quiet."
"Shock," Kaan said. "And maybe fear."
Levi looked back toward the wagons, their fine paint cracked and blistered from the sun. "Nobles, you think?"
"Definitely. That man's robe alone could pay for a caravan twice this size."
Levi didn't comment on that. He just adjusted his grip, stood slowly, the girl still clinging to him like a whisper that wouldn't let go.
The woman—her eyes red and rimmed with panic—stood shakily and moved toward them. "My name is Mireya," she said, her voice cracked and dry. "That's my daughter, and the man is my brother. We were trying to reach the Crown Road. Raiders hit our estate. We fled with a guide, but… he didn't make it."
She said it like she hadn't yet let herself feel it.
Kaan nodded slowly. "You're lucky we found you."
Levi shifted slightly under the weight of the girl. She hadn't moved—just kept her face pressed into his shoulder, silent and small.
"We need to get them back," he said.
Kaan looked at the distant dunes. "We'll travel slower. Carry what we can. Take turns."
Levi met Mireya's eyes. "Can you walk?"
"I'll try."
"Then let's go. Before the sun gets worse."
They started moving—carefully, slowly. Kaan supported the mage, keeping a firm grip on his arm as they crossed the broken rise. Mireya followed beside Levi, her steps unsteady but determined.
And the girl—still nameless, still mute—never once let go.
Levi didn't ask her to.
The sand shifted under their boots as they walked, each step sinking slightly beneath the heat-softened crust of the dune. Levi adjusted his grip on the girl—she was featherlight, but the way she clung to him, unmoving, made her feel heavier than she was. Like she was carrying more than just herself.
She hadn't spoken. Hadn't even looked up. Her breath ghosted against his collarbone, short and shallow, her face buried in the crook of his neck as if the world couldn't reach her there.
Levi didn't mind. He tightened his arm around her back.
Mireya walked beside him, weaving slightly from dehydration. Her eyes kept darting to her daughter, but she didn't reach for her. As if she knew, somehow, that the girl needed something steadier than a mother's shaking hands right now.
Kaan was a few paces ahead, his shoulder braced under the unconscious weight of the mage—Mireya's brother. The man groaned once, his head lolling forward, but didn't wake.
"How much farther?" Mireya asked hoarsely.
"Hour and a half," Levi said. "If the wind stays low."
They crossed the second hill in silence. The desert shimmered around them in waves of gold and heat haze, the sun creeping higher with every breath. Sweat gathered at Levi's temples, but he didn't shift the girl or wipe it away. Her arms were still wrapped around his neck like a vine—tight, desperate, and fragile all at once.
Kaan paused on the next ridge, breathing heavier than usual. He looked back, squinting into the glare.
"We'll cut left around the dead tree," he called. "It'll keep us out of the worst of the sun."
Levi nodded. "I remember."
The dead tree was more bone than wood—blackened, twisted, and dry as ash. A landmark the Sandwalkers used to chart terrain and avoid ambush zones. The path around it was narrow but shaded, winding between sandstone outcrops that clutched cooler air like secrets.
They moved slowly through it, boots crunching softly.
Halfway down the path, Mireya finally spoke again. "Her name's Sesi," she said, almost whispering. "I didn't want to name her after the war, but… my brother insisted. He said names carry power. That maybe if we gave her a soft one, the world wouldn't try to harden her too fast."
Levi glanced down at the girl.
Sesi.
He hadn't realized how tightly she was holding onto him until her little hand shifted against his back, clutching harder when her mother spoke her name.
"She hasn't said a word," Levi murmured.
"She hasn't spoken since the fire," Mireya said, voice trembling. "Since the screaming started."
Kaan looked over his shoulder but didn't speak.
Levi gave a small nod. "She doesn't have to."
They walked on.
By the time they reached the final rise before the camp boundary, Levi's legs were burning. The water skins slapped against his hips. His shirt clung to him, sweat-drenched and sunstained. But he didn't stop. Not once.
As they neared the outpost marker again—the old stake wrapped in crimson cloth—one of the Sandwalker scouts jogged up to meet them. A lean woman with a hawk tattoo across her cheek, her face went still when she saw what they were carrying.
"Found them in the basin," Kaan said simply.
"Raiders hit their estate," Levi added. "Their guide didn't make it."
The scout nodded and signaled for help without asking more.
By the time they reached the edge of camp, a small group had gathered. Not to stare. Just to help. Hands reached for the mage, steady and trained. Mireya was given water and shade. Sesi… didn't let go.
Not even when a medic offered to check her bruises.
"She's fine," Levi said, voice quieter now. "She'll let go when she's ready."
The healer nodded. "Then let her stay."
Levi walked her toward the edge of the supply tents, out of the chaos, to the quiet where the wind hummed low and steady through the lines.
There, beneath a swaying tarp of patchwork cloth, he knelt and slowly eased her into a blanket-covered crate.
Sesi didn't let go.
So he stayed.
Kaan dropped beside him with a soft grunt, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Well," he said, "so much for a simple water run."
Levi didn't laugh.
But for the first time in days, his arms didn't feel heavy.
Not with her there.
Not with someone who didn't flinch from him.
He looked down at the girl still clinging to him, her fingers finally loosening just enough to shift her head and peek up at him through tangled lashes.
And then—barely, softly—she whispered:
"Thank you."
Levi closed his eyes.
And let himself breathe.
Even after the girl fell asleep, Levi stayed.
The patch of shade beneath the tarp swayed with the wind, dappling her small form in shifting light. Her fingers had loosened their grip, but even now, they twitched every so often—like her body hadn't realized she was safe yet.
Kaan had left to grab food. He hadn't asked if Levi was coming. He knew better by now.
Levi sat there until the ache in his stomach clawed up toward his ribs—not from hunger, but from something heavier. He glanced once toward the center of camp, where the scent of stew was beginning to drift on the wind.
He got up.
Not fast. Not suddenly. Just… quietly. Like someone trying not to wake the past.
When he reached the mess tent, the line was short. A few scouts. A pair of healers. Everyone kept their distance. Some offered nods—tight, respectful. No one spoke.
He took a bowl.
It was warm. Simple. Lentils again, with torn bread soaking at the bottom.
He didn't take a second for himself.
Didn't even pause long enough to smell the broth.
He just turned and walked toward his mother's tent.
The camp was brighter now, though the sun was easing westward. Canvas walls glowed gold. Smoke trailed from the cooking pits. A child's laughter rang out somewhere near the water jugs.
Levi ignored it all.
When he reached her tent, the flap was open. Rafiq sat just inside, cleaning a blade with slow, measured movements. He looked up when Levi appeared—but didn't speak.
Saina was reclined on the cot, one hand resting over her stomach. Her eyes were half-lidded, but she turned her head when the shadow crossed the opening.
Levi stepped in and held out the bowl without a word.
She stared at it. Then at him.
"You haven't eaten," she said, voice quiet but firm.
"It's hot," he replied simply. "Eat it while it is."
She sat up slowly, her face unreadable. "You did this this morning too. You think I didn't notice?"
He didn't answer.
Rafiq stood and moved aside, giving them space without making it obvious.
Saina took the bowl from Levi's hands. Her fingers brushed his, but he didn't flinch—just stepped back, expression carved from something too tired to name.
"You walked all day in the heat," she said softly. "You just carried a child all the way here, You can eat, Levi."
But he just shook his head once. Not sharply. Not in defiance. Just… enough.
"I'll come back later, and I already ate," he lied.
Then he turned and left the tent.
Back out into the wind.
Back into the silence that felt easier than trying to explain why he didn't want to take anything—not even warmth—when it felt like he no longer deserved to ask for it.
Levi didn't go far.
Just to the edge of camp, where the tents thinned out and the wind picked up without asking permission. He sat with his back against a crooked post, knees pulled up, hands hanging loose between them.
And he thought.
About the bowl he didn't eat from.
About the way his mother looked at him—tired, confused, maybe even scared.
He'd meant to bring her comfort.
To show her, in his own way, that he still cared.
But when she took that bowl from his hands, her expression didn't soften. It tightened. Like she was bracing for something.
Like even that small gesture—quiet and simple—had made her hurt more.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe he had turned cold. Shut himself off so tight that even kindness came out crooked. Maybe he'd become the very thing she feared—that shadow of a son who didn't know how to smile anymore.
"You haven't touched me since Bone Hollow."
He swallowed hard.
Maybe he hadn't.
He couldn't even remember the last time he reached for her, or let her hold him without stiffening, afraid it would make him feel weak. Afraid she'd see how broken he still was under the calm.
But that wasn't fair to her.
She was trying.
And all he'd done was punish her for finding light again.
For building something with someone who wasn't him.
For carrying a child that would never have to know what it meant to sleep with chains on their ankles.
"You think I wanted to go back to Dahlem with a son who looks at everyone like they're a threat?"
It hadn't been a question.
It had been a wound.
And Levi had delivered it. Every time he flinched. Every time he stayed silent. Every time he gave her nothing when all she wanted was something soft to hold again.
His chest ached.
His eyes burned—but nothing fell.
Not yet.
He stared at the sand curling around his boots, the way the grains caught the last light and glittered like tiny embers. Like pieces of a fire he'd long forgotten how to tend.
I'll be better, he thought, jaw tight.
I'll change. I'll try.
He'd laugh, even if it felt strange in his mouth.
He'd speak first, instead of waiting for her to pull every word from him like teeth.
He'd smile when Rafiq said something dumb, and he'd eat when food was placed in front of him, and he'd stop acting like a stranger sitting in his own skin.
I'll be different, he told himself.
For her.
Because she deserved a son who didn't make her ache just by looking at him.
And maybe—just maybe—he could learn to be that son.
Even if it meant burying the parts of himself that still woke in the night, dreaming of blood-soaked cages and bruised silence.
Even if it meant pretending.
He was good at pretending.
He'd done it his whole life.
With a sigh and determined look
Levi slipped back into the mess line.
Most of the camp had already eaten. Empty bowls sat in neat stacks beside the barrels, the smell of stew still thick in the air—lentils, root mash, herbs boiled down to something passable. It wasn't good. But it was warm. Filling.
He took another bowl.
Not for himself.
He scooped it full. A little more this time. Chose the softer piece of bread from what remained. Took a folded cloth to wrap it. Like it would matter.
Then he turned and walked toward his mother's tent.
His steps were quiet. Careful.
The breeze tugged gently at the loose ends of his shirt. Every few feet, someone glanced his way—but no one stopped him. No one asked why he was carrying a second bowl that day. Maybe they knew better. Maybe they didn't care.
When he reached her tent, he paused.
Then slipped inside.
Saina looked up immediately, startled.
She was seated upright on the cot again, her back against a roll of blankets, ankles tucked beneath her. Her hands were resting on her stomach, fingers lightly tracing a small rhythm against the bump beneath her shirt.
Next to her, on the floor, sat the empty bowl from earlier.
She blinked when she saw what he was holding.
"You… brought more?"
Levi didn't quite meet her eyes. He knelt beside the cot, setting the new bowl down carefully on the crate beside her bedroll. "You didn't eat much earlier," he murmured. "Figured you might be hungry again."
Her brows drew in—not with anger, not with confusion. Just… something unreadable.
"That was this morning, Levi."
"I know."
She stared at him. "You haven't eaten."
He didn't respond.
She looked down at the second bowl.
Then back at him.
Her voice softened. "I can't eat all this."
"It's not for you," he said quietly. "It's for the baby too."
That stopped her.
Something flickered across her face—guilt, maybe. Maybe something else.
She reached for the bowl slowly, her hands lingering near the rim as if she wasn't sure if she should take it.
Levi stood before she could say anything else.
"I'll check the perimeter," he said. "Wind's shifting."
She watched him.
Didn't stop him.
But just before he turned to leave, she said, "You don't have to prove anything, Levi."
He froze in the doorway.
Her voice was gentler now. Tired. But warmer than before.
"You've already done enough," she said.
Levi didn't turn around.
He just nodded—once—and stepped out into the fading light.
But as he walked, he whispered to himself, barely loud enough for the wind to steal:
"I can do more."
Levi moved through the thinning light like a shadow—silent, half-faded, barely touching the world around him.
The camp was winding down for the evening. Fires crackled low, their smoke curling into the darkening sky. A few voices still murmured near the supply crates. Children laughed in the distance—brief, bright sounds that faded as quickly as they came.
Levi didn't go far.
He found a place at the edge of the ridge near the outer boundary. One of the older stones, smooth on top and dark with time, made for a quiet seat. He sat, elbows on his knees, eyes unfocused as he stared into the dunes stretching out ahead.
He hadn't eaten.
Again.
But it didn't matter. Not right now.
All he could think about was her face—that moment when she looked up and saw the second bowl. The way her brow creased in confusion. The way her hands hesitated.
And then her voice: "You don't have to prove anything, Levi."
But he did.
Because the truth was, he still felt like he'd failed her.
He shouldn't have argued. Should've smiled more. Said kind things. Asked about the baby. Sat beside her like he used to—back before everything twisted into war and scars and silence.
He could still fix it.
Not with words. Words weren't his.
But with actions.
He could be softer. More useful. He could laugh when things weren't funny. Sit close again. Pretend the hurt wasn't there.
He'd already started.
Brought her food. Kept quiet. Gave space.
It wasn't much.
But it was something.
He could become the version of himself that fit this new life. That didn't ruin her second chance.
He rubbed his hands down his face, dragging fingers over the scarred skin of his neck, then let them fall into his lap.
Behind him, the camp lights dimmed one by one.
Kaan hadn't come looking for him. Maybe he knew Levi needed to sit alone with this ache for a while—this aching hope that maybe, just maybe, if he worked hard enough, changed deep enough, he could belong again.
Not just in the camp.
But with her.
With them.
As the last traces of gold faded from the sky, Levi leaned back against the stone and looked up at the stars.
They blinked quietly overhead.
Distant. Unbothered. The same as they'd been every night he'd cried himself to sleep in a cage.
Only now, he wasn't in chains.
He was free.
And still… he felt like he didn't know how to move without them.
But he'd learn.
He would learn.
Because she deserved peace.
And the baby deserved a brother who wasn't broken.
And maybe… maybe he deserved something too. He just didn't know what it was yet.