The wind, a relentless phantom, clawed at the tattered canvas Elara had rigged across the cave mouth. Whish! It tore a fresh rip, letting in a spray of icy mist that prickled her exposed skin like needles. The cave was no haven—just a pocket of stillness carved into a dead land—but it was all they had.
Inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of iron and damp earth. Kael lay on a bed of scavenged rags, his body too still for comfort. His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged gasps, and a dark stain bloomed across his side—red, angry, and spreading.
"Just hold on," Elara whispered. Her voice, hoarse and raw from cold and fear, trembled as much as her fingers. She fumbled with the last clean scrap of cloth, its edges already stiff with previous efforts. “Almost got it.”
A weak chuckle rattled from Kael’s throat. It was more ghost than laughter. "Ha. Always the optimist, Elara." He sucked in a breath that ended in a pained groan. "This isn't… a scrape, love."
"Don’t say that." She pressed the cloth against the wound, and he flinched. Her hand instinctively pulled back, then forced itself down again. "We’ve made it through worse. I’ll find help."
She glanced toward the cave’s entrance. Beyond it, the Wastes stretched endlessly—ashen plains swallowed by swirling snow and howling wind. Nothing lived out there. Nothing came back.
"No, you won't," Kael murmured. His voice was a faint rasp, barely riding the breath that carried it. He reached for her hand with trembling fingers. “Remember that old song? The one you used to hum?”
She blinked fast. That song. A silly, childish thing about a sparrow on a journey and a mountain made of cheese. She used to sing it to him when they were children, and later, in the early days of their journey, when the world still held hope. It was ridiculous—and his favorite.
She started to hum, a quiet, broken tune against the storm’s scream. “Mmm-mmm-mmm…”
Kael jerked suddenly. A flash of pain contorted his features. His back arched, and a choked scream escaped his lips, dissolving into a long moan. "It burns, Elara. God, it burns."
“I know,” she said, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Just breathe with me. In… out…”
But her breath caught. She couldn’t lie to him anymore.
His grip on her hand tightened briefly—then eased. His eyes, once bright and full of mischief, dulled like dimmed lanterns. Still, they sought her face. A faint smile curled his cracked lips. “Look at you,” he rasped. “Still fighting.”
“Always for you,” she whispered. Her heart slammed against her ribs, a wild thump-thump-thump in the silence between his breaths.
And then—he didn’t.
His chest stopped rising. His lips parted in a final breath. A word escaped, soft and final:
“Elara…”
And then, nothing.
The wind screamed through the canvas, a banshee's wail that reverberated through the cave like a death knell. A single drop of water drip, drip, dropped from a stalactite overhead, echoing louder than thunder in the sudden, suffocating stillness.
Elara sat frozen, her hand wrapped around Kael’s, now limp and cold. The world outside raged, uncaring. Inside, her world had shattered, breaking not with a bang, but with a quiet, devastating crack.
She didn’t move. Not when the cold bit deeper, not when the wind clawed harder. Time lost meaning. She was a statue of grief, bound to the moment by the sheer weight of her heart’s collapse.
Only hours later, when the storm calmed and dawn bled faintly into the sky, did she stir.
She laid Kael’s hands gently across his chest and kissed his forehead, now ice against her lips.
Then, Elara rose.
She gathered her blade, wrapped her frozen fingers around the hilt, and stepped out into the Wastes. Alone, but not broken. The wind howled again—but this time, she howled back.
For Kael.
For what the Wastes had taken.
And for the promise still burning in her chest: Always for you.
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