They didn't speak as they walked back.
The desert night clung to them like breath held too long. No wind now—just the hush of distant sand shifting under its own weight, the kind of stillness that came after a warning, not before it.
Levi's feet moved on instinct, but every step felt strange. Off-kilter. Like the ground beneath him wasn't the same sand he'd grown up in. As if some unseen line had been crossed back at that wrecked cart—and they were walking through a world that had changed in ways the stars hadn't caught up to yet.
The mark under his wrap hadn't burned again, not exactly. But it hadn't gone still either.
It was waiting.
⸻
The outpost was a dim constellation of low-burning braziers when they reached the edge. A few shapes moved in the dark—scouts on late return, traders setting down bundles, someone whispering a prayer in a low, stammering tone behind a tent flap.
But no one stopped them.
No one asked why they were back early.
They were the Desert Dogs.
The ones who didn't flinch. The ones who came back with blood on their hands and stories between their teeth.
Levi didn't feel like a Desert Dog tonight.
He felt like something had cracked.
And he wasn't sure what was leaking through.
⸻
They stepped inside the command tent without being called.
Harun was there—always was this late. His sleeves were rolled, arms braced over a map marked in charcoal and fading ink. One glance up, and the air shifted.
"You weren't due back 'til moonfall," he said.
Kaan answered first. "Didn't want to leave what we found unspoken."
Harun raised an eyebrow.
Levi stepped forward. "A wreck. Small cart. Looked recent. One person dragged away. Still bleeding."
Harun's shoulders squared. "Raid?"
"No." Kaan's voice dropped. "Traders."
There was a pause—one of those cold, tight silences that spread like frost over the spine.
"They were moving east," Levi added. "Old ridge trail. Dead route. Or it was."
Harun closed his eyes for a heartbeat. When he opened them, they were steel.
"Did you engage?"
"No," Levi said. "They had numbers. And someone with command. Quiet. Older. Gave the orders."
Kaan added, "Said they beat a kid for biting."
Harun swore quietly in another tongue and rolled the map tighter. "I'll inform the matriarch. Send riders north to intercept. You two—clean up. Get food."
Levi hesitated. "We can go back out."
"You will," Harun said. "But not tonight."
That was final.
⸻
Outside again, the camp felt too loud, even in silence. Kaan headed toward the water barrels, nodding once. Levi followed, but slower.
Every step felt like it echoed. Not through the sand—but through him.
The heat in his forearm hadn't eased.
It had… settled. Like coals banked under ash, waiting for the right breath to stir them.
He reached the barrels. Kaan was already washing his hands, wiping grit and dried blood from his palms in slow, practiced motions.
"Why didn't we do something?" Levi asked.
Kaan didn't look up. "We did."
"Not enough."
"No," Kaan agreed. "But we're not enough yet."
Levi was quiet.
Then: "Does it ever stop feeling like we're too late?"
Kaan finished washing. Turned. Met his gaze.
"No."
⸻
They didn't sleep in the barracks that night.
Instead, they returned to the sloped edge of the dunes—where the desert could still be seen in all directions. Where they could feel the stars breathe and the ground remember. Right next to camp.
They didn't talk much. Just sat.
Until Levi slowly peeled the wrap from his arm.
The mark beneath shimmered faintly in the moonlight, its ridges deeper than scar tissue should be. Not just healed burns—but etched lines that pulsed with something that didn't belong in a human body.
Kaan leaned over, squinting.
"Still glowing?"
"Not like before."
"What's it doing now?"
Levi didn't answer right away.
Then, softly: "Waiting."
Kaan sat back. Let the quiet stretch.
The desert around them whispered like it always had.
...
The summons didn't come.
Not that morning.
Not by dusk.
Levi had expected to be sent out again—expected orders, a watchpoint, something to keep his hands busy and his thoughts buried.
But instead, the matriarch sent word through a runner: "Stay in camp. Rest. You'll be called when it's time."
No reason.
Just that.
Levi didn't know what to do with that kind of stillness.
⸻
He spent the morning pacing the edges of the outpost.
Not in patrol—but in wandering.
He passed the weapons yard, where a few younger Sandwalkers were training under a broad-shouldered instructor with a scar over his lip. He lingered outside the tannery, where the air always smelled of smoke and salt hide, and the women inside moved like ghosts with calloused hands. He passed the gardens—patches of hardy greens wrapped in wet cloth, grown in the deep shade of buried clay troughs.
It all felt… foreign now.
Like he was seeing it for the first time.
Maybe he was.
⸻
He found Kaan near the water barrels, laughing—actually laughing—with two other boys near his age, one of them sharpening a broken spearhead while the other talked too fast with his hands. Kaan looked up once, met Levi's gaze.
Then offered a small nod.
A silent, "Go do what you need to do."
Levi nodded back.
And headed toward the old stone tents on the south ridge—where the air ran cooler, and his mother stayed.
⸻
The canvas door was tied open.
Levi paused just outside. Not out of fear.
But because he heard laughter inside.
His mother's.
And someone else's voice—deep, slow, with that particular rhythm desert men had when they weren't in a rush to impress anyone. Rafiq.
The man who'd helped pull Levi off a half-dead camel a year ago.
The one who'd kept his distance at first. Spoke softly. Offered help only when it was needed.
Now… he was still here.
And not just here. Inside.
With her.
Levi stepped through the doorway.
⸻
The inside of the tent had changed.
New mats lined the stone floor. A small oil lamp burned in a bronze dish near the back. There were folded shawls stacked beside the cot, and a dried sprig of desert thyme tied near the corner post to keep the air smelling clean.
His mother was sitting upright against the cushions, her eyes brighter than they'd been in days. One hand rested lightly over the curve of her stomach—not large yet, but unmistakable.
Rafiq sat nearby, sharpening a curved blade that had been worn smooth by years of use. His eyes flicked up as Levi entered, but he didn't stand. He didn't speak first.
He let Levi decide what to do.
Saina's smile softened. "You look like you haven't slept in a week."
Levi gave a ghost of a smirk. "We don't sleep much. We watch."
Rafiq chuckled. "Still talk like the sand will come alive if you blink too long."
"Sometimes it does," Levi muttered, but he stepped forward.
He didn't sit, not yet.
His eyes landed on his mother's hand. The subtle way it shifted when she moved. The way Rafiq's gaze followed it, quiet and protective.
A part of Levi bristled. Just a flicker of that old tension. That need to be the shield, the sword, the last wall between her and the world.
But it passed.
Because this wasn't like Bone Hollow, or the caravans, or the mines.
This was different.
She was safe.
He let himself sit.
And for a while, they just talked.
About nothing.
About everything.
⸻
At one point, Rafiq stood and quietly excused himself, leaving them alone.
Levi leaned back on his hands, eyes still flicking occasionally toward the tent's entrance.
"He's good to you," he said finally.
Saina looked at him, eyebrows raised just slightly.
"I notice things," Levi added.
She smiled. "Yes. You always do."
There was a long pause.
Then Levi asked the question he hadn't been able to say until now.
"Are you happy?"
His mother didn't answer right away.
She looked down at her hands, then at the light stretching across the tent floor.
"I'm learning to be," she said quietly. "And that's more than I ever thought I'd have."
He nodded.
Didn't say anything more.
Didn't need to.
⸻
The sun was high by the time he stepped outside again.
Kaan was waiting with two mugs of water, sweat at his collar, but relaxed.
"You good?" he asked.
Levi nodded.
"For now."
They sat in the shade, watching the wind shift patterns across the sand.
No orders came.
No call to arms.
Just a quiet day—earned, for once.
And Levi let himself breathe.
The sun crept higher, shadows stretching lean across the camp. The air grew heavy, as it always did in the midday lull—thick with heat and quiet work. No scouts rode out. No alarms rang.
But Levi still felt the weight of something under his skin.
He sat under a shade cloth near the cook tents, legs drawn up, elbows resting on his knees. He watched the camp from the corner of his eye. The way everyone moved slower in the heat. How steam rose off the boiling pots and mingled with the scent of garlic, lentils, and sun-dried herbs.
He didn't touch his bowl.
Didn't even reach for it.
Kaan was beside him, crouched on a low crate, tearing a flatbread into neat strips and dipping them into his stew with methodical boredom.
"You should eat," Kaan said.
Levi didn't respond.
"Not for you. For your limbs. You'll cramp if you train later."
Still nothing.
Kaan sighed, looked away. "Suit yourself."
Across the yard, Saina's tent flap stirred.
Rafiq stepped out first.
He looked relaxed. Comfortable. His sleeves were rolled, hands stained from helping grind herbs or tending the water lines—whatever his quiet, useful rhythm had decided today.
He bent down to roll a mat in front of the tent, adjusting it with practiced fingers. A moment later, Saina stepped out behind him, moving slow, hand resting at the small of her back. She wore a soft green shawl now, one Levi hadn't seen her wear in years. It looked clean. Cared for. Hers.
Rafiq helped her sit.
Not dramatically.
Just there—like his whole body was trained to be near when she needed him and invisible when she didn't.
He crouched beside her, murmured something Levi couldn't hear, and handed her a small cloth-wrapped packet.
She laughed. Not loud. But real.
Levi turned his face away.
⸻
Kaan didn't look up from his food. "You're brooding."
"I'm not," Levi muttered.
"You're staring at the ground like it owes you something."
Levi didn't answer.
He shifted slightly, shoulders tight.
"I'm not used to it," he said after a moment. "Seeing her… like that."
Kaan followed his gaze this time.
Watched the way Rafiq leaned close as Saina unwrapped a packet—dried mango slices. A rare trade good. Rafiq had likely bartered for them himself.
"You mean happy?" Kaan said.
Levi clenched his jaw.
"No. I mean… relaxed. At ease. Like she's not ready to run."
Kaan nodded once. "It's harder than it should be. Seeing people safe when you're not."
Levi didn't respond, but the way his fingers curled around the edge of the shade cloth said enough.
⸻
Later, as the sun began to drift lower, Rafiq helped Saina settle back inside her tent for rest. He stayed a little longer. Poured water into the basin. Tidied the herbs. He didn't make a show of anything. Just stayed close.
Levi still hadn't eaten.
The food had cooled beside him.
Kaan finished his meal, stretched, then tilted his head.
"Wanna spar?"
Levi shook his head. "Not today."
Kaan stood, brushing crumbs from his shirt. "Then I'm going to the pit. Can't sit still forever."
He started to walk off, then paused.
"You don't have to like him," Kaan said over his shoulder, "but he's not your enemy."
Levi didn't look at him. "I know."
"Then why do you look like you're ready to draw a blade every time he breathes near her?"
Levi finally raised his eyes, slow and hard. "Because if he hurts her… even a little…"
"I know," Kaan said, softer now. "But he hasn't."
And with that, he walked off.
⸻
Levi sat alone as the sun dipped past the tents, casting long shadows across the courtyard. He watched Saina's tent from where he was, just in sight.
Just enough to know she was still there.
He didn't eat.
Didn't sleep.
He just stayed until the sky turned gold.
And the burn in his forearm settled into something quieter.
Still hot.
Still waiting.
But no longer pressing.
Just watching with him.
Evening bled into dusk.
The desert wind had softened, brushing past tents like a whisper.
Levi moved through camp like a shadow—silent, unseen, but always circling back.
Back to her
Levi still hadn't eaten. The air was thinner now, cooler, but it did nothing to loosen the tightness in his chest. He found himself back near his mother's tent again—he didn't remember walking there. His feet just… took him.
She looked up. Smiled. "You've been ghosting around all day."
He didn't smile back.
"You've been busy," he said.
Something in his tone cooled the air between them.
Saina shifted, brushing hair from her face. "I've been resting. You know that."
"With him."
That landed hard. She blinked, caught off guard.
Saina sat on her cot, her back against the cushions, one hand resting over the curve of her stomach. The lantern between them flickered, throwing soft shadows over the canvas walls. Levi stood near the entrance, his arms crossed, the wrap on his forearm tight and itching.
"I don't like the way he hovers around you," Levi said, low and sharp.
"I know you don't like it," she said evenly. "But Rafiq isn't some stranger who wandered in with sweet words and trade cloth. He's been with the Walkers longer than you've been breathing desert air."
Things went quiet for a minute until saina sighed.
"You've barely spoken to me all day."
Levi didn't answer at first. He shifted slightly, just enough to show he heard.
Saina's hand stilled on the blanket
"I know you don't like seeing me with Rafiq," she said softly. "But he's not your enemy."
Still no reply
Her voice sharpened, the edge creeping in. "You don't get to punish me for surviving."
Levi's brows drew together, but he didn't look at her.
"You think I'm just supposed to stop living? To be frozen in that time? Like everything that came after doesn't count unless it hurt?"
"That's not what I think," Levi said quietly.
She stood, her movements slow but tense. Her hand pressed against her lower back, then her stomach—like her own body was pushing her too far. Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from emotion barely held back.
"I spent years trying to keep you alive," she said. "Starving. Crawling through camps. Hiding when I was too weak to run. I didn't ask for peace. I just needed you to live. And when we finally found something that didn't hurt—I thought you'd be glad."
"I am," Levi said.
"Then why does it feel like you hate me for it?"
He looked up then. Slowly. Pain written into the set of his mouth.
"I don't hate you."
"Then why do you look at me like I'm someone else?"
He didn't answer.
Her voice cracked. "You just sit there. Cold. Like you're waiting for something bad to happen. Like none of this is real."
"I never said it was fake."
"No," she snapped, tears welling. "But you act like it's borrowed time. Like any moment, everything's going to fall apart again, so you never let yourself—feel anything. You don't talk to me. You don't let me in. You haven't even touched the food I made. And Rafiq? He tries, Levi. He's trying to respect you."
"I never asked him to," Levi said quietly.
She clenched her jaw and turned away for a second, shoulders shaking as she breathed.
"I can't do this again," she whispered. "I can't be strong for both of us every second of the day. I'm tired, Levi. I'm pregnant. My body hurts. My head hurts. And I am so damn tired of walking on eggshells around my own son."
Saina's hand stilled on the blanket.
"I know you don't like seeing me with Rafiq," she said again, her tone sharper this time. "But he's not your enemy."
Still no reply.
Her voice hardened. "You don't get to punish me for surviving."
Levi's jaw tensed.
"You think I'm just supposed to sit in silence? Keep my head down? Never want something gentle again? Never choose peace over pain?"
"That's not what I think," Levi muttered.
She stood, pacing a little now—slow, awkward, one hand pressed to her back. "Because that's what it feels like, Levi. Like I failed you by not staying broken."
He looked up then, eyes shadowed. "You didn't fail me."
She spun toward him, eyes burning. "Then why do you look at me like this? Like I'm some stranger wearing your mother's face?"
Levi didn't answer.
"I gave everything for you!" she shouted, voice rising with each word. "I sold my pride, my body, my blood to keep you breathing. You think I wanted to raise a child in chains?"
He stiffened.
"I didn't," she hissed. "When they locked me in that cell, when I realized I was pregnant—I hated it. I hated you. I hated what it meant. I thought about letting them take you. Letting them kill you."
Her voice cracked.
"But I didn't."
Silence rang like a slap in the tent.
"I still fought. I still held you. Still chose you. Every day. Even when it meant starving. Even when it meant getting dragged across the sand half-dead."
Levi's breath was shallow, face pale, but he forced his voice out.
"You think you're the only one who bled for this?"
Her head snapped toward him.
He stood slowly—shoulders trembling, voice steady despite the emotion in it.
"I've taken beatings so you wouldn't be touched. I've gone without food so you could eat. I've laid awake every night since I was old enough to walk, waiting to hear if the guards would come take you away."
Her lip quivered.
"I fought men twice my size in silence, so you'd never hear me cry. I trained with the Sandwalkers while my ribs were bruised because if I stopped, someone else would die. I've buried friends in the dunes who couldn't make it. I never had time to be angry at you for anything—not even for what you just said."
Tears burned in his eyes, but he didn't let them fall.
"I'm still a kid, mama," he said, voice ragged. "But I've never been allowed to feel like one. Not once."
She stared at him, chest heaving, lips parted in shock.
"You're right," he said, lower now. "I'm not the boy you remember. Because I had to become someone else so you could survive."
Silence thundered in the tent.
Levi's throat worked. "You think I had the chance to stay that boy? I've killed men, mama. Watched children choke to death in cages. I've fought in pits while nobles placed bets on me. I had to become something else just to crawl back to you."
"You think I don't know that!?" she cried. "You think I don't see it written all over your face every damn day?"
Levi took a shaky breath. "Then stop asking me to pretend it didn't happen.
"I'm not asking you to forget," she said, breaking, voice trembling now. "I just wanted a son. My son. Not this—this shadow who walks around like he's already halfway gone."
"I'm trying," he whispered. "But I don't know if I can go back."
She stared at him.
And slowly, all her rage drained into sorrow. Her shoulders sagged. Her hand found her stomach again, cradling it.
Saina's grip on the edge of the cot tightened.
"No. No, don't stand there and whisper like you're the one that's lost everything," she snapped, her voice shaking with fury. "I've bled for you, Levi. I've burned. I had to watch you waste away with ribs showing and fever burning through your skin and know there was nothing I could do."
Levi's eyes dropped. But he didn't speak.
"And now?" she went on, voice rising again. "Now I have a chance—just a chance—at something whole, and you act like it's betrayal. Like this baby is some offense to your name. You haven't said one kind thing about it. Haven't looked at me like I'm anything but a disappointment since the moment I told you."
Levi's jaw clenched.
"I laugh now," she said, almost wild. "Did you notice? I laugh with Rafiq. I talk. I sleep without flinching. And you—you just watch like I've become someone you can't even recognize."
She paced, short and sharp, one hand bracing her lower back as if she needed something to hold herself up. "You haven't touched me, Levi. Not once. Not since we left Bone Hollow. You used to curl up beside me when the wind got cold. Do you remember that? You'd sleep with your arms around my ribs like I was the last fire left in the world."
He didn't respond.
The memory hung there, aching.
"And now you sit there like a stranger," she hissed. "Like you're ashamed to need anything. Like needing me would make you weak."
"I'm not ashamed," Levi said quietly.
"Then what are you?" she snapped.
"I don't know," he said.
His voice was so soft it almost didn't reach her.
And that—somehow—was worse than shouting.
She stared at him, her breathing uneven. "You think I haven't tried? You think I haven't stayed up at night wondering how to talk to you? How to make you come back to me?"
Her voice broke. She pointed a trembling hand toward the tent flap.
"You think I want to go back to Dahlem with a child on my hip and another beside me who looks at everyone like they're a threat? You think I want my family to meet the boy I fought to protect, only to see a killer standing in his place?"
Levi flinched—but didn't defend himself.
"Say something!" she cried. "Anything!"
But he didn't.
And that made her angrier.
"Why won't you just feel something, Levi? Why won't you let yourself be my son again? Why is everything I do wrong in your eyes?"
Still, he stayed quiet. His arms hung at his sides. His eyes shimmered—but he didn't wipe them.
"I wanted to raise a son I could laugh with," she said. "Someone who could sit at my table. Talk to me. Grow up knowing me."
Her voice fractured.
"But I don't know you anymore," she whispered.
She collapsed back onto the cot, covering her face with both hands, her shoulders quaking.
"I don't even know who I'm yelling at."
Levi stood frozen, not knowing if he should step forward or leave.
And that hesitation said it all.
Because he didn't know either.
Slowly and uncertain Levi stepped back from the tent flap making his way out, the heavy air thick in his lungs.
Inside, his mother's words still hung like smoke: "I just wanted a son. Not this shadow."
She hadn't meant to say it that way. Maybe.
But that didn't change the sound of it.
The way it echoed through his chest louder than the beatings he'd taken. Louder than the chain snaps and ring bells and sand-choked screams of the Coil. Louder than the silence of Sera's absence.
He stepped outside.
The evening air was cooler, but it did nothing to cool the heat under his skin.
He walked slowly, numb, tracing the worn footpath between tents. His boots kicked up soft puffs of dust with every step, and he barely felt it.
His back still ached in the way it always did—tight where the lashes had never healed smooth. The scars ran jagged beneath his shirt, too many to count. But it wasn't pain that kept him hunched forward tonight.
It was the memory.
Of Sera, half-unconscious in the pit of a stone crevice, her skin boiling from sun poisoning.
Of his mother's lips cracked from dehydration, her voice hoarse as she whispered for him to stay awake.
Of the Sandwalkers arriving like ghosts—quiet, precise—carrying them from the edge of death.
He hadn't collapsed until they were safe. Not even when his lashes split open in the heat. Not even when he couldn't see from the light. He'd stayed standing.
Because someone had to.
Because she needed him to.
And now?
She wanted something normal.
A quiet life.
A new child.
A new man.
And Levi—he wasn't part of that shape. Not anymore.
"You don't fit."
He looked down at his hands.
Rough. Bruised. Blood-worn.
He'd bled so much for her.
For both of them.
But maybe that didn't matter anymore.
Maybe being born in chains meant he'd never belong anywhere quiet.
He didn't hear Kaan step up behind him at first.
"Levi," the voice came, low.
Levi flinched—not from surprise, but from shame.
Kaan stood just behind the path, near one of the tent poles, arms crossed but loose, his face unreadable.
"You heard," Levi said.
Kaan didn't nod. He didn't need to.
"I didn't mean to," he said simply. "I came to find you."
Levi let out a slow breath. "Doesn't matter."
"She doesn't mean all of it."
"She meant enough."
Kaan was quiet for a long beat, then stepped forward until they were shoulder to shoulder.
"She doesn't know what you've done," he said. "What you've carried."
Levi didn't answer.
"She saw a child die in chains. But she never saw you fight to keep others breathing. Never saw you dig graves with your hands when we had no shovels. Never saw you hold Sera upright for hours while you bled through your shirt."
He turned slightly, voice hardening. "I did."
Levi's jaw clenched.
"I thought coming here would feel like coming home," he whispered.
Kaan's voice was steady, but softer now. "It's not home unless someone knows who you are."
Levi didn't reply.
The stars were coming out overhead, pale and cold. He stared at them like they might give him an answer.
But all they did was shine.
Silent.
Distant.
Unreachable.
Just like everything else.
Kaan didn't move at first.
He just stood there in the soft darkness beyond the tent flap, shadow barely visible in the slant of moonlight. Levi hadn't noticed him. Not during the shouting. Not during the silence that followed. But he'd heard it all.
Every word.
Levi stepped out slowly, his boots whispering against the sand. He didn't go far—just a few paces into the open. The air was cooler now, night biting gently at his skin, but it did nothing to chill the heat burning low in his chest.
His mother's words still rang in his ears.
You don't get to punish me for surviving.
He let out a slow breath, arms folded tight against himself. Like if he didn't hold them there, he might fall apart.
Then—behind him—a quiet shuffle.
Kaan.
Levi didn't look.
"I thought coming back would mean something," he said, voice low, cracking. "I thought she'd see me… and still know me."
Kaan didn't answer.
"I know I've changed," Levi went on. "I know I'm different. But it's like… like she wants to forget everything. Pretend we're normal now. That I'm normal."
His voice caught.
"I don't know how to be what she wants anymore."
The silence stretched.
Then Kaan said, quiet but steady, "You remember that hole you were in? The one in the rocks where we first met?"
Levi nodded, jaw clenched. Of course he remembered. The cave scraped into the side of a rock. The heat so sharp it blurred his vision. Sera delirious with sun fever. His mother tired and worn in.
"I remember," Levi said.
Kaan took another step closer. "You didn't stop moving the whole time. You barely talked. Just… carried her. Your mother. Sera. Water. Whatever you could."
Levi's hands curled at his sides.
"I thought you were going to die on your feet or when you were on that camel," Kaan said. "And I thought… why won't he fall?"
The wind picked up, curling around them like an old song.
Kaan's voice lowered. "I know now. It's because you didn't think you were allowed to."
Levi flinched. Just barely.
"She forgot," Kaan said. "What you did. What you gave up."
Levi didn't respond.
"But I didn't."
He turned to look at Levi fully now, eyes narrowed against the wind. "You think this is the first time someone's asked you to shrink yourself? To smile and be small so their version of peace stays untouched?"
Levi's voice was paper-thin. "It's my mother."
"That doesn't make it right."
Kaan's jaw clenched. "You're not her burden, Levi. And you're not her weapon either. You're you. And she doesn't get to ask you to forget that."
The stars shimmered above them.
Still, Levi said nothing.
Kaan stepped closer, his voice quieter now. "You carried her sera, pain, food, survival for too long. Let someone carry you back."
Levi finally looked at him.
His throat worked. His shoulders trembled—just once, like something cracked beneath his skin.
Then he sat down in the sand.
Slow.
Like every inch of him hurt.
Kaan sat beside him. Not saying anything else. Not asking. Not offering comfort in words.
Just sitting. Shoulders brushing. Silent.
And maybe that was the only thing Levi needed tonight.
Not forgiveness. Not answers.
Just someone who stayed.The moment Kaan sat down beside him, Levi held his breath.
Not for long—just enough to brace himself. Just enough to try and hold everything in.
But his chest ached from the pressure.
His jaw locked. His fists curled in the sand. His teeth ground together behind tight lips.
And still—everything inside him shook.
He tried to blink it back. Tried to breathe.
But the breaths came too shallow.
Too fast.
His body refused to listen.
It was like the fight had finally left his muscles—but not his nerves. They twitched under his skin, braced for impact that wasn't coming. Or already had.
He dragged in a breath—sharp, trembling.
Then another.
But the next one caught in his throat. He choked on it. And suddenly his hands were shaking. His shoulders rising too fast.
He pressed the heel of one hand to his chest, the other to his mouth, like he could shove the panic back down.
But it wouldn't go.
The tears hit next—hot, unwanted.
He gritted his teeth, furious at himself. At the weakness. At the noise in his chest. At the way his lungs kept clawing for air like a drowning thing.
"I'm fine," he rasped.
But Kaan didn't move. Didn't say a word.
"I'm fine," Levi said again, barely above a whisper. His throat tightened more with each word. "I'm… fine—"
He wasn't.
He couldn't breathe.
The world was too close, too sharp, too bright. The stars above him spun. The ground felt like it was tipping. His chest heaved, too fast. Too much. His ribs ached.
His face crumpled.
And the sob finally broke free.
It was ugly.
He curled forward, arms crossing his chest, head bowed so low it almost touched his knees. His shoulders heaved with every broken gasp. Tears poured from his eyes—silent at first, then louder.
Choking. Stuttering.
Years' worth of grief with nowhere else to go.
He gasped like a child. Like someone who hadn't known what crying even felt like until now. Like someone whose body didn't remember how to stop.
And still—Kaan didn't move.
He stayed beside him, unmoving.
Because some grief was too loud for words.
Some pain had to run its course like a storm.
Levi's voice cracked between sobs, nearly a whisper. "She didn't want me. She said she—she almost gave me up before I was even born."
Kaan's voice came gently. "She didn't."
"She wishes she had."
Levi wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. His breathing hitched and stuttered again. He dragged both hands through his hair, then pressed them over his face like the world was too much to see.
"All I did was survive," he whispered. "All I ever did was survive."
The wind stirred the sand around them.
Kaan shifted then, not much—but enough to lean slightly against Levi's shoulder.
And still said nothing.
Just stayed.
Levi's sobs slowed—minute by minute. His breathing stayed ragged. But the panic passed. The heat drained from his chest.
And in its place, there was just… emptiness.
Quiet.
Cold.
But at least he wasn't alone in it.
At least someone saw the break—and stayed anyway.Hours passed.
The stars crawled across the desert sky like silver dust scattered by gods too far to care. The fire near the outer tents burned low, a soft flicker of warmth against the quiet hush of the night. Most of the camp had gone still—bedrolls unrolled, lanterns dimmed, guards rotating silently along the perimeter.
Levi sat until the wind lost its edge.
He didn't speak again. Kaan didn't ask him to.
Eventually, when the tremors had eased and his throat no longer felt raw from crying, Levi wiped the last of the salt from his cheeks and stood. He didn't say he was ready. Didn't have to.
Kaan rose beside him.
They moved without speaking—back toward the tents, back toward the part of the camp where the firelight burned warmer and the sand had been swept smooth by dozens of feet.
The silence wasn't heavy now.
Just necessary.
⸻
When Levi reached the tent—her tent—he hesitated at the flap.
The canvas glowed from within, the lanterns inside casting soft gold across the fabric.
He heard voices.
Low.
Warm.
And laughter.
Not hers.
Not his.
Rafiq's.
Levi stood outside for a moment too long. The wind tugged at the edge of the flap, brushing it gently aside, just enough for him to see.
They were sitting close, cross-legged on the floor near a shallow bowl of seasoned lentils and grilled flatbread. Her hair was loose around her shoulders. She'd already changed into her nightclothes—soft cotton wrapped around her like a robe, her feet bare, her smile easy.
Her hand rested lightly on her stomach.
Rafiq leaned close, murmuring something Levi couldn't hear—but she laughed. Genuinely. Her whole face lit up.
And then he reached out, without hesitation, and brushed his hand across her belly.
Like it belonged to him too.
She didn't stop him.
She smiled and curled her fingers around his wrist like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like nothing was broken.
Like there had never been a boy named Levi who bled across sand and stone to bring her here.
Levi didn't move.
He couldn't.
His throat closed.
It wasn't anger.
It wasn't jealousy.
It was something quieter.
Deeper.
The realization that maybe—just maybe—she was already building something new. Something gentle. Something that didn't have space for old ghosts and bloodstained boys who slept with knives under their cots.
His mother had peace now.
And maybe he had no place in it.
Not like this.
He let the flap fall back into place.
Didn't knock.
Didn't enter.
Just turned—slowly—and walked back the way he'd come, until the warm glow of her lanterns was nothing but a smear of gold against the dark.
Kaan waited near their shared tent.
He didn't ask.
Levi didn't offer.
He just stepped inside, laid down on the cot he'd been given, and stared at the canvas ceiling until his eyes stopped burning.
No tears this time.
Just the dull ache of a space he'd once called home becoming something else entirely.