CHAPTER 19: AFTER THE FIRE

 The sea lay before them, vast and boundless, dark waves swallowing the smoldering remains of Antonov's empire. 

It glided through the water noiselessly, only the low thrum of its engine and distant wails of sirens behind them interrupting the silence.

Isla felt something new for the first time in years.

Not relief. Not victory.

Just… silence.

No more running. No more checking over her shoulder. Stop. Waiting. For. The. Next. Attack.

However, that did not mean the war was over.

With his hands steady on the wheel, Gabriel turned to look at her.

 "We'll be out of radar range in ten minutes. From there, we go to the safe house."

Safe.

The word felt foreign.

Nathaniel reloaded, resting against the railing. 

"We need to talk about what comes after."

No one responded.

Because none of them knew.

Isla's grip on the edge of the seat tightened.

Antonov was gone. His empire crumbled. But there remained loose ends — his allies, his financiers, the men who flourished in the subterranean darkness, waiting their turn to seize power.

The first battle had been to destroy Antonov.

But preventing the power vacuum from consuming them entirely?

That was a war of its own.

Damien was seated across from her, mute, inscrutable.

She knew what he was thinking.

For she was thinking the very same.

What were they now, without the struggle?

Who were they now that vengeance was no longer their reason to keep breathing?

Her chest tightened.

"I need air," she muttered, rising from her seat and moving toward the railing.

The wind was cold on her skin, the salt sharp in her lungs.

Just before he spoke, she heard Damien come up.

"You should rest."

She chuckled quietly, but there was no humor in it. 

"I don't know how."

A pause. Then—

"Neither do I."

She turned to him.

For the first time, she noticed something unguarded in his face. The not only sharp edges of the man who had built himself out of nothing. But the cracks under the armor.

The pressure of everything they had done.

Of everything they had lost.

Of everything, they will, and will, never have.

A storm gathered in his eyes, dark and unreadable.

She held his gaze.

And for the first time since all this started —

She did not know if they fought the same fight anymore.

Or if they had simply become each other's next war.

***

The silence hung between them, thick and weighty. The wind pulled at her hair, the salt in the air stinging her open cuts, but she hardly felt it.

Damien hadn't moved. He was next to her, close enough for her to feel the quiet energy emanating from him.

His hands draped over the railing, fingers curled like he was gripping something invisible.

Or trying not to cling to something at all.

Isla exhaled slowly. "What now?"

Not just the plan, she didn't mean that.

She meant them.

The silence was long from Damien. When he did speak, his voice was low, as if he was unsure he wanted to even say it aloud.

"We keep moving."

A part of her had hoped for that answer.

A part of her hated it.

"Just like that?" she asked, turning to him. 

"We put Antonov's empire to the torch. He's as good as dead. What else is left?"

Damien's jaw tightened. "You think it ends with him?" He shook his head. 

"Antonov was a symptom of, not the disease. He had backers, allies. The forces that supported him are still out there." His voice hardened. 

"Do you know what happens in a power vacuum, Isla. Someone worse always rises."

She swallowed.

He wasn't wrong.

But the way he said it — the cold determination in his tone — sent a chill through her.

"We didn't go through all this to keep fighting forever," she said lightly.

His expression was unreadable as his gaze flitted to hers.

"Didn't we?"

The question loomed between them, unvoiced but smothering.

Isla's chest tightened.

Because maybe… maybe he wanted the fight.

Perhaps that was all that remained to him.

And if that was true—

So where did that leave her?

She faced the water again, holding on to the railing for balance. The sea spread infinitely out before them, dark and unknown, as was the road in front of them.

For so long, vengeance was all she sought.

Now with Antonov's empire in shambles, she should have felt liberated.

Instead, all she could feel was lost.

A part of her was like — if we cease to fight, will we have anything left?

The thought gave her throat a tightening.

She made herself sweep it away.

They weren't done yet.

Not while Antonov's friends still lurk in the shadows.

Not with new dangers poised to emerge from the ashes.

And perhaps… not with each other, either.

They weren't done, for better or for worse.

Not yet.