Chapter Thirty-Five: The Weight of Her Name

The storm didn't come from the sky.

It came from within her.

Tara stood alone near the cracked window of the safe house, watching as the sterile city of the Middle Order basked in its unearned serenity. The world outside was still and cold—marble streets and glass walls so clean they looked untouched by war, by grief, by truth.

It was the kind of silence that demanded compliance.

Behind her, the crew slept in fragments—some curled beneath tattered blankets, others slumped against walls like discarded relics. A city hummed in the distance, unaware that a girl made of gods and ghosts was standing just outside its heart.

She pressed her palm to the glass. It didn't give.

Neither did she.

But tonight, she felt close.

Close to breaking.

Close to bending beneath the weight of everything she had inherited.

Her breath clouded the window, and she dragged her fingers through it absently, tracing a wing. A crow's wing. She watched it vanish, swallowed by the cold pane.

Just like everything else.

⸻

Tara didn't hear him approach.

She only felt him—his warmth at her back, his steady presence in a world that never stopped shifting beneath her feet.

Landon.

His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her against him with a familiarity that made her chest ache. She sank into him before she could stop herself, letting his warmth consume her, grounding her.

He pressed his lips against the curve of her neck, his breath hot against her skin. "You're thinking too hard," he murmured.

She let out a breathless, half-laugh. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Because I know you." His voice was hushed, intimate. "And I know that when you get quiet like this, you're standing at a crossroads, wondering if you should run."

Tara swallowed hard.

He wasn't wrong.

Landon turned her in his arms, cradling her face between his hands. His green eyes searched hers, filled with something deep, something unshakable. "You don't have to do this, Tara," he whispered. "We can leave. Just the two of us."

She exhaled sharply, closing her eyes as his lips brushed over her forehead, then down to her cheek, then—softly, desperately—to her lips.

It was slow.

It was careful.

But there was an ache beneath it.

A plea.

Landon kissed her like he could erase the war inside her, like he could rewrite fate itself if she let him.

Tara melted into it, gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. He responded in kind, deepening the kiss, pressing her against the window, his hands roaming over her back, holding her like he was afraid she would disappear if he let go.

Maybe he was.

Maybe she was, too.

She didn't want to think about the world outside this moment.

Didn't want to think about what tomorrow would bring.

Because here, in the safety of his arms, she was just Tara.

Not a prophecy. Not a weapon.

Just a girl who was loved.

He pulled back slightly, pressing his forehead to hers, breathing heavily. "I love you," he murmured.

"I always have. Since the day I first met you, I've loved you."

Tara's fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

She didn't answer.

Not because she didn't feel the same.

But because part of her was still afraid.

Afraid of what love meant.

Afraid of what it might cost.

Landon exhaled, brushing his lips over hers once more before pulling her toward the old mattress on the floor, tucking her beneath his arm.

She rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady, grounding rhythm of his heartbeat.

"Sleep," he murmured, kissing the top of her head. "You don't have to carry this alone."

But Tara wasn't sure if she could sleep.

Because as much as she wanted to believe in Landon's world—the world where they could run away and leave all of this behind—

She knew deep down—

That world wasn't hers to have.

⸻

The air was cooler when she left Landon's side.

Tara wandered deeper into the abandoned facility, away from the warmth, away from the illusion of safety. She didn't know where she was going—only that she needed space.

She found herself in a long hallway lined with old, broken screens. The remnants of something scientific. Something forgotten.

And Skye was there.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching the glow of the moon as it streamed through the shattered roof above him.

His black-glimmering eyes met hers, and something in her stomach wrenched.

Because this was different.

It had always been different with him.

"You're not sleeping," he said.

"Neither are you."

He nodded slightly, as if acknowledging something unspoken between them. "Sleep is an indulgence we can't afford." His voice was softer than usual, carrying none of its usual sharp edges. "People like us don't get to rest."

Tara hesitated.

People like us.

She didn't know if he meant creatures of war—or the two of them specifically.

Skye studied her, the dim light casting shadows across his sharp features.

"You were always going to end up here," he said, like it was fact. Like he had always known.

Tara frowned. "What are you talking about?"

He tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable. "You feel it, don't you? That pull. That tether to something greater than just this." His voice lowered, deepened. "You weren't meant to run, Tara. You were meant to rise."

Her breath hitched.

She hated the way he saw through her.

Hated the way her body reacted to him—this strange, primal pull, this ache that wasn't just attraction.

And that terrified her.

Because she had always felt safe with Landon.

But with Skye?

She felt seen.

She felt exposed.

"You don't understand what I want," she said, folding her arms.

Skye let out a slow breath, standing fluidly, stepping closer. "I think you don't understand what you want."

Her pulse quickened.

She should leave.

She should walk away before this became something she couldn't take back.

But she didn't.

Because Skye was right there, close enough that she could see the faint glow beneath his skin—his divinity, his curse, the war between angel and demon rippling through his very existence.

"You were made for something bigger," he murmured, voice low and laced with something dangerous. "And you know it."

Tara clenched her jaw. "I don't want to be something bigger."

"Liar."

The word sent a shudder through her.

She exhaled shakily as he reached up, brushing his fingers along her jaw, his touch featherlight—so soft it almost wasn't there.

Her skin burned where he touched.

Not in pain.

But in awareness.

His gaze dropped to her lips, lingering. "You act like you don't feel this."

She did.

Gods, she did.

But she couldn't.

Not when Landon was—

She tore herself away, taking a sharp step back.

"This isn't real," she whispered.

Skye tilted his head. "No?"

She shook her head, more to herself than to him.

"I can't—" She stopped, biting the words back.

Skye just watched her, his expression calm.

"I should remind you that not all things are choices," he said after a moment. "Some things are written in the stars."

Tara swallowed hard.

She didn't believe in fate.

Didn't believe in destiny.

But as she looked at him—really looked at him—

For the first time, she wasn't sure.