Chapter 49 "To Sit With Shadows"

The night pressed in through the windows like a velvet curtain. The city, distant and faint through the storm-flecked glass, offered no distractions. Only the soft buzz of the quiet home and the barely-there space between them.

Aldrin sat with his hands clasped, head lowered as though the weight of history pressed at his spine. Iris hadn't moved from the arm of the couch, sensing something beneath the surface—beyond the muscle and the mystique. Beyond the war and the silence.

"I'm guessing," he started, voice low, like gravel under water, "that since you used that key... Aria told you everything."

There was no anger in the words. Just exhaustion. Resignation.

Iris looked at him, then tilted her head. "Not everything."

His eyes lifted toward her. Shadowed, searching.

She offered him a half-smile—not dismissive, not pitying. Just present.

"I know enough."

Aldrin leaned back slowly, running a hand through his hair. The movement revealed more scars across his ribs and shoulder—some old, some angry and newer.

"They used to call me the right hand of the devil," he said. "A weapon. A shadow. A monster. A demon wrapped in duty." His jaw tightened. "I was everything they said I was. Worse, maybe."

He turned away as though ashamed of even facing her with the truth.

Iris didn't flinch. She didn't deny it either.

"I believe you," she said softly. "And I'm still here."

His breath caught.

"I'm not going to sit here and pretend that you're innocent, Aldrin. You weren't meant to be soft. You were built by fire and kept alive by rage. But that doesn't mean you're beyond saving."

He looked at her then, a flicker of disbelief—like she was the ghost now, not Mara.

"You don't have to come into the light with me," she whispered. "I'll sit with you in the dark... as long as it takes."

Aldrin said nothing for a moment. Just stared like he was still trying to understand her language.

She leaned forward, voice now a low, poetic murmur. "We all have pasts. Yours just left deeper shadows."

He looked away again, but not far enough to hide the sheen in his eyes.

"And running doesn't undo the echoes," she added, "just delays their return."

Then she said it—not with fire, but with gentle thunder.

"You're not a story I'm afraid of, Aldrin. I'm not running. Not from you."

The silence that followed didn't feel heavy. It felt... still. Real. Like the air after a storm and the first breath that doesn't hurt.

Aldrin finally lowered his head again, not in shame—but surrender. Not to her, but to the moment.

To being seen.

The silence stretched, not uncomfortable—just full. Full of unsaid truths and shared breath.

Iris leaned back slightly, one leg tucked beneath her, watching Aldrin as if memorizing the fragments he let fall. He looked different in this space—less commander, more man. A myth unraveling at the seams, but somehow still standing.

She didn't press him. Just waited.

He spoke again, quietly, as if confessing to the walls more than her.

"I saw her," Aldrin murmured.

Iris blinked. "Mara?"

He nodded once.

A breath hitched in her chest. "When?"

"On the bridge," he said, eyes distant. "Where she fell. Where I thought she died."

The admission felt like a stone dropped in deep water.

"She stepped out of the shadows like she never left. Like no time passed." Aldrin's hands curled into fists. "Said she's rebuilding the Institute. Rebuilding the thing I—"

He stopped himself. Voice cracking with the weight of it.

"I burned that place to the ground for her," he finally said, his voice lower now. "For what they did to her. What he did to her. I scorched every floor, ended every name on every list. Became everything she once warned me not to be, just to erase it from this world."

Iris listened, unmoving. Steady. The kind of stillness that welcomes breaking.

"And now…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "Now she wants to bring it back. The same structure. Same rot. Says it'll be different this time. Says we could rule it together."

He let out a bitter laugh—quiet, sharp.

"But I told her no."

His eyes met Iris's. There was defiance there, yes—but also pain. Betrayal. A flicker of something unspoken between guilt and grief.

"I won't go back. Not to that. Not to him."

Iris reached out then, hand resting gently on his forearm—grounding him. Her touch wasn't meant to fix. Just to remind.

"I'm proud of you," she said. No theatrics. No performance. Just truth.

Aldrin looked down at her hand, and for a moment, the edge of his resolve softened.

"Thank you," he whispered.

They sat like that, shadows pooling around them, until the moment finally settled.

But even in the dark, something healing had begun.

The room stilled again after Aldrin's last words. Iris hadn't spoken in a while—just sat with it, absorbing the weight of everything he'd laid at her feet. Her gaze stayed on him, but distant, as though tracing lines between the past and the present, between him and the war she now found herself pulled into.

Aldrin stood wordlessly, walked to the small kitchen nook tucked in the corner of the loft. The ritual of it was familiar—measured movements, clean hands finding leaves, boiling water, steeping with precision.

When he returned, he placed the steaming cup in front of her, his fingers brushing hers again—this time intentionally. The warmth between them was quiet, subtle.

She looked down at the tea. Then up at him.

"You always make it strong," she muttered with a faint smile.

"You always need it strong," he replied, sliding onto the couch beside her with a low grunt. "So…"

He gave her a glance. That signature sideways look of his, half shadowed, half teasing.

"You scared now?" he asked, tone light but eyes watching closely.

She snorted softly, taking a sip. "Of you? No."

Aldrin arched a brow, a flicker of amusement in his tired eyes.

"No?" he echoed.

She shook her head. Then after a beat, put the tea down and stood. With her back to him, she slowly tugged the collar of her shirt to the side, revealing a tattoo on the upper part of her back—a raven mid-flight, trailing a ribbon of stars behind it. And embedded in the feathers, a single, short line of text:

"Even shadows cast light where they fall."

Aldrin leaned forward, gaze lingering not just on the ink but what it meant.

"I got it after my brother died," she said softly. "There was a time I didn't talk to anyone. Shut the world out. I wanted to disappear. But I carried on. Barely. That tattoo… it was the first thing I did that felt like a choice."

She turned to face him again, pulling the collar back into place.

"You're not the only one with ghosts," she added. "And you're not the only one who's been called a monster."

Aldrin looked at her, something shifting in his eyes. Respect. Recognition.

Maybe even something like kinship.

"So," she said, the air clearing slightly, "what now?"

He tilted his head. "Now?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Mara. The Institute. Whatever this is. There can't be two empires in your city, Aldrin."

He sat back, exhaling slowly. The wariness returned to his expression, tempered now by clarity.

"No," he murmured. "There can't."

His voice was low, resolute.

"She'll come for it. For me. She always finishes what she starts."

Iris didn't flinch.

"Then we'll be ready."

He looked at her again, and for once, didn't try to shield his gratitude.

"Stay," he said.

Not a command. Not even a plea.

Just a hope.

She nodded once, quietly.

"I'll stay."

And in that silence that followed, the war didn't feel so heavy—not for a moment.