“Punch Lugen for me?”
She let out an effusive, pained laugh. “Gladly.”
His tone fell serious again. “And maybe find a thunderstorm.”
She managed a nod. “Copy that, Centurion.” Salty sweat and tears mingled as she pressed her lips into his, then breathed, “Aevitas fortis.”
He let out a withering sigh. “Aevitas fortis, Mo’acair.”
Griffith’s eyes closed. The Imprints jittering on his arms slowed, then shuddered before coming to a rest. Adequin laid her forehead on his chest and closed her eyes.
She waited for his chest to rise again. Waited to hear his breath catch, waited to feel his heart thud against his rib cage. Just waited.
Because this wasn’t it, it couldn’t be. They had a lifetime ahead of them. That’s how she’d justified it all—not telling him how she felt, letting him captain the Tempus, all the time apart that could have been together. Something better would come after the Argus, and they’d do it together. They just had to be patient.
So she kept her eyes clamped shut and waited; she didn’t know for how long. Seconds that could have been minutes that could have been eons, she waited.
Soon it’d been too long, and she knew it was over, but the grief she’d thought would overwhelm her never came.
Because how fucking long had she been waiting?
Waiting for orders, waiting for permission, waiting for requests. Waiting for the Divide to swallow them whole.
And waiting since Paxus for that other fucking shoe to drop, because it was never going to be that easy, she’d known that from day one. She’d defied an order, didn’t pull the trigger, didn’t tie a nice tidy bow on their war and pass them their consummate victory on a silver platter.
A promotion and a safe, easy post wasn’t a punishment. For five years she’d waited for the real one—the one she needed, so she could rectify her guilt.
With sharp, bittersweet relief, she realized it’d finally come. It was over. She’d found the real punishment and could move on. If she could find a way.
She opened her eyes and lifted her head. Sweat dripped down her temples. She had a vague awareness of Jackin in her periphery, crouched beside her. She found Griffith’s dog tags tucked between his shirt and chest. A chest that didn’t raise or lower, didn’t move. Just sat perfectly still.
She ran her fingers along the etched metal and glass pendants. Antiquated, like everything else issued to the Sentinels. Too much effort or expense to maintain a chip database for soldiers they’d already written off as dead.
She unhooked the chain, then closed the clasp around her own neck, tucking them under her sweaty shirt along with her own. She turned to look at Jackin, his brow creased deep with worry.
He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Rake … I’m so sorry.”
She stood and passed him to stand in front of the wide glass window. Crossing her arms, she watched their mini-star churn and spin, reflecting brilliantly off the metallic panels lining the interior sphere.
Jackin approached, hovering off her shoulder. “Rake…” he began, then cleared the hesitation from his throat. “Are you okay?”
She didn’t respond; she couldn’t yet. Her mind reeled, searching for an explanation—for the point of it all.
Why was she here, now, like this? That same thought had gnawed at the back of her mind for years. She was as far removed as one could get, lingering on the edge of the universe—a universe that had tried its very hardest to end its own existence despite them. There had to be a reason. Griffith didn’t die for nothing.
Maybe that day on Paxus, she’d been part of something bigger than she’d realized. When the Legion’s best, most trustworthy, most brainwashed soldiers started to recognize they could make decisions for themselves, what do you do? You cut it off at the head. You make a new plan. Out with the old. Find a new army, one that’ll listen, one that has to listen.