Chapter 613 The Boy Who Bought Tomorrow

The memory shifted.

They ran for three days.

Fin watched it in compressed time, the hours collapsing into minutes, the landscape blurring beneath boots that never stopped moving.

Garrett carried Serena when her legs gave out. Elara ran beside him when she could and was carried on his other side when she couldn’t.

The boy who would become the Alpha King of Darkhowler was sixteen years old and running through a mountain range that wanted to kill them with two girls, a sword, and the specific, bone-deep refusal to stop that belonged to a man who had made a promise to a dead king and intended to keep it.

He was the leader that was going to get them through this. And Fin now fully understood why Garrett was so protective over Serena and Elara. He knew Garrett was like a brother to them. But watching him carry both girls here as a kid himself was an image worth a thousand words. It was the kind of man Garrett was.

Both girls needed him.

The avalanche hit on the third day.

They were crossing a ridge. The snow had been unstable for hours, the kind of unstable that experienced mountaineers recognized and teenagers fleeing genocide didn’t. Garrett was in front, cutting a path through chest-deep powder with the brute-force approach of a boy whose solution to obstacles was to walk through them.

The sound came first. A crack that split the sky. Then the mountain moved.

Garrett shoved both girls sideways. The force of his push sent them tumbling down the lee side of the ridge, out of the slide’s path, and the slide took Garrett instead.

The snow swallowed him the way Frostborne’s gates had swallowed the kingdom: totally, with zero negotiation and zero regard for what it was consuming.

Serena screamed. The scream was raw and destroyed and Fin heard it and it sounded exactly like the scream in the corridor when her mother fell. The same frequency. The same devastation. The same child watching the people she loved disappear.

She tried to dig. Her hands were too small and the snow was too deep and the mountain was too indifferent to the desperation of a twelve-year-old girl whose fingers were blue and whose lungs were burning and whose world had shrunk to the size of a hole she couldn’t find the bottom of.

Elara was beside her. Digging with the same wild, desperate energy, throwing snow with hands that were bleeding from ice crystals embedded in her palms. Both girls digging in silence because the screaming had stopped and what replaced it was the focused, animal determination of two children refusing to accept a verdict the mountain had already delivered.

They couldn’t reach him.

The slide had carried him too deep. The snow compressed as it settled, turning from powder into a substance closer to concrete, and two underfed girls whose combined weight was less than the boy they were trying to save couldn’t move it.

Neither would leave.

Fin watched them sit in the snow for an hour, refusing to abandon the spot, waiting for a hand to break through the surface, waiting for a sound, waiting for anything that proved the mountain was wrong and the boy underneath it was still breathing.

The hand never came.

They found a way down. It took three more hours. Serena led because Serena always led even when leading meant walking toward the thing you were most afraid of finding. They reached a lower elevation where the slide had deposited debris, and among the debris, partially exposed, was Garrett Darkhowler.

Fin’s blood ran cold.

Elara pressed her fingers against Garrett’s throat.

Waited.

Waited longer.

Her face told Fin everything before her mouth opened.

“He’s gone.”

Two words. Delivered by a fourteen-year-old girl kneeling in blood-streaked snow beside the body of the boy who had carried them out of hell, and the words were steady because Elara Vaelor had learned steadiness the same way Serena had learned composure, by necessity, by repetition, by the daily practice of holding yourself together because the alternative was falling apart and falling apart was a luxury that orphans in a warzone couldn’t afford.

Serena crouched beside him. Her hand found his face. She closed his eyes with her fingertips, the gesture careful, gentle, carrying the specific tenderness of a child performing a ritual she’d seen adults do and was doing now because there were no adults left.

They buried him.

With their hands. In the snow. Two girls, alone on a mountain, burying a boy who saved their lives with fingers that were frozen and bleeding. They built the grave as best they could, packing snow over his body, marking the spot with stones, working in silence because silence was the only ceremony they had and the ceremony was enough.

Serena pressed her forehead against the snow above his chest.

Whatever she said to him, Fin couldn’t hear. The words were whispered into the grave with the private, devastating intimacy of a goodbye that was never meant for an audience.

They stood. They walked south. Two girls, alone, moving through a mountain range that had taken everything from them and refused to give directions.

The memory shifted.

✦✦✦

White.

Total. Absolute. The kind of white that existed in the space between life and death, the waiting room where souls sat before the universe decided which door to open.

Garrett Darkhowler stood in it.

He looked the way he had looked under the snow: young, bruised, still wearing the armor that hadn’t been enough and carrying the sword that had been. His eyes were open. His expression was the expression of a boy who understood he was dead and was trying to decide how he felt about it.

He felt fine about it. Fin could see that. The acceptance was already in his posture. He had gotten the girls out. But he had not kept his promise to protect them. He tried. The cost was his life and the cost was acceptable and the acceptance was settled into his shoulders like a coat he’d been wearing for three days and had finally stopped noticing.

“I’m sorry. I failed,” he said to no one.