Theea
Yla
I stay quiet as she talks, giving her space to say all of it. There’s so much more than I expected—layers of past and pain, of decisions that must’ve felt impossible in the moment. Her voice stays steady, mostly, but I can hear it—what’s underneath. The weight. The regret. The exhaustion of trying to do the right thing and still ending up hurt.
I don’t know what I expected when I asked, but it wasn’t this.
And then she says it, like it’s just another piece of the story: ruling Stormbreak.
It hits me.
I blink once, then again, almost sure I’ve misheard. But I haven’t. My thoughts stutter to a halt. Because this isn’t just some kind, quick-witted woman who offered me a place to stay. This is the Luminary. How did I not know that? And she’s here. Sitting next to me. Wincing over her bruised eye—the one I gave her—and a warmth in her voice like we’ve always known each other.
It’s too much and exactly enough, all at once.
When she finishes, I don’t speak right away. I need a second just to take it in. Then I let out a long breath and a low whistle, shaking my head.
“That’s… gods, Soh. That’s a lot.” I lean back against the wall again, watching the lanternlight flicker across the ceiling. “Even without the heartbreak stuff, just—Stormbreak. The Family. Losing your home. That’s already more than most people could handle.”
I pause, trying to find the right words. Not the comforting ones, but the true ones.
“You didn’t deserve anger for leaving.” My voice is steady now, anchored by something sharper than sympathy—conviction. “Not when it comes to the Family. You deserved compassion. A soft place to land. Not judgment.” I look at her, really look, and there’s no pity in it. “My mom always said: never pick the person who treats you like an option.” I let it hang there for a moment before I speak again, softer this time.
“You’re not an option, Sohalia.” Her name feels deliberate on my tongue, and it has to be. She’s got to hear me. “You’re someone’s certainty. Their peace. Their once-in-a-lifetime, if they’ve got any sense at all.” I glance back at the water bucket, then down at my scraped knuckle, suddenly feeling very small and taking up too much room all at once. “And if someone can’t see that… then they were never the one to begin with.”
I scoff a little laugh and I try not to let the ghost of a new sort of loneliness creep up on me. “Not that I’d know anything about it.” I’ve never even had that with a friend. I wonder if I will now, between Soh and Flora.
I don’t know what I expected when I asked, but it wasn’t this.
And then she says it, like it’s just another piece of the story: ruling Stormbreak.
It hits me.
I blink once, then again, almost sure I’ve misheard. But I haven’t. My thoughts stutter to a halt. Because this isn’t just some kind, quick-witted woman who offered me a place to stay. This is the Luminary. How did I not know that? And she’s here. Sitting next to me. Wincing over her bruised eye—the one I gave her—and a warmth in her voice like we’ve always known each other.
It’s too much and exactly enough, all at once.
When she finishes, I don’t speak right away. I need a second just to take it in. Then I let out a long breath and a low whistle, shaking my head.
“That’s… gods, Soh. That’s a lot.” I lean back against the wall again, watching the lanternlight flicker across the ceiling. “Even without the heartbreak stuff, just—Stormbreak. The Family. Losing your home. That’s already more than most people could handle.”
I pause, trying to find the right words. Not the comforting ones, but the true ones.
“You didn’t deserve anger for leaving.” My voice is steady now, anchored by something sharper than sympathy—conviction. “Not when it comes to the Family. You deserved compassion. A soft place to land. Not judgment.” I look at her, really look, and there’s no pity in it. “My mom always said: never pick the person who treats you like an option.” I let it hang there for a moment before I speak again, softer this time.
“You’re not an option, Sohalia.” Her name feels deliberate on my tongue, and it has to be. She’s got to hear me. “You’re someone’s certainty. Their peace. Their once-in-a-lifetime, if they’ve got any sense at all.” I glance back at the water bucket, then down at my scraped knuckle, suddenly feeling very small and taking up too much room all at once. “And if someone can’t see that… then they were never the one to begin with.”
I scoff a little laugh and I try not to let the ghost of a new sort of loneliness creep up on me. “Not that I’d know anything about it.” I’ve never even had that with a friend. I wonder if I will now, between Soh and Flora.
let go of your fears, and jump into the river
as the starlight bleeds out, let it be your new route
as the starlight bleeds out, let it be your new route
