“There should be smoke.”

  Jina said it before she meant to.

  It came out raw, like her throat was sandpaper and pride.

  Lysander didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

  The outpost sat ahead on a rise of broken stone—low walls, a squat watchtower leaning slightly, gate half-hung like a jaw that had forgotten how to close. Wind slid through it and made the whole place look empty.

  No movement.

  No voices.

  No birds.

  No smoke.

  Jina’s stomach tightened.

  Outposts meant people.

  People meant heat, water, supplies, a place to collapse without dying on a rock.

  This looked like none of those things.

  Lysander slowed them anyway, one hand lifting—halt. Not a Command. A signal.

  Jina stopped because she was smart.

  She also stopped because her legs were shaking.

  Her chest still felt like it had a belt wrapped around it and someone kept testing the buckle.

  The poison was patient.

  The bond threads were not.

  They trailed from her sternum and disappeared into distance, faint in daylight until they pulsed.

  The cold thread—Theron—stayed tight, controlled. Not screaming now.

  Worse.

  Quiet.

  Quiet meant either he’d regained control… or he didn’t have room to scream.

  Jina swallowed and tasted iron.

  “Stay,” Lysander murmured.

  He moved forward alone, silent as a shadow, circling wide instead of taking the obvious path. He didn’t trust gates. He didn’t trust open ground. He didn’t trust anything that looked too convenient.

  Jina waited where she was, leaning on a jagged rock and trying not to look like she needed it.

  Wind slapped her face. Grit stuck to her lips.

  She wiped her mouth and came away with a smear of dried blood.

  Great. Very regal. Very “returned tyrant princess.”

  Her eyes tracked Lysander as he reached the outer wall and disappeared from view.

  A second passed.

  Then another.

  Jina forced herself not to panic.

  She wasn’t going to shout his name.

  Shouting was how you announced you were weak, alone, and worth hunting.

  She breathed in through her nose.

  Out through her mouth.

  Slow.

  The outpost didn’t change.

  Still no smoke.

  Still no sound.

  Still empty.

  Then Lysander reappeared at the broken gate and gave a short gesture—come.

  Jina pushed off the rock and walked.

  One step.

  Two.

  Her heartbeat skipped on the third.

  She kept moving.

  Up close, the outpost looked older than it should have. Stone worn by grit. Wooden beams warped. A banner pole snapped clean, the old rope hanging like a dead vine.

  Jina stepped over a half-buried spearhead and felt her skin crawl.

  This wasn’t abandoned because people left.

  This was abandoned because something made them stop coming back.

  Lysander held the gate with his shoulder to keep it from squealing as she passed.

  He glanced at her.

  “Quiet,” he said.

  “I’m always quiet,” Jina muttered.

  His eyes narrowed like he didn’t appreciate the joke.

  Fair.

  Jina shut up.

  Inside the walls, the courtyard was bare. A firepit filled with ash. A trough overturned. A set of steps leading up to the tower. Three doors—barracks, storage, a smaller building that might have been an office.

  No bodies.

  No obvious blood.

  That didn’t make it better. It made it suspicious.

  Lysander crouched near the firepit and dragged his fingers through the ash.

  His gaze sharpened.

  Jina watched his face.

  “Recent?” she asked quietly.

  Lysander didn’t answer right away. He shifted to the ground near the gate, where dust had collected in a shallow drift.

  He stared.

  Then he pointed.

  Jina followed the line of his finger.

  Boot prints.

  Not just one set.

  Several.

  Pressed deep into the dust like the men wearing them weren’t starving.

  The edges of the prints were crisp. Not softened by wind.

  Fresh.

  Jina’s stomach dropped.

  “How fresh,” she whispered.

  Lysander’s jaw tightened. “Hours.”

  Jina’s throat went dry.

  Hours meant someone had been here recently.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Hours meant they weren’t alone in the Wastes.

  Hours meant the whistle wasn’t paranoia.

  Her gaze flicked to the boot prints again.

  They weren’t random. They had direction.

  In.

  Then out.

  And the outprints… angled toward the trail Jina and Lysander had taken to reach the outpost.

  Toward the cliff path.

  Toward the ravine.

  Toward where the beast had attacked.

  Toward where Aurelia had “died.”

  Jina’s skin went cold beneath her fever.

  “They’re looking for…” She didn’t finish.

  Lysander did.

  “Your corpse.”

  The words hit like a slap.

  Jina swallowed hard.

  “Corpse,” she repeated, because hearing it out loud made something twist in her chest.

  Not grief.

  A grim awareness.

  This world had already filed her as dead. Someone was just making sure she stayed that way.

  Lysander rose and moved to the storage door. He didn’t touch the handle. He studied it first.

  The hinges.

  The lock.

  The gaps around the frame.

  “Someone went inside,” Jina said.

  Lysander glanced at her. “You can tell.”

  “Because the door is—” she stopped, squinting. The wood looked clean around the handle compared to everything else. “Because it’s been touched recently.”

  Lysander’s gaze sharpened, approving in a way he didn’t say out loud.

  He set his palm near the door—not on the handle—and pushed gently.

  It opened without a creak.

  Too smooth.

  Jina’s eyes narrowed.

  “Oil,” she whispered.

  Lysander nodded once.

  Oiled hinges meant someone wanted silent entry.

  Not soldiers doing routine checks.

  Hunters.

  He stepped inside first.

  Jina followed, keeping her steps light.

  The storage room was half-empty. Old crates. Broken barrels. A rack of spears with more gaps than weapons. Dust everywhere.

  Except in one place.

  A crate near the back had been dragged.

  The dust around it showed scrape marks.

  Jina crouched, ignoring the protest in her knees, and ran her fingers over the scrape.

  Fresh.

  The wood still had rough splinters that hadn’t dulled with time.

  They’d moved this recently.

  Lysander looked down at her.

  “What.”

  “Someone was searching,” Jina said. “Not looting. Searching.”

  “For what? Supplies? Papers?

  Or… a body.

  Jina’s throat tightened.

  She stood, a little too fast.

  The room tilted.

  Lysander’s hand came up—then stopped.

  Permission.

  Even now.

  Jina hated that her throat got tight over it.

  She nodded once.

  His grip steadied her elbow until the dizziness passed.

  He released immediately after, like touching her was a risk he didn’t take lightly.

  Jina cleared her throat. “This is a trap.”

  Lysander didn’t deny it.

  He moved to the next door—the smaller building—and checked the ground outside it.

  More prints.

  Some smaller. Lighter.

  Not all the same boot.

  A group.

  And here—right at the threshold—two prints overlapped. Like someone had paused, turned, and waited.

  Waited for someone to walk in.

  Jina’s pulse spiked.

  “Tripwire?” she whispered.

  Lysander’s eyes flicked up and down the doorway.

  Then he raised his knife and slid the tip along the bottom edge of the doorframe.

  A thin line of tension gleamed for a split second.

  Wire.

  Jina’s stomach dropped.

  Lysander caught her look.

  He didn’t say I told you so.

  He didn’t need to.

  He cut the wire with one clean motion.

  The tension snapped.

  Nothing exploded.

  Nothing rang.

  That was worse.

  It meant the wire wasn’t meant to kill.

  It was meant to alert.

  Or to seal.

  Or to mark.

  Jina swallowed hard. “We should leave.”

  Lysander didn’t argue.

  He backed away from the door, scanning the courtyard again.

  His eyes kept going to the tower.

  The watchtower had a narrow slit window facing the path.

  A good view.

  A perfect place to hide.

  Jina followed his gaze.

  Her chest tightened.

  “You think someone’s still here,” she whispered.

  Lysander’s voice stayed flat. “Possibly.”

  Jina’s hand drifted toward her sternum before she could stop herself.

  The threads hummed under her skin.

  The splinter-word sat behind her tongue again.

  Stop.

  It didn’t strain her like Heal did.

  It didn’t drain her the same way.

  It just… waited.

  Hungry.

  Easy.

  One word and everything could freeze. One word and she’d have control.

  And then she remembered Lysander’s face on the cliff path.

  The flash of horror.

  The way his body had gone rigid like a chain tightening around his throat.

  Jina forced her hand down.

  No.

  Not for convenience.

  Not for fear.

  Not because she wanted control.

  Her gaze flicked to Lysander.

  He was watching the tower. Watching the corners. Watching the shadows between doors.

  His injured leg was holding, but she could see the strain in the set of his shoulders.

  He was tense.

  Ready to bleed.

  Ready to die.

  Because that was what shadows did.

  Jina’s mouth went dry.

  “Lysander,” she whispered.

  He didn’t look at her. “What.”

  “If… if we’re caught,” she said carefully, “what do they do.”

  Lysander’s jaw flexed once. “They don’t bring you back.”

  “They kill me,” Jina said.

  “Yes.”

  “And if they think I’m… wrong,” she forced out, “they—”

  “They burn you,” Lysander said, calm as a blade.

  Jina’s stomach lurched.

  She pressed her fingers to her own wrist like she could ground herself in numbers.

  Fast pulse.

  Too fast.

  Her body didn’t like this conversation.

  Her soul liked it even less.

  The cold thread pulsed.

  Not fear this time.

  A clean, hard pressure.

  Theron—somewhere—had gone still.

  Like a door closing.

  Like a strategist making a decision.

  Jina’s breath caught.

  “What are you doing,” she whispered under her breath, not sure if she meant Theron or herself.

  Lysander’s head turned sharply.

  He’d heard the change in her breathing.

  Not the words.

  “Which one,” he demanded.

  Jina swallowed. “The cold one.”

  Lysander’s eyes hardened. “Theron.”

  Jina nodded.

  The cold thread didn’t yank.

  It didn’t scream.

  It was… braced.

  Her chest felt tight, like she’d swallowed ice.

  “He’s… calm,” she said, and it came out wrong. “Too calm.”

  Lysander didn’t waste a question on what that meant.

  He looked up at the tower again.

  Decision made.

  He jerked his chin toward the barracks door. “In. Fast.”

  Jina hesitated.

  Walking into a building in a place full of traps felt like walking into a lion’s mouth and hoping it was asleep.

  But standing in the open courtyard was worse.

  She followed.

  The barracks smelled like old sweat and damp straw. Bunks lined the walls. Most were stripped bare. A few had torn blankets left behind like someone didn’t have time to gather everything.

  Jina’s gaze caught on the floor near the far bunk.

  A scuff mark.

  Then another.

  Something heavy had been dragged here.

  She moved closer and crouched.

  On the stone, half-hidden under dust, was a dark smear.

  Not tar.

  Not beast fluid.

  Dried blood.

  Jina’s throat tightened.

  Lysander saw it too.

  His voice went low. “They didn’t leave clean.”

  Jina stared at the blood.

  A small part of her—the modern, medical part—wanted to know whose it was.

  If it was fresh. If it was arterial. If it meant someone died here or was taken alive.

  Another part of her didn’t want to know.

  Knowing meant caring.

  Caring meant time.

  Time was the one thing she didn’t have.

  She stood slowly.

  Her head spun.

  She steadied herself on the bunk frame, fingers digging into rough wood.

  Lysander’s gaze flicked to her hand, then to her face.

  “Sit,” he said.

  Jina shook her head. “No.”

  “You’re shaking.”

  “I’m poisoned,” she snapped, then forced her voice down. “I’m not sitting in a room that’s been searched by people hunting my corpse.”

  Lysander’s jaw tightened.

  He didn’t argue.

  He moved to the slit window and looked out.

  Jina forced herself to breathe.

  Action. Reaction. Consequence.

  Okay.

  Action: Someone came here recently.

  Reaction: They set traps. They searched. They dragged something. They left.

  Consequence: They’re close enough to kill her.

  Close enough to be watching.

  Jina’s eyes scanned the room again.

  Something felt off.

  Not the blood.

  Not the bunks.

  The air.

  Too still.

  Too… expectant.

  Like the Wastes itself had paused to see what she’d do.

  The splinter-word rose again in her throat, uninvited.

  Stop.

  She swallowed hard.

  No.

  She would not turn panic into a weapon.

  She would not become the tyrant in her own rescue story.

  Jina exhaled slowly through her nose and tried to think like a vet walking into a cage with an injured animal.

  You don’t rush.

  You don’t make sudden moves.

  You don’t assume the quiet means safe.

  Lysander’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Tracks.”

  Jina looked up.

  He pointed through the slit window to the dust outside the barracks.

  Boot prints.

  But these weren’t the ones from earlier.

  These were newer—lighter, closer together.

  Someone had approached the barracks after the main group left.

  Someone had come back.

  Jina’s mouth went dry.

  “Those aren’t ours,” she whispered.

  Lysander didn’t blink. “No.”

  Jina’s chest tightened.

  Her threads hummed like live nerves.

  The hot thread pulsed once, sharp and angry, as if Kaelen had felt her fear and hated it.

  The sharp thread flickered with amusement, like someone far away was laughing without sound.

  The fire thread stirred, restless.

  And the cold thread—Theron—held still, like a man waiting for impact.

  Jina looked at the prints again.

  They stopped right outside the barracks door.

  Like whoever made them was standing there.

  Listening.

  Jina’s breath caught.

  Because she didn’t hear anything.

  No footsteps.

  No breathing.

  No shifting weight.

  Only the wind, far outside, scratching at the walls.

  Lysander’s hand moved to his knife.

  He didn’t draw it yet.

  He waited.

  So did the person outside.

  Jina’s throat went tight around a single word.

  Stop.

  It sat behind her teeth like poison.

  Easy. Clean. Absolute.

  One syllable and she could freeze whatever was out there before it struck.

  She stared at Lysander’s profile in the dim light.

  At the way he didn’t shake.

  At the way he would take the hit for her without thinking.

  And she understood the trap, finally.

  It wasn’t just the wire.

  It wasn’t just the tracks.

  It was this.

  A moment designed to push her into using the power everyone feared.

  A moment designed to prove the tyrant was back.

  Jina’s fingers curled into her palm until her nails bit skin.

  No.

  Not today.

  Not for them.

  Not for Diadem.

  The barracks door creaked.

  Slow.

  Controlled.

  As if someone was opening it carefully, without haste.

  Lysander didn’t move.

  His eyes fixed on the widening crack.

  Jina’s heart slammed against her ribs.

  The crack widened enough for a sliver of shadow to appear.

  Then a voice—polite, measured, almost gentle—spoke from the other side.

  “Your Highness,” it said.

  Jina went cold.

  Because the voice wasn’t surprised to find her alive.

  It had been following the corpse.

  And it had finally found her.

  [Trap]