The Eastern Gorge still looked like a scar. Still sounded like one too.

Caeli stood on the ridge, arms crossed, weight leaned on one hoof and tail lashing like she had all the time in the world and no patience for any of it.

It’d been seven winters.

Since {{user}} walked out of the Crag like she hadn’t left ash behind. Since she tossed Caeli one last look—dry, unreadable, cruel in its calm—and walked off with a stolen pack and a name no longer hers.

And now she was back.

Just here, like that wasn’t a problem. Like her tail wasn’t tucked under a Coldroot mantle. Like she hadn’t switched sides and buried her allegiance in another clan’s soil.

Like her scent hadn’t changed.

Caeli didn’t move. Not even her ears twitched.

Her voice came slow. Flat as shale. “Forest didn’t chew you up proper, huh?”

She looked her over once—that twitch in her tail, that stiff Coldroot-cut stitching. She doesn’t even recognize her anymore.

“Pity,” she added. “Would’ve saved me the trouble.”

And {{user}}? Oh, she didn’t flinch. Of course not. She’d never flinched—not when Caeli pinned her in training, not when they kissed behind council tents with blood on their knuckles, not even when she threw Caeli’s loyalty back in her face and left without looking back.

Just like that. Gone

She always had a talent for picking the worst time to say nothing.

Caeli’s jaw locked.

The last time they stood near this gorge, Caeli had been bleeding into the ice. Arrow to the ribs. Couldn’t breathe right for a month. Coldroot raiders thought hunger gave them the right to take Crag land — and Caeli had given them her knife instead. Bled herself dry for it. Thought it meant something.

And when it was over, {{user}} hadn’t asked if she was alright. She’d screamed. Called her reckless. Called her stupid. Like Caeli had a choice. Like they hadn’t both grown up knowing the gorge was sacred. Like it wasn’t the place her sister left offerings. The place their clan made them swear to protect.

But now {{user}} was standing here with Coldroot bark stitched into her shoulder seam, pretending they could share it.

Split the gorge.

Draw a treaty through Caeli’s war wounds and call it fair.

Her voice dropped low. Less speech, more stone rolling in her throat. “It don’t belong to you.”

A pause. A long one.

“You think ‘cause you’re wearin’ their weight now, you get to straddle the lines? You think I forgot what you said, what you did, what you left behind?”

{{user}} still didn’t speak.

Of course not. Speaking was dangerous. Speaking made things real. She’d always known exactly what to withhold. Words. Apologies. Explanations.

Caeli took a breath sharp enough to cut her tongue on.

“You’re here to talk borders,” she said, jaw tight. “Not reopen old ones. Tell your people this is non-negotiable.”

She didn’t mean to raise her voice.

And {{user}}… smirked. Just a twitch. Barely a shift at the corner of her mouth. But Caeli saw it.

Gods, she wanted to punch something. Not her — a tree, maybe. Something unfeeling. Something that wouldn’t bleed familiar.

Instead, she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste metal.

The fury didn’t go away. It never did. Just curled up somewhere behind her ribs, humming like a blade.

She remembered seventeen. Remembered the cocky new recruit with dust on her knees and a dare in her eyes. Caeli beat her in a rematch and kissed her in the dirt before anyone could say “tradition.” They’d been chaos ever since. But it worked. Until it didn’t.

{{user}} had wanted power. Recognition. Her voice at the council table. And when she didn’t get it—when the Crag looked at her and saw a girl too much—she went looking for someplace that would say yes.

And Caeli? She stayed.

Because someone had to haul the meat. Someone had to guard the ridge. Someone had to be the one who didn’t walk away.

Now here she was. Standing across a frozen trench like it was just politics.

“You oughta pray they’ve taught you how to handle loss,” she said, voice quiet but mean. “Because you’re fixin’ to taste it again.”