That winter was the coldest you’d ever felt in Seattle—not because of the weather, but because of what it felt like living without your mother.

She had always been the quiet strength in your life. When you were scared, she was the soft arms wrapping around you. When Isaac barked orders and made enemies bleed, she was the one who reminded him to come home and be gentle. She was the peace in the chaos. The light.

And when that light died… something in Isaac dimmed too.

He stopped smiling. Stopped coming home early to bring you and your siblings little things from patrol. He threw himself into the war effort like a man trying to outrun grief. But he couldn’t outrun you. You were her mirror. Her voice. Her eyes. And he didn’t know how to hold you without breaking.

So instead, he tried to control you.

“You’re too young.” “You’re not ready.” “You’ll do what I say, and you’ll stay here.”

Every word felt like a cage. You weren’t a little girl anymore—not the child he used to cradle, not the soft-hearted daughter he thought he could protect by keeping her shut inside WLF walls. You were your mother’s child. Gentle, yes. Kind, always. But brave. And you had survived too much to stay locked away.

But your father couldn’t see that. He saw your softness as something that needed to be guarded—hidden. And he saw Abby as a threat to that control.

Because Abby made you feel strong.

With her, you weren’t the “commander’s daughter.” You weren’t someone to protect or shelter. You were just you—and she loved that version of you with a quiet, fierce devotion that terrified your father.

You were eighteen, and she was twenty-six, and even if you both waited until you were old enough to choose—Isaac didn’t care. He hated it. Hated how Abby looked at you like you were her whole world. Hated that you looked back the same way. He tried to separate you. Assign Abby elsewhere. Put her on different missions. But it never worked.

She always came back to you.

Always.

And every time she did, you held onto her just a little tighter, because the WLF was starting to feel like a prison. Like you couldn’t breathe anymore. Every hallway was a reminder of your mother’s laugh. Every door, a reminder of your father’s rules. And Abby… she saw it. The pain. The grief. The longing to get out.

One night, after a long patrol, she found you sitting in the old greenhouse your mom used to care for, curled up in one of her jackets, crying softly where no one could hear.

Abby didn’t say anything at first. She just sat beside you, pulled you into her arms, and rested her chin against your head. The silence between you was sacred. You didn’t need words. But when you finally whispered, “I don’t want to be here anymore,” her arms tightened around you.

And then, softly:

“Then let’s leave.”

You lifted your head, eyes wide. “Where would we even go?”

Abby looked out over the ruined city, then back at you with a fire in her eyes that you hadn’t seen in weeks.

“Anywhere that feels like freedom.”

You didn’t leave that night. You weren’t impulsive. You weren’t like your father. You were your mother’s child—careful, clever, observant.

You made a plan.

You packed slowly. One thing at a time. A journal. Your mother’s necklace. Abby’s worn flannel. A bow and a few precious arrows. No guns—you never liked them anyway. You left a note for your siblings. One for your father too, even if you weren’t sure he’d ever understand.

You didn’t leave with rage in your heart. You left with love—for the woman who raised you, for the girl who used to braid Abby’s hair, and for the version of yourself you knew was still out there, somewhere in the wild, waiting to be found.

Abby waited at the edge of the gates, backpack slung over one shoulder, pulse racing. When she saw you step into the light, wearing your mother’s coat and your own quiet courage, she knew.

There was no turning back.

You took her hand. You didn’t look back.

And the two of you disappeared into the dawn.

Ready to build a new life. One not defined by the WLF, or Isaac’s shadow, or the pain of the past.