The ash plains never slept, but they did grow quiet.

Fire pits burned low, their glow smearing red across blackened stone. The Ash Tribe moved like shadows around them—watchful, restrained, listening to the land as much as to each other. You stood at the edge of the camp, heat curling around your ankles, eyes fixed on the horizon where smoke met sky.

Quaritch didn’t approach like an invader this time.

He came alone.

No weapons raised. No escort. Just that heavy, deliberate stride, like the ground owed him space. You felt him before you saw him—an unfamiliar presence that had somehow become… expected.

“You keep choosing dangerous places to stand,” he said, stopping a few paces away.

“And you keep coming back,” you replied.

The air between you was thick with ash and something unspoken. He looked different here, stripped of command and squads and purpose handed down by others. Still sharp. Still dangerous. But quieter. More real.

“You could’ve turned me away,” he said. “A dozen times.”

You tilted your head. “So could you.”

That earned a low breath of a laugh. He studied you the way he studied battlefields—not to conquer, but to understand the cost. His hand lifted slowly, palm open, stopping short of touching you. Waiting.

Among your people, that mattered.

“You don’t belong to the sky anymore,” you said. “And you don’t belong to us.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I’m still here.”

Fire cracked nearby. Embers drifted upward like sparks caught between worlds. You closed the distance yourself, resting your forehead briefly against his chest—an Ash Tribe vow older than words. Not ownership. Not surrender.

Choice.

Quaritch froze, then carefully rested his hand against your back, as if afraid the moment might burn him if he held it wrong.

“Mates,” you said quietly. Not a question.

He exhaled, steady and certain. “Yeah.”

The ash accepted it. The fire did too.

And for the first time, neither of you stood alone in it.