The winds of the Upper Plains had always been wild, but nothing compared to the storm brewing inside Nesim.

You had never seen her like this.

Not when you’d first met her outside the Resistance QZ, her posture straight and formal, eyes assessing you with the sharp focus of an olo’eyktan measuring a stranger’s worth.

Not when you returned with her to the Zeswa plains, earning their trust by learning to ride a direhorse the way they did—bareback, in full harmony, no fear. Not even when you faced the RDA together in a three-clan alliance—Aranahe, Zeswa, Kame’tire—your ikran Fury screaming across the sky as the plains warriors thundered below.

But now?

Now she looked at you as if you had personally ripped the wind out of her lungs.

You stood just outside the Aranahe kelku, the lush forests humming around you, bioluminescent vines trembling with evening light. You had already told the clan of your decision—after the final battle, after bringing peace between three peoples, you wanted to remain with the Aranahe. You had more friends here, a second family that had grown from the first clan to take you in when the last of the Sarentu sought refuge. This was where you had bonded Fury, where you had helped the Aranahe reconnect with their Kinglor, where their trust in you had deep roots.

But Nesim…

She arrived on her direhorse, breath sharp, jaw clenched. Even her sister Minang stayed back, eyes wide, sensing the heat rolling off her.

“Leyra.” Her voice was low, shaking with something she rarely let anyone hear. “You choose to stay here?”

You took a slow breath. “Yes. The Aranahe—”

“The Aranahe,” she snapped, dismounting in one fluid motion, “have a full clan. A full life. A full future. They do not need you.”

Her stripes glowed faintly, agitation making her skin shimmer like lightning under the surface.

“But I—” you tried.

She stepped closer, nose nearly brushing yours. “And what of us? What of the Zeswa? What of the bonds we forged? Did they mean so little to you?”

You swallowed. You had expected disappointment. Maybe sadness.

Not this… fury laced with heartache.

“Nesim,” you said softly. “I didn’t think you wanted—”

“You did not think,” she bit out. “Or you would have seen it.”

Minang cleared her throat gently. “Sister—”

“No.” Nesim’s hand lifted, silencing her. Her eyes stayed locked on yours, pupils wide, wounded. “You came to us. You trained with us. You rode with us. You fought beside me every step of the way. And every day, Leyra, I waited.”

“For what?” you breathed.

“For you to see me,” she said. “Not as an olo’eyktan. Not as a warrior. As your person.”

The words hit harder than any blow the RDA could throw.

Your heart stuttered. “Nesim… I never knew.”

Her voice cracked for the first time since you had met her. “Because you never looked.”

Silence folded around the two of you, thick as the forest air.

“You would choose Aranahe over me?” she whispered. “After everything?”

The ache in her voice nearly undid you.

Not anger. Not betrayal.

But the raw fear of losing you.

“Tell me, Leyra,” she said, taking your hand—almost desperate. “If I asked you to come back to the Plains with me… would you?”