The air outside felt colder than it should have.
Or maybe it was just her.
Ithilien stopped a few steps away from the house, the soft glow from the windows falling short of where she stood, leaving her half in shadow. The forest stretched out in front of her, dark and quiet, but it didn't calm her the way it usually did. Tonight, everything felt sharper. Louder. Too present.
For a long moment, she didn't move.
Then she reached for her phone. The number was still there. Some things didn't disappear just because you wanted them to. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a second longer than it should have.
Then she pressed call.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times—
"Ithilien."
His voice came through low, rougher than she remembered, like he hadn't been sleeping much either. There was no surprise in it, no confusion, as if he had been waiting for this call without admitting it even to himself.
Ithilien closed her eyes briefly.
"Marco is dead."
She didn't soften it. Didn't ease into it. There was no point.
"I see," Ace said finally, and although his voice remained controlled, there was something underneath it now—tight, restrained, dangerous in a way she knew all too well.
She let out a slow breath.
"They took him," she continued, her tone steadier than she felt. "He went with them. On purpose. He thought he could get close enough to figure it out from the inside."
A longer pause this time.
"And did he?" Ace asked quietly.
Ithilien's fingers tightened around the phone.
For a second, the image came back too clearly—Marco's eyes clearing for just a moment, his voice breaking through whatever had been controlling him, the way his hand had tightened around hers before everything fell apart.
"No," she said.
The word felt heavier than anything else she had said that night.
"He didn't."
Ace exhaled slowly on the other end, the sound almost lost in the distance between them.
"Then he knew the risk," he said.
It wasn't cruel but it wasn't comforting either.
Ithilien's jaw tightened.
"He was trying to stop it."
"I'm not saying he wasn't."
There it was.
That edge.
The one she used to push against. The one that had made everything between them fracture long before she ever left. She opened her eyes, staring into the dark.
"They're getting closer to something," she said instead, forcing herself back to what mattered. "This isn't random anymore. They're refining it. Stabilizing it."
"And you think you can stop them."
She let out a short, humorless breath.
"I'm not asking if I can."
"Ithilien…" he started, then stopped.
That alone made something twist in her chest, because Ace didn't hesitate like that. He didn't search for words.
"What?" she asked quietly.
"You're still in the middle of it," he said. "Closer than you should be."
Her grip tightened.
"I'm exactly where I need to be."
"You're exactly where it will break you."
That hit harder than she expected.
For a second, she didn't answer. Didn't want to give him the satisfaction of being right.
"It already did," she said finally.
The words came out calm.
Too calm.
On the other end, Ace went very still.
She could feel it, even through the distance.
Something in him shifted.
"Is that why you're calling?" he asked after a moment, his voice lower now. "Or is there something else?"
There was. Of course there was.
The bond pulsed faintly under her skin, weaker than it had ever been, stretched thin by time, distance, and everything they had both refused to fix. It didn't hurt the way it used to. It didn't pull the way it once had.
But it was still there.
And they both felt it.
"It's time," she said quietly.
The words settled between them like something inevitable.
Ace didn't ask what she meant.
He didn't need to.
"I figured," he replied, just as quiet.
No anger.
No resistance.
That almost made it worse.
Ithilien swallowed, her gaze drifting back toward the house, toward the light still on inside, toward the place that no longer felt temporary.
"I'm not coming back," she said.
"I know."
The answer came too quickly.
Too easily.
Her brows drew together slightly.
"That's it?" she asked, unable to keep the edge out of her voice. "No argument? No orders? No reminder of what I'm supposed to be?"
A faint exhale came through the line.
"You were never good at doing what you're supposed to be."
Despite everything—
despite the exhaustion, the grief, the weight of everything that had happened—
something in her almost smiled.
Almost.
"I thought that was the problem."
"It was," he said.
A pause.
"And it still is."
There it was.
The truth they had never managed to soften.
Ithilien looked down at the ground, at the damp earth beneath her boots.
"I can't go back there," she said more quietly now. "Not after this. Not after what I've seen. What he's doing—what they're turning people into…"
"I know."
His voice had lost its edge now.
Not softened.
Just… quieter.
More real.
"And I can't do it like this anymore," she added, her fingers tightening again around the phone. "I can't feel you every time something goes wrong. I can't—"
She stopped herself.
But it was too late.
Ace didn't interrupt.
He let the silence stretch just enough for the words to settle.
"You think I don't feel it?" he said finally.
Her breath caught.
"Ithilien, I knew something was wrong before you even called. That's how thin it's gotten."
That surprised her.
Not because she didn't believe him.
But because she hadn't realized it had changed that much.
"It's not supposed to work like that," she said quietly.
"No," he agreed. "It's not."
A beat.
Then—
"Which means it's already breaking."
The truth of that settled deep.
Slow.
Unavoidable.
Ithilien closed her eyes again, this time not to steady herself, but because she needed to feel it clearly.
The bond.
That faint thread still connecting them.
Weaker.
Frayed.
But still there.
"I don't want this anymore," she said.
The words were quiet.
But final.
Ace didn't argue.
He didn't try to convince her otherwise.
He just exhaled slowly.
"Then don't keep it."
Her throat tightened slightly.
It should have been harder than this.
It should have been a fight.
A struggle.
Something that mattered more.
But instead—
it felt like something that had already ended a long time ago.
They were just finally admitting it.
"You need your own pack," Ace said after a moment. "Your own ground. Your own people."
Her mind flicked again, uninvited, to Kidd.
To the way he had stood between her and Marco.
To the way he had carried her brother back.
To the way he hadn't left.
"I don't need an alpha," she said, quieter now.
"No," Ace replied. "But you need someone who won't let you fall apart when you try to carry everything alone."
That—
that landed.
She didn't answer.
Because she didn't know if she agreed.
Or if she was already proving him right.
"For what it's worth," he added, his voice softer now, almost distant, "you were never meant to stay with me."
Her eyes opened.
That wasn't something she had expected him to say.
Not like that.
Not now.
"Then why didn't you let me go sooner?" she asked.
The question slipped out before she could stop it.
A long silence followed.
And this time—
it wasn't easy.
"Because I thought I could change it," he said finally.
There was no pride in it.
No defensiveness.
Just the truth.
"I was wrong."
Something in her chest shifted.
Not breaking.
Not healing.
Just… settling.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "You were."
Another pause.
Then—
"Ithilien."
"Yes?"
His voice steadied again.
Back to something familiar.
Something final.
"Break it."
Her breath hitched.
The bond pulsed once more, faint but undeniable.
She focused on it.
On the thread.
On everything it had been.
Everything it had taken.
Everything it had failed to be.
Then—
she let it go.
It didn't snap.
It unraveled slowly, like something that had already been falling apart for too long to resist it now. The sensation was strange, not pain exactly, but an emptiness where something had always been, a quiet absence that settled into her bones as the last connection faded.
When it was gone—
it was gone completely.
No echo.
No pull.
No trace.
Ithilien opened her eyes.
The night felt different.
Lighter.
Sharper.
Hers.
She lowered the phone.
For a second, she considered saying something.
Goodbye.
Anything.
But there was nothing left that needed to be said.
So she didn't.
She ended the call.
And turned back toward the house.