OPERATION WINTERSPINE (Strings Between Us Book 2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: OF SHADOWS, GHOST SCALPEL PROMISES,

A pause. My voice lands like the drop before detonation.

"We will save him. No matter what it takes."

Their silence doesn't beg. Doesn't plead. It concedes. Because they know. We're not asking permission. We never were.

***

The door opens. No knock this time.

Keryn steps in first, posture sharp with unsaid things. Thres follows behind, silent, steady-like the wall you lean on when everything else is collapsing.

They don't sit. They don't ask how I'm doing.

"She's awake."

I don't answer. I already know. The way Saichel's pulse pattern shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. Stable. Centered. She's awake.

"Stable," Keryn continues. "A bit disoriented, but she came around about twenty minutes ago."

I shut my eyes. Let the breath escape slow. "Is... he with her?"

Keryn nodded. "Yes."

"Good," I said. Voice low, not bitter. Just... final. "He should be."

Keryn doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just looks at me. Like she's scanning the fault lines in my chest. Reading the blueprints of a soul I've long since compartmentalized.

"You're a Tactician," she says. Quiet. Clear. "Not a martyr."

"No," I reply. Voice like steel under ice. "I'm both."

She doesn't argue. But she doesn't agree either. She doesn't have to. The machines hum beside me—cold, methodical.

A heartbeat I don't own. But one I chose to keep beating. For them.

Then she says it. Quiet. Precise. Unshaking.

"You still love her, Xythe."

No hesitation. No drama. Just a truth laid flat, like a report filed and stamped.

I open my eyes.

Keryn doesn't blink. No sympathy. No softness. Just the same surgical clarity I've seen her use when dismantling security grids or disabling a trap.

"I never said I didn't," I reply.

Even tone. Measured. Like I've run that line a thousand times in my head—
And never out loud.

She nods once. Slow. Clinical. Like confirming a result she already knew.

"You left her. You broke up with her."

"I had to."

"She got stronger."

"I know."

"She doesn't need you anymore."

That one lands with the efficiency of a sniper's round. No warning. Just impact.

I look away. Not because she's wrong—but because she's right.
And it cuts deeper than the stitches in my shoulder ever will.

Keryn leans forward slightly. Posture relaxed, voice sharp. Fingers laced like she's wrapping wire around a bomb no one wants to admit is ticking.

"So what now?" She doesn't raise her voice. She doesn't have to. "You just keep bleeding in her shadow while she runs toward someone else?"

"She's not just someone," I answer. Voice low. Controlled. The words fall like weight, not sound.

"She's the Heart of the Court. My co-tactician. My—"