There are so many things that need to be said. That nestle down in the spaces of her teeth and wait for her tongue to push them free. But she doesn't. Can't. Her life has been best lived in silence, which is to say she knows regret better than acceptance. Sleeps easier knowing she's got nothing to come home to when the war is won. If the war is won. If she lives to see it happen.
Kyra holds her like maybe she knows. Buries her face in the rough leather of mercenary gear and breaths deep, nearly cries in her exhale. Doesn't quite give Kassandra or their situation in general the satisfaction.
"Don't come back," she whispers into the night, and they both recognize it as a plea dressed in a threat; if you leave, when you leave, only come back for me.
Kassandra isn't in the habit of making promises she can't keep. Besides, she doesn't like words much. Too loud, too dramatic. Too forgettable. So in place of goodbye she leaves off with her bitten silence. Holds on to the rebel in her arms for as long as she is able and then watches Krya ghost away like the too-good-to-be-a-bad-idea she has been since Mykanos' horizon slipped into view.
Kyra's lips velvet touch across her cheek, and then she's slipping away like a thief in the night. No farewell. Only taking more than Kassandra realized she even had to offer. Only leaving the misthios with an aching chest and the memory of what could have been.