THE UNBROKEN

Marisiana breathed like a living beast—humid, rich with life, and endlessly shifting.

The stilted stronghold rose from the flooded lowlands like a skeletal fortress, dark wood and woven reeds lashed together over hidden depths. Massive cypress trees loomed like elders, draped in silver moss, their roots tangled in secrets too old for scripture. Beneath the raised platforms, black water stretched wide and glassy, veiling whatever lived below.

Birds called from the treetops.

Insects hummed in thick, golden air.

And from somewhere deeper in the trees, the sound of distant drums echoed softly—signaling another boat's arrival.

The rebellion was growing.

Every few days, long canoes slid quietly through hidden routes, ferrying the desperate to safety. Survivors. Deserters. Witchkind. Sympathizers. Even former clergy. Their eyes were tired. Their skin was sun-hardened. Each came in silence, guided only by glyph-marked maps, whispers, and faith.

At the central council platform, Niegal stood tall, Elena at his side. Esperanza, slung against his chest in a black wrap, stirred faintly—dark curls sticking to his tunic. She was nearly three months old now, observant and silent, blinking up at the rebel camp as if memorizing every face.

"Move the northern units toward the reed bed trail," Niegal instructed, tapping a hand-drawn map spread over the table. "If they can control the mana geysers there, the Church loses its only eastern access route."

Elena nodded, scanning field reports inked on parchment. "And have Phineus oversee the perimeter garrisons. He needs the command experience before winter."

A grizzled general raised a brow. "He's only fifteen."

"Then he'll learn fast," Elena said flatly, not looking up. "The war isn't waiting for him to grow up."

No one argued. Not anymore.

They were used to it now—this seamless unity between Niegal and Elena. Bold, adaptive. Efficient. Their strategies were spoken like ritual, finished like a dance. They passed Esperanza between them during council without missing a beat. Orders flowed. Hope moved forward.

It wasn't rare to see the three of them huddled over crates and makeshift tables, reading glyph-laced intelligence, marking territories, plotting rescue routes. Niegal would crouch low, tracing maps with calloused fingers. Elena would pace, translating magical notations. And Esperanza would gnaw on a polished mana stone as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

To some, it was strange.

Unorthodox.

Improper.

But it worked.

Elsewhere, beneath a tilted railing strung with drying herbs, Aurora leaned out into the swamp air.

Lanterns floated in the water below like stars that had chosen to drown. Their light flickered across her face—worn and sharp, beautiful and tired.

She thought of the lonely years.

The stillness of her estate after her children fell asleep. The cracked letters and overdue bills. The quiet dread that crept in with each sunset. Not knowing whether Alejandro was alive, or dead. Or worse—whether he had simply chosen to leave her.

Now here he was.

Always nearby. Quiet, steady. Shadowing her like a ghost too stubborn to fade.

"Gods, you're like a leech," she muttered one evening, arms crossed, watching him peel fruit for the younger children. They took it from him with suspicion and delight.

Alejandro didn't miss a beat. "A handsome leech. Don't forget that part."

She rolled her eyes. "I raised both our children for thirteen years alone, Ale. It's not that easy to forgive."

His grin faded. Still, he nodded. "I know. I was locked underground. I still remember the stench. The darkness. How they asked the same questions over and over—as if they thought I'd eventually stop loving you."

She looked at him then, sideways. Quiet. "And did you?"

His voice softened, stripped bare. "Never. That was the one thing they couldn't beat out of me."

Aurora looked away.

It hurt, his presence.

Not because it wounded her.

But because it healed her.

And healing often hurt more than the wound.

Still, she didn't stop him when he placed a hand on her back. When he rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades during the quiet moments of panic.

She didn't stop leaning in, either.

When the wind turned cold.

When the memories hit too hard.

She hated how safe she felt.

Loved it, too.