Magic depletion. Faster than I expected.
“You need food.”
Surprise flickers across her face before she smooths it away.
“I haven’t—” She stops. Considers. “I don’t remember when I last ate.”
I leave without explaining and return twenty minutes later with a rabbit-sized creature from one of the vent colonies. Dead. Cleaned. The meat will need cooking, but that’s not a problem in territory where fire is always available.
She stares at it like she’s forgotten food exists.
“Fire. If you need it.”
“You’re offering to cook for me?”
“I’m offering fire.” I position myself at the depression’s edge, facing outward. “What you do with it is your concern.”
The sounds of movement follow—gathering stones, arranging fuel, the stripped-down work of staying alive in hostile terrain.
A small fire crackles to life behind me. The smell of cooking meat fills the small space.
Behind me, she eats like someone remembering that bodies require sustenance. Fast at first, then slower as her system registers the intake. The Anchor pulse strengthens marginally with each bite.
I watch the horizon and track her recovery without turning around.
I notice when her breathing evens into sleep.
The instinct that keeps me facing outward, guarding the entrance—I don’t name it.
The night passes in silence. No scouts test the perimeter. No god-made horrors breach my territory.
She sleeps behind me, trusting my vigilance without asking for it.
I don’t sleep. Haven’t slept since she entered my domain. The fire in my blood keeps exhaustion at bay, but even without it, I wouldn’t close my eyes.
She’s strongerthe next morning.
Not recovered—true recovery takes longer than one night. But stronger. The trembling has stopped. Her steps are steadier. The Anchor beats with more definition.
I lead her east without discussion.
The scouts are massing. I feel it in the way the air pressure changes, in how sounds carry across my territory. They’re preparing. Coordinating.
Coming.
Whatever hunt brought this witch to my domain is about to escalate.
I could send her away. Point her toward the wastelands and return to my solitary territory, my clean boundaries, my simple rules.
Instead, I adjust my patrol route to keep her in my sight lines.
Instead, I position myself between her and every potential approach angle.
Instead, I tell myself this is practical. Protecting my territory from the complications her death would create.
She walks beside me now instead of behind. Close enough that her shoulder nearly brushes my arm when the terrain narrows. Close enough that her scent fills my awareness. Close enough that I could reach her in a heartbeat if anything attacked.
FIVE
