“I could.”
Her eyes meet mine. Steady. Unafraid.
“You didn’t let them kill me. Any of those times.” She doesn’t look away. “And don’t say it’s because I’m useful.”
“You’re useful?—”
“Bullshit.”
The word lands like a blow. She sits up straighter, dark eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that sends heat crawling up my spine.
“You took six wounds protecting me.” She gestures at my torso, where blood still seeps through torn fabric. “Wounds you didn’t need to take. That’s not cold calculation. That’s?—”
She stops. Swallows. Looks away.
Her hands are trembling. Not fear—I know what fear smells like. This is different. Closer to anger. Closer to frustration with a truth neither of us will speak.
“That’s not cold calculation,” she repeats. Quieter. More certain.
She’s right.
My blood runs hotter than dragon fire should allow. Her hands shake with more than exhaustion. And somewhere in the distance, the gods are building better monsters because we keep surviving the ones they send.
We move at midnight.
The plains stretch east under a sky thick with stars. Open ground. Better sight lines. Terrain that favors speed over ambush—the kind of environment where I fight best and hunters struggle to coordinate.
Soreia keeps pace without slowing. The Anchor pulses faintly in my awareness—recovering in increments too small to measure—but her legs are steady. Her breathing is controlled.
Determined. Refusing to slow us down.
I adjust my stride to match hers.
We walk for hours in silence. The dead forest gives way to scrubland, then to open grass that whispers against our legs. The temperature drops as we leave the ravine’s sheltered corridor.
I should feel relief. Open ground means I can see attacks coming. Means I can intercept threats before they reach her position.
Instead, I feel the absence of cover like an itch between my shoulder blades.
No barriers between her and approaching enemies.
Nothing to hide behind if I fail.
The thoughts arrive unbidden. I crush them before they can take root.
Dawn findsus on the edge of the plains.
The grass stretches toward the horizon in every direction—golden-brown and dying, but still standing. No hunters have appeared since we left the forest. No scouts testing the perimeter. The silence feels wrong.
They’re regrouping. Analyzing. Designing the next iteration.
I stop at a natural depression in the terrain—shallow enough to see over, deep enough to provide partial concealment. Not ideal shelter, but better than standing exposed.
“Rest.” Clipped. Final. “I’ll watch.”
Soreia sinks into the grass without argument. Her eyes close almost immediately—genuine exhaustion winning over vigilance.
I settle at the depression’s edge and scan the horizon.
