They weren’t tracking me. They were waiting.
Kaster reaches me before they do, tearing through the formation with a violence that leaves the grass painted red. He doesn’t ask what I was doing. Doesn’t lecture. His silence cuts deeper than words would.
The second time, he’s the one who pulls away. Angles north to intercept a pack he’s spotted on the ridge, gesturing for me to hold position in a defensible hollow. The move of a predator who knows that hunting alone is faster.
Five hunters appear from the east within minutes. Not the pack he went to intercept—a different group, one that was clearly waiting for him to leave.
They know. The gods know we’re more vulnerable apart.
I burn magic I can’t spare to anchor one kill, buying myself enough time for Kaster to circle back. When he arrives, I’m bleeding from a gash across my forearm and my vision is spotting at the edges.
He kills the remaining four without breaking stride.
We don’t try to separate again.
The storm hits at dusk.
Not rain—ash. A wall of gray-white particles that reduces visibility to arm’s length and fills the air with the taste of old fire. The wind screams across the plains, driving the ash sideways, forcing it into eyes and lungs and every exposed inch of skin.
I’ve survived ash storms before. Alone, huddled in whatever shelter I could find, listening to the wind strip paint from stone and wondering if the structure would hold until morning. This one carries a metallic undertone, almost chemical. Divine residue bleeding into the atmosphere.
The gods are angry. The gods are always angry now.
Kaster spots the shelter before I do. He angles toward it without consultation, and I follow because the alternative is dying blind in a grit-filled nightmare.
The door hangs crooked on damaged hinges, but the walls are solid—eighteen inches of stone. Kaster shoulders through first, scanning the interior before stepping aside to let me pass.
Stone sleeping platforms, a dead fire pit, storage alcoves carved into the rock. Evidence of previous occupation litters the corners—a broken lantern, a child’s shoe cracked with age.
“Defensible.” Kaster’s verdict carries no comfort. “Single entrance. Walls thick enough to muffle approach sounds.”
“Thick enough to trap us if they breach the door.”
He doesn’t argue. Instead, he crosses to the damaged door and examines the hinges, testing the mechanism with careful pressure. The door won’t lock properly—the frame is warped—but it will close.
Outside, the ash storm rages. Through the gaps in the doorframe, I catch glimpses of gray-white chaos, the wind howling loud enough to drown any sounds of approach.
“They’ll circle.” I move toward one of the sleeping platforms, lowering myself carefully. My legs give slightly beneath me. “Use the storm as cover.”
“I know.”
He positions himself near the entrance, body angled to watch both the door and the interior. His attention never rests—constantly scanning, constantly processing.
Even when he’s looking at the storm, part of him is tracking me.
I notice because I’m trained to notice threats. His awareness of my position isn’t protective. It’s territorial. He’s mapped me into his space, and that mapping happened without my permission.
Without his, either, I suspect.
The fire pitholds cold ashes from whoever came before.
I don’t suggest lighting a fire. Neither does he. The smoke hole would vent the heat we desperately need, but it would also broadcast our position to everything circling above.
Instead, I pull my knees against my body and watch the storm through the gaps in the doorframe. The temperature drops as night approaches. The grit coating my skin makes every movement uncomfortable—ash worked into the creases of my clothing, behind my ears, under my nails.
Kaster hasn’t moved from his position near the door. He’s been standing there for over an hour, still as carved stone, only his eyes tracking the chaos outside.
“You need to rest.”
