“We need to move.” The words come out rougher than intended. “More will follow. They know where we are.”
She accepts the deflection with grace I don’t deserve. “Southeast. The ice-scarred plains.”
“Yes.”
We gather what little we have. Check weapons. Verify supplies. The morning sun climbs higher, burning away the gray fog that clings to the ruined landscape.
When we walk, she stays close.
Close enough to reach.
The terrain opensup as we travel. Rocky outcroppings give way to sparse grassland, then to the first traces of ice damage—earth scarred by old enforcement, vegetation struggling to return where god-sent cold held sway for too long.
I scan constantly. Process every shadow, every movement, every shift in air current that might indicate an approaching threat.
Her presence registers as a constant awareness at the edge of my perception. The sound of her breathing. The rhythm of her footsteps. The particular scent of her magic, that signature of endings and anchors that my senses have learned to track without trying.
“You’re thinking loudly.”
Her voice breaks through my evaluation cycles. I glance at her—calm, composed, watching me with eyes that see more than they should.
“I don’t think loudly. I think in straight lines.”
“You’ve been clenching your fists for the past mile.”
I look down. She’s right. My hands have curled into weapons on their own, talons partially extended, ready for combat that hasn’t materialized.
I force them to relax. The talons retract.
“Anticipating threats.”
“Or processing what happened back there.”
“Rumination is a waste.” The creature is dead. The threat is eliminated. We move forward.
She doesn’t call me on the obvious deflection. Instead, she returns her attention to the path ahead, scanning the landscape with the same constant evaluation I employ.
We’re learning to function as a unit. Separate awareness combining into a shared threat detection.
Complementary systems.
Partnership.
The word still fits, even if it feels increasingly inadequate.
We stopat midday to rest.
Not because I need it—my body has recovered fully from the morning’s violence. Because she needs it. The magic she used yesterday, clearing the divine toxin from my wounds, cost her more than she’s willing to admit. Her movements have grown careful again. Her breathing slightly labored.
I don’t mention it. She’d only deny it.
Instead, I position myself between her and the open ground.
She eats dried meat and drinks from a waterskin we refilled at the shrine. Her eyes stay alert even while resting, tracking the landscape, processing potential threats.
“The Veiled One.” She speaks without preamble. “The informant mentioned it. A god that designs monsters rather than commanding armies.”
“I remember.”
