"There's a stream."
"A stream. How far from the clearing?"
"Close. Maybe fifty steps."
"Fifty steps from a stream. That's actually not terrible." Stream, fifty steps. Flat surface—unknown. Drying racks—build them. Moonbright supply—critical. "Does anyone there know anything about healing? Herbs, bandages, anything?"
"We have someone who does wound care. Basic stuff."
"How basic?"
"Wrapping and cleaning."
"Good. I can work with good. Anyone else?"
"Not really. Wolves heal fast. We don't usually need—"
"You need it now." I duck under a branch. "The poison changes everything. Fast healing doesn't mean anything if the wound's eating itself from the inside."
Kestria doesn't answer. Her breathing's changed—shorter, more careful.
I look at Keer's back. He hasn't slowed down.
"Hey."
Nothing.
"I'm talking to you."
His stride doesn't break.
"Sexy mountain man. Yes, you." I'm committing to this. The name is happening.
Kestria makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be pain.
"Your sister's side is getting worse." I raise my voice at his back. "And she won't say it because she's stubborn, which I'm guessing runs in the family based on current evidence."
He doesn't turn. Doesn't answer. But his pace drops. Not a lot. Just enough that Kestria's shorter steps aren't falling behind anymore.
"Thank you. Or not. Since apparently we're pretending I'm not here." I adjust the basket strap digging into my wrist. "That's fine. I can talk to myself. I do it all the time. Nugget's a terrible conversationalist so I've had years of practice."
"The tunic seam under your left arm is going to go, by the way. I give it another hour. Maybe less if you keep reaching for branches. I can fix it when we stop, if you want. I havethread in my pack. Somewhere. Under the waterskin, probably. Everything's under the waterskin. I packed in a panic. Which I'm sure you noticed."
His fingers straighten at his side. Curl back.
"Do you talk? To anyone? Or is this a me-specific silence? Because at the cottage you said words. Not many, but they were definitely words. 'Let's go.' That was two. So I know you can."
Kestria's biting her lip.
"I'm genuinely asking." I stare at his back. "If you don't talk, I'll stop waiting for answers. But if you do talk and you're just choosing not to talk to me specifically, I'd like to know so I can be appropriately offended."
His head turns. Just slightly. Not enough to look at me—just enough that I can see the edge of his jaw. The torn ear.
Then he faces forward again.
"Appropriately offended it is."
Kestria coughs. "He talks."
