He knelt at the edge of the water, silent and deliberate.
I watched him gather herbs with hands that were too steady for someone who’d just torn through three boys like paper.
He crushed them into a pulp using river water and a flat piece of wood, movements precise, focused.
Then he turned.
And knelt in front of me.
My breath caught.
He reached up—slow, careful—as if to touch my face.
I flinched violently.
His hand hovered.
He didn’t pull back.
Didn’t get angry.
He just looked at me.
Really looked at me.
Like he was weighing something ancient and dangerous inside me…
and finding it familiar.
His voice was quiet when he spoke.
“I know what you are.”
My breath hitched.
“What?” I squeaked.
He nodded once, utterly unshaken.
A tiny curve touched the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, not quite a warning. Something in between.
“You can’t hurt me,” he said at last.
Soft. Certain. Not arrogant—simply a statement of fact.
Something inside me cracked open at his certainty.
“How do you know that?” I whispered.
He met my eyes without blinking.
Slowly, he shook his head.
“Because nothing hurts me,” he said.
Not boastful.
Not proud.
