Page 51 of Enslak

He pulled me back gently but firmly, shaking his head. His eyes locked on something inside the cave—something I couldn't make out in the darkness with my optical enhancement turned off. Then I caught it: a smell. Musky and sharp, like wet fur and something else I couldn't place.

"Something lives there?" I whispered.

He nodded once, already guiding us along the cliff face, putting distance between us and whatever had claimed that cave as its territory.

The second cave sat higher up the rockface. Enslak had to climb to reach it, his powerful arms hauling him up the tangled vines with ease. I waited below, watching as he disappeared into the opening.

He emerged less than a minute later, already descending. When he reached me, he shook his head again, more emphatically this time. He gestured at the cave, then made a sweeping motion with his hand—like water flowing. Then he pointed down toward the ground.

"It floods?" I guessed.

He nodded, satisfied I understood.

We continued along the base of the cliff.

The third was perfect.

Set into a rocky outcropping at the edge of the clearing, the cave stretched maybe fifty feet deep and twenty feet wide. Large enough to be comfortable, small enough to be defensible. The entrance was narrow—only one way in or out—and tucked behind a curtain of vines and boulders. From inside, we'd have a clear view of the entire clearing.

Enslak released my hand and moved inside, checking every corner, every shadow. When he was satisfied, he turned back to me and nodded.

"This is home?" I asked.

Another nod.

Over the next hour, I watched him transform the cave into something livable.

He started with the bedding. Moving back and forth between the cave and the clearing, he gathered armfuls of the softer grass-like plants—the ones with silvery tips that caught the light. He laid them carefully in the back corner, away from the entrance, creating a thick mat that looked surprisingly comfortable. Each trip was deliberate, each placement considered. He tested the bedding with his hand, pressing down to check the cushioning, then added more until he was satisfied.

Next came the stones. He found flat ones near the river—I could hear the water from here, a constant musical backdrop—and carried them back three or four at a time. He arranged them near the entrance in a careful pattern. Some formed a low circle—a fire pit, I realized. Others he positioned nearby, creating surfaces for food preparation, for sitting, for keeping watch over the clearing beyond.

Then he collected fallen branches. Not just any branches—he was selective, choosing ones that were dry, that would burn well, that were the right size. He stacked them against the cave wall, organized by thickness. Kindling at the bottom, larger pieces on top. Fuel for the fires we'd need in the coming days.

I watched him work, and something occurred to me that made my chest tighten with unexpected emotion.

Someone had taught him this.

The way he tested the bedding, the careful arrangement of the stones, the methodical selection of firewood—these weren't instincts. These were skills. Knowledge passed down, demonstrated, practiced. Somewhere in his past, before the fighting pits, before the trauma that stole his words and his memories, someone had shown him how to make a shelter. How to survive.

Which meant the memories were still there. Buried, maybe. Locked away behind walls of pain and fear. But not gone.

Not erased.

I pressed my hand against my mouth, fighting back the sudden sting of tears.

If he could remember this—if muscle memory and instinct could preserve these skills through everything he'd endured—then maybe other things could come back too. Maybe the person he'd been wasn't lost forever. Maybe, given time and safety and patience, pieces of him would resurface. Parts of himself he thought were gone might still be fighting their way to the surface.

Watching him work with such practiced competence, I could see the ghost of that person. Still there. Still fighting to emerge.

When he finished the basic setup, he stood in the center of the cave and surveyed his work. His eyes found mine, and I saw the question there.

"It's perfect," I said softly. "You did an amazing job."

His expression shifted—something that might have been pride, or satisfaction, or maybe just relief.

He pointed at the cave's interior, then at himself, then at the forest beyond, back toward where we'd landed.

"The ship." Understanding dawned. "We should gather our supplies."