They pull up to No. 7, Heart Lane, and Frikkie takes his sweet time cutting the engine. He turns in his seat, eyes hopping from Aster to the girl like he’s trying to solve a puzzle—one that amuses him deeply. Like he can’t decide if Aster’s gone noble or just completely off his meds.

  Then, with a click of the locks, he says, “R1.2 million. End of the week.”

  Aster doesn’t respond.

  Frikkie leans across the console, lowering his voice. “And if you try to screw me, well…” His grin returns, cold and hollow. “She’ll be earning her keep. You both will.”

  He doesn’t wait for a reply—just slams the door behind Aster and pulls off with a roar of the engine, disappearing into the night like a migraine that promises to come back stronger.

  Aster turns to find Anathi standing on the sidewalk, still as stone, looking at the house like it might bite her. Her posture screams run. But her feet don’t move.

  He doesn’t blame her.

  Aster clears his throat. “This is, uh... home.”

  She flinches.

  He winces. Right. Wrong choice of words.

  “Not home home,” he corrects, fumbling. “I mean—it’s my place. Temporarily. Yours too, if you want. Or need. Or—” He stops himself before he can dig any deeper.

  Anathi doesn’t respond. She doesn’t even look at him. Her hands are clenched at her sides, fingers white-knuckled. She’s trying to keep her breathing quiet—the trained kind of quiet that sets off alarm bells. That’s a child who’s learned silence as survival.

  “You’re safe,” Aster says gently. He takes a step back, giving her space. “No one’s gonna hurt you here. Least of all me.”

  Her eyes flick between Aster and the house—every glance a calculation, every twitch a defense.

  Aster pauses by the step. “It’s warm inside,” he says softly. “No one’s going to hurt you. Not anymore.”

  She doesn’t answer.

  He scratches the back of his neck, cursing himself. Too vague. Too generic. That’s not how you talk to someone who’s just been sold like livestock.

  “Look, I know you don’t know me. I don’t expect you to trust me. Hell, if I were you, I’d be halfway to Durban by now. But I swear to you, on everything I have left, you’re safe here.”

  Still nothing. She clutches her arms, shrinking into herself.

  Aster steps toward the door and opens it, casting a rectangle of warm light across the pavement.

  “I’m making tea,” he adds. “Rooibos. With milk and a little honey. You don’t have to talk. You don’t even have to stay. But it’s cold out here, and I’d feel better knowing you weren’t freezing while trying to decide if I’m a psychopath.”

  That gets a reaction. Her eyes lift, uncertain, wary. But something in his voice—maybe the clumsy attempt at humor, or just the warmth of the light shining out the doorway—cracks the surface of her doubt. Her head twitches, barely perceptible. Not a nod. But not nothing.

  Aster backs up a step, holding the door open with his foot, and walks inside. He doesn’t look behind him. Doesn’t push. He just moves through the hallway into the kitchen, flicking on lights, filling the kettle, pulling out a bag of pasta with more ceremony than necessary.

  When he hears the faint creak of the front door—then the softer sound of it closing—he exhales quietly and busies himself with pulling down two mugs.

  She hovers near the threshold of the kitchen. Not seated. Not settled. Just standing there, arms still wrapped around herself, eyes darting to the corners.

  Aster turns slowly, holding up a mug like it’s some kind of peace treaty. “Here. No tricks. It’s just tea. I put in honey, but I can make you another if you want to keep your teeth.”

  She blinks at him. Her expression doesn’t change. But she steps forward—small, deliberate—like each inch costs her something.

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  She takes the mug and backs up three steps before sitting on the edge of the dining chair like she expects it to vanish beneath her.

  He tries not to look. Not too directly. Just lets her sit. Lets her breathe.

  Aster returns to the stove, finishing the sauce—white, garlicky, some shredded chicken he has no memory of buying.

  And then—finally—she speaks.

  “Why did you buy me?”

  Her voice is tiny. Not fragile—just… contained. Like she’s learned the hard way not to let too much of it out.

  Aster freezes. Spoon in hand. Sauce halfway prepped. He turns, meeting her eyes.

  “I didn’t buy you,” he says. “Not like that.”

  She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just keeps her gaze locked on him, every inch of her body screaming that she doesn’t believe him.

  “I mean, yes, I paid to get you out of there,” he continues, turning the heat down so the sauce won’t scorch. “But not because I wanted something from you. I saw what was happening—what they were going to do—and I couldn’t let it happen.”

  She stares at him for a long beat.

  “You spent R1.2 million.”

  “I did.”

  Her jaw tightens. “No one spends that much for nothing.”

  Aster sighs. “Yeah. That’s fair.”

  He leans against the counter, crossing his arms.

  Anathi lowers her eyes again.

  “I don’t want to be a debt.”

  “You’re not.”

  She doesn’t answer, but her fingers curl tighter around the mug.

  Aster tries to explain. “I didn’t buy you because I wanted something from you. I bought you because I’ve been where you are. Not exactly, but close enough. And... someone stepped in when I didn’t think anyone would. He gave up everything for me when I didn’t think I deserved it. I guess I’m trying to pay that forward.”

  Finally, her voice comes—small, barely audible over the bubbling water.

  “But why me?”

  He pauses.

  “I don’t know,” he admits. “Felt like the universe threw us into the same nightmare, and I couldn’t walk away from that. Not this time.”

  Her head tilts slightly, cautious curiosity flickering beneath the fear. “This time?”

  Aster smiles bitterly. “Let’s just say I’ve got a long history of running. But lately, I’ve been trying this new thing. It’s called... not doing that.”

  A silence settles between them—gentler now.

  “You said...” Her fingers flex on the mug. “That you’ve been where I am. Is that true? Or is that just something people say?”

  He turns toward her, more serious now.

  “It’s true,” he says. “There’s something about me. I called it a curse. It’s made everything in my life go sideways. Like no matter what I try to do, the worst version of things finds me. It warps the path. Makes bad luck look like fate.”

  He sees something flicker in her eyes—a flash of mirrored understanding. She wouldn’t call it the same thing, but she knows it. The Wyrm.

  Aster nods slowly. “I think they might be the same thing... We just call it different names.”

  Anathi looks down again, breathing a little faster.

  “I’m not going to try and explain it all tonight,” Aster adds quickly. “Honestly, I’m still figuring it out myself. But I know someone—someone smarter than me, and a lot less... broken. She can help, if you want to talk to her.”

  Anathi doesn’t respond. But she takes another sip of tea. And this time, she doesn’t flinch when he walks past her to grab two plates.

  Aster sets a bowl of pasta in front of her and takes the seat across the table—not too close, not too far.

  They eat mostly in silence. Not tense—just... careful. Like two strangers sharing the same shelter during a storm, both pretending the thunder outside isn’t real.

  Anathi picks at her pasta at first, eyes flicking to him between each bite, as if trying to guess the angle of this kindness. But hunger eventually wins over suspicion. She doesn’t say much, but she cleans the plate with quiet efficiency.

  Aster doesn’t press her. He’s seen that look before. He’s worn it. The first hot meal after a long stretch of fear always makes you feel like it comes with strings, even if no one’s pulling them.

  When she finishes, she mumbles something that might be a thank-you. Or maybe just a sound to fill the space. Either way, he takes it.

  He nods toward the living room. “TV’s all yours if you want to veg out a bit. I’ll do the dishes.”

  She hesitates in the kitchen doorway, glancing down the hall like it might disappear if she moves wrong. Then, without a word, she pads toward the couch and sits on the farthest cushion, grabs the remote, and scrolls through the channels until something stupid and brightly colored flickers to life—arms hugged around her knees.

  Aster wipes his hands dry and follows a few minutes later, glancing at what she’s watching.

  It’s some ridiculous show—loud characters with even louder hair arguing about food while fighting in a dimension made entirely of soup.

  “Cartoons,” he announces. “The universal sedative.”

  She stares at him as if she’s expecting him to grow horns.

  “I’ll be upstairs. I need to...” He coughs. “Umm, do taxes. Grown-up things. You don’t need to stay. But I’d prefer if you do—you’re safe here.”

  She watches him for a moment, as if waiting for the lie to fall out of his mouth. When it doesn’t, she simply nods.

  Not thanks. Not forgiveness.

  Just a small, cautious nod.

  “You can have whichever room you want,” he says. “Except the attic. That’s my weird little magic box.”

  She looks up, blinking. “Magic?”

  He gives her a tired smile. “Long story.”

  She nods, returning to her cartoons.

  He leaves her in front of the TV, staring into the equivalent of ADHD and high philosophy, hoping she’ll be okay by herself.

  He pauses at the bottom step, glancing back once—not at her, but at the moment. At the stillness he’s built from the scraps of what he has left. It’s not much. It won’t last. But it has weight. And for now, she has that.

  With the day’s weight and its consequences settling on his shoulders, Aster climbs the stairs to the brass circle that will pull him back into the Astral Plane. He feels it—not heavier, not lighter. Just real.

  He hasn’t saved her.

  Not yet.

  But he’s bought her one more quiet night.

  And sometimes, that’s enough to start with.