The first day of walking taught Kaelin something important: the world was very, very large when you were seven years old and very, very small when you were being hunted by people who wanted to turn you into a specimen.

  They traveled west.

  Not on roads—roads were for people who weren't running. Not on paths—paths were for people who had somewhere to be. They traveled through the between: the forgotten spaces where the forest grew thick and the underbrush grabbed at ankles and the sun filtered down in lazy golden coins that never quite reached the ground.

  Lycos loved it.

  The wolf ranged ahead, behind, sideways—always moving, always scenting, always projecting a constant stream of wolf-thought that ranged from squirrel to squirrel-tasted-bad to Pack-keep-up to squirrel again.

  "Does he ever stop?" Azrael asked internally, watching Lycos disappear into a thicket for the seventeenth time.

  "Does the sun ever stop shining?" Mammon countered. "Does the void ever stop being dark and full of existential dread? No. Wolves gonna wolf."

  IRIS, who had been quietly cataloging their supplies, offered: "Lycos's activity pattern is consistent with healthy juvenile canid behavior. He is approximately fourteen months old. By wolf standards, he is still an adolescent. By pack standards, he is annoying."

  Heard that, came Lycos's psionic projection, tinged with amusement. Pack-smart-mouth. Pack-watch-back.

  IRIS, for the first time in her existence, chose not to respond.

  ---

  Day Three

  They found a river.

  Not a small river—a proper one, wide and brown and slow, with trees leaning over the banks and dragonflies stitching the air above the water. Kaelin stood at the edge, staring at it, and felt three souls confront a single terrifying question:

  How do we cross?

  Azrael: "There must be a ford somewhere. Upstream or downstream. We should follow the bank until we find shallow water."

  Mammon: "OR WE COULD JUST SWIM! SWIMMING IS FUN! I'VE ALWAYS WANTED TO SWIM!"

  IRIS: "Current speed: approximately 3 kilometers per hour. Depth unknown. Water temperature: cold but not lethal. Swimming is possible if coordinated. However—"

  Azrael: "We don't know how to swim."

  Mammon: "HOW HARD CAN IT BE? YOU MOVE YOUR ARMS AND LEGS AND WATER DOESN'T KILL YOU!"

  Azrael: "We are in a child's body. A child who has never been in water deeper than a bath."

  Mammon: "BATHS ARE WET! RIVERS ARE WET! SAME THING!"

  IRIS: "By that logic, a pond and an ocean are also the same thing. Would you like to test ocean swimming next?"

  Mammon: "I HATE YOU."

  Lycos, who had been watching this internal debate with the patience of a creature who had already solved the problem, simply walked across the river.

  The water came up to his chest. His belly. His paws touched bottom the entire way.

  Wolf-way, he projected from the opposite bank. Wolf-way work. Pack-come.

  Kaelin looked at the river. Looked at the wolf. Looked at the river again.

  "It's shallow," she realized. "The whole thing is shallow."

  IRIS recalculated: "Correction. The river appears deep from this angle due to optical refraction and tree shadows. Actual maximum depth: 1.2 meters. Lycos is 0.8 meters at the shoulder. Crossing is feasible."

  Mammon: "SO WE WERE ARGUING ABOUT NOTHING?"

  Azrael: "We were arguing about principles. There's a difference."

  Mammon: "THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NO DIFFERENCE AND YOU KNOW IT."

  Kaelin waded across. The water was cold, then not-cold, then very cold again when she hit a deeper patch that came up to her waist. Lycos met her on the other side, tail wagging, projecting smug satisfaction: Pack-watch-wolf. Wolf-know-way. Wolf-smart.

  Wolf is very smart, Kaelin projected back. Wolf also going to carry pack's wet boots.

  Lycos's tail stopped wagging.

  Wolf take back smart.

  ---

  Day Seven

  The hunting improved.

  Azrael, it turned out, had theoretical knowledge of animal behavior from centuries of observing earthly creatures from on high. Mammon, it turned out, had practical knowledge of killing things from centuries of, well, being a devil. IRIS, it turned out, could calculate optimal ambush trajectories with terrifying precision.

  The first successful hunt was a disaster.

  The target: a large, slow, unfortunate bird that had made the mistake of existing within Kaelin's line of sight.

  Azrael: "Approach slowly. Let it become accustomed to our presence."

  Mammon: "OR WE COULD JUST CHARGE! CHARGE IS GOOD! CHARGE IS—"

  IRIS: "Calculating optimal strike trajectory. Recommend circling left, using that fallen log as cover, and—"

  Kaelin charged.

  Or, more accurately, Mammon seized control of the legs and charged, while Azrael screamed internally and IRIS recalculated survival odds in real-time. The bird—which turned out to be faster than it looked—launched itself into the air with an indignant squawk, leaving Kaelin face-down in the mud where it had been standing.

  Lycos, watching from a nearby thicket, projected: Pack-funny. Pack-bad-hunter. Pack-try-again?

  Mammon: "SHUT UP, WOLF."

  They tried again.

  The second attempt was more coordinated. Azrael controlled approach—slow, steady, dignified. Mammon controlled the strike—fast, brutal, efficient. IRIS provided timing—now now now—and Kaelin's hands closed around the bird's neck before it could flee.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Then came the next problem: what, exactly, did one do with a dead bird?

  Azrael: "We should thank its spirit for sustaining us."

  Mammon: "WE SHOULD COOK IT AND EAT IT AND THANK OUR OWN STOMACHS FOR BEING SO PATIENT."

  IRIS: "I have accessed basic field dressing protocols from Gizmo's survival database. Step one: remove feathers. Step two: remove internal organs. Step three:—"

  Kaelin looked at the bird. The bird looked at her with dead, glassy eyes.

  The bird was also, somehow, still warm.

  "I can't," she whispered. "I can't—"

  Pack-kill, Lycos projected. Pack-eat. Pack-survive. Pack not-kill for fun. Pack kill for pack. This is good. This is wolf-way.

  The wolf's logic was simple, primal, and exactly what all three souls needed to hear.

  Kaelin cleaned the bird. It took an hour. It was disgusting. The feathers went everywhere. The organs were worse than disgusting. By the end, she was covered in blood and bits and something that might have been the bird's last meal.

  But that night, for the first time in weeks, they ate fresh meat.

  It was, Mammon declared, the greatest moment of his existence.

  Azrael, chewing thoughtfully, had to agree.

  ---

  Day Twelve

  Fire.

  They had managed fire before—pathetic, smoky, barely-there fire that required constant attention and occasional threats. But that was with Gizmo's supplies, with prepared materials, with the safety net of a workshop behind them.

  This was different.

  This was real.

  Kaelin sat cross-legged in a small clearing, surrounded by the day's gathering: dry moss, twigs of various sizes, one larger branch that IRIS insisted would make "excellent kindling once properly processed." In her hands, she held two stones—flint and something harder—and the accumulated knowledge of three beings who had never actually done this before.

  Azrael: "Strike downward at a forty-five-degree angle. The spark should catch the moss."

  Mammon: "HIT IT HARDER! HITTING THINGS HARDER ALWAYS WORKS!"

  IRIS: "Historical data suggests success rate of 23% for first-time fire starters. However, historical data also includes humans who have opposable thumbs and prior experience. Our success probability is currently 12.7%."

  Kaelin struck.

  Nothing.

  Struck again.

  Nothing.

  Struck again, harder, and a single spark leaped from the stones—brief, beautiful, and gone before it reached the moss.

  Mammon: "CLOSER! WE NEED TO BE CLOSER!"

  Azrael: "We cannot be closer without risking burns!"

  IRIS: "I have located an alternative method in Gizmo's database. Using friction—"

  Mammon: "FRICTION TAKES HOURS! WE DON'T HAVE HOURS! THE SUN IS SETTING AND I CAN FEEL THE COLD AND I DON'T LIKE IT!"

  Lycos, who had been watching this display with the patience of a creature who had fur and therefore didn't care about the cold, projected mild confusion: Pack-make-warm? Pack-make-warm-slow. Wolf-way faster.

  Wolf-way? Kaelin projected back.

  Lycos trotted over to a fallen log, sniffed it thoroughly, and—with the precision of a creature who had learned from ancestors stretching back millennia—scratched at a patch of dry fungus growing on the bark. He peeled it off, carried it back to Kaelin, and dropped it at her feet.

  Fire-sponge, he projected. Wolf-people use. Catches spark easy.

  Kaelin stared at the fungus. Stared at the wolf. Stared at the fungus again.

  "IRIS," she said aloud, "what is this?"

  IRIS's pause was almost sheepish: "Fomes fomentarius. Amadou. A fungal material historically used by early humans and... apparently... wolves... for fire starting. It is highly flammable. It is also not in my database because I did not think to check wolf knowledge as a survival resource."

  Mammon: "THE WOLF KNOWS MORE ABOUT FIRE THAN WE DO."

  Azrael: "The wolf has existed in this environment his entire life. We have existed in this environment for twelve days. The wolf has advantages."

  Mammon: "THE WOLF IS SMARTER THAN US AND I DON'T KNOW HOW TO FEEL ABOUT THAT."

  Lycos's tail wagged once. Wolf-smart. Wolf-know-things. Pack-learn. Pack-get-better. Pack-welcome.

  Kaelin struck the stones again.

  The spark caught.

  The fungus glowed.

  The fire grew.

  That night, they slept warm, with full bellies and the satisfaction of a lesson learned the hard way—and the wolf between them, projecting contentment so pure it felt like prayer.

  ---

  Day Nineteen

  The mountains appeared on the horizon.

  Not close—days away, maybe weeks—but visible. Dark blue against lighter blue, their peaks dusted with something that might have been snow or might have been clouds pretending to be snow.

  "We have to cross those?" Kaelin asked.

  IRIS: "The most direct route to human territory passes through the Grayfang Mountains. Alternative routes add approximately three weeks of travel time and pass through territories controlled by—" she paused, consulting Gizmo's maps "—'aggressive lizardfolk who will absolutely eat you if given the chance.' The mountains are preferable."

  Azrael: "Mountains are... challenging. For a child."

  Mammon: "MOUNTAINS ARE ADVENTURES! WE'RE HAVING AN ADVENTURE! THIS IS WHAT ADVENTURES LOOK LIKE!"

  Lycos, staring at the mountains, projected something more complex: Wolf-mountains? Wolf-not-know mountains. Wolf-know forests. Wolf-know rivers. Wolf-not-know... big rocks.

  We'll learn together, Kaelin projected back. Pack-learn mountains.

  Pack-learn, Lycos agreed. Pack-get-cold. Pack-hate-cold. Wolf-hate-cold too.

  Then we'll get through the mountains fast.

  Wolf-like this plan.

  They walked on.

  ---

  Day Twenty-Four

  Fishing.

  The mountain stream was clear, cold, and full of silver fish that darted away from every shadow. Kaelin stood on the bank, holding a sharpened stick, and felt three souls confront a second terrifying question:

  How do we catch something that moves faster than we do?

  Azrael: "Patience. We must wait for the right moment."

  Mammon: "PATIENCE IS FOR PEOPLE WHO AREN'T HUNGRY! I'M HUNGRY NOW!"

  IRIS: "Fish vision is optimized for movement above water. If we remain still, they cannot see us clearly. The stick must enter the water at an angle that corrects for refraction. I can calculate the exact trajectory once a target is selected."

  Kaelin waited.

  The fish ignored her.

  Waited longer.

  The fish continued ignoring her.

  Mammon: "THIS IS BORING. I'M GOING TO—"

  Wait, Kaelin thought—her own thought, the collective her that had grown stronger over weeks of forced cooperation. Just wait.

  A fish paused. Mid-water. Suspended in the current.

  IRIS: "Target acquired. Strike at 37-degree angle, 2.3 centimeters to the left of visual position to correct for refraction. Now."

  Kaelin struck.

  The stick entered the water. The water resisted. The stick connected—a thud transmitted through wood and muscle and bone—and when she pulled it out, there was a fish on the end.

  A small fish. A very small fish. A fish that would maybe provide two bites of meat.

  Mammon: "WE DID IT! WE DID IT! WE ARE THE GREATEST HUNTERS WHO EVER LIVED!"

  Azrael: "It's... it's very small."

  Mammon: "IT'S THE GREATEST FISH THAT EVER DIED FOR OUR STOMACHS AND WE WILL HONOR ITS SACRIFICE BY EATING IT WITH GRATITUDE AND POSSIBLY SOME HERBS IF WE CAN FIND ANY."

  Lycos, watching from the bank, projected mild approval: Pack-fish. Small-fish. Better than no-fish. Pack-do-good.

  Kaelin looked at the fish. Looked at the stream. Looked at the mountains ahead, still distant, still waiting.

  "We're going to need more fish," she said.

  They caught three more before sunset. Not large. Not impressive. But enough.

  That night, they ate well.

  ---

  Day Thirty-One

  The storm caught them in the open.

  One moment, the sky was clear—cold, but clear. The next, clouds rolled over the mountains like an invading army, and the rain began not as drops but as walls of water that soaked through everything in seconds.

  Azrael: "Shelter! We need shelter!"

  Mammon: "I CAN'T SEE! THE WATER IS IN MY EYES! IS THAT MY EYES? IT'S IN MY EYES!"

  IRIS: "Scanning for overhangs or caves. Detecting a rock formation 200 meters northeast. Probability of adequate shelter: 67%."

  Kaelin ran.

  Lycos ran beside her, ears flat, projecting discomfort but no panic—rain-happens, rain-stops, pack-find-dry.

  The rock formation was a shallow overhang, barely deep enough for one person, let alone one person and one wolf. But it was dry, and dry was all that mattered.

  They huddled together—Kaelin pressed against the rock, Lycos pressed against her, sharing warmth, sharing breath, sharing the simple animal knowledge that storms passed and survival continued.

  IRIS, monitoring vital signs, logged something unexpected: Kaelin's heart rate was elevated, but not from fear. From something else. Something that felt almost like... wonder.

  The rain hammered the earth. Lightning split the sky. Thunder shook the mountain.

  And Kaelin, seven years old, three souls in one body, watched it all with eyes that had seen heaven and hell and found them both lacking compared to this—this raw, wild, alive moment.

  Mammon, uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke: "It's beautiful."

  Azrael: "It's... terrifying."

  Mammon: "Same thing, angel. Same thing."

  ---

  Day Thirty-Eight

  The pass.

  They found it by accident—a narrow gap between two peaks, just wide enough for one person to squeeze through. Beyond it, the land changed. The mountains sloped downward into foothills, and beyond the foothills, green. Endless green. Farmland. Civilization.

  Human territory.

  Kaelin stood at the edge of the pass, staring at the world below, and felt something she couldn't name.

  Azrael: "We made it."

  Mammon: "WE MADE IT! WE CROSSED MOUNTAINS AND RIVERS AND WE DIDN'T DIE AND WE ATE FISH WE CAUGHT OURSELVES AND—" He ran out of words, which had never happened before.

  IRIS: "Distance to Thornwell: approximately four days' travel at current pace. We have sufficient supplies for six days. We have learned to hunt, fish, and create fire with approximately 89% reliability. We have survived thirty-eight days in wilderness that would have killed most children our age."

  Lycos, sitting at Kaelin's feet, projected simple contentment: Pack-strong. Pack-together. Pack-go new place. Wolf-ready.

  Kaelin looked down at the wolf. Looked out at the human lands. Looked inside at the three souls who had become, somehow, more than the sum of their arguments.

  "Let's go," she said.

  And they went.