He pulled the heavier tent he had salvaged from the slaver camp out of his pack—a reinforced model, larger, taller, stitched with faint mana runes for stability. He knelt and set it up carefully. The Pack stirred slightly, watching without comment as he worked.

  Satisfied, Ethan pulled out the older, patched-up smaller tent too. He hesitated, then set it up next to the big one, leaving a careful gap between them. When both were standing, he wiped his hands on his pants and glanced over at Lyra.

  She sat quietly, folding and unfolding a travel cloak in her lap. Ethan approached awkwardly, clearing his throat once.

  Lyra looked up, startled.

  “I, uh...” He gestured toward the tents. “I set up the smaller one... if you want it. You don’t have to,” he added quickly. “Just... it’s there.”

  Lyra stared for a second, then gave a small, careful smile. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  Ethan nodded and backed away, giving her space. He settled down with the Pack near the bigger tent. Tomorrow would bring new problems. But for tonight, he could let the silence fold itself around them all.

  Morning came soft and gray, dragging mist across the ground. The camp stirred slowly. Ethan sat near the fire with the Pack.

  Pixie gnawed on bread. Buster sprawled against a supply cart. Moose sat upright, alert. Amelia poked at the fire with a stick.

  Lyra approached quietly, holding a bowl of stew. She sat nearby, silent for a long time. Finally, she spoke—her voice low, almost swallowed by the crackle of the fire.

  “I thought...” She tightened her grip on the bowl. “I thought I might have had... a thing for you.”

  She rushed on before Ethan could answer. “But seeing you and Sam so happy...” She tried to smile. “I just want you to be happy. Both of you.” She cleared her throat, awkward. “You two make a good couple.”

  There was a long, heavy beat of silence. Pixie’s ears perked up. Amelia tilted her head curiously. Buster stopped mid-chew. Moose watched the fire without expression.

  Ethan stared. “...Sam?” he echoed faintly.

  Lyra nodded, still smiling bravely. “You looked so happy with him. The flower, the gifts, the way you stood so close. I just... I hope you have a good life together.”

  “I’m not with Sam!” Ethan blurted.

  The Pack froze.

  Buster rumbled thoughtfully. “Oh, thank goodness. I was calculating how many pups you two would adopt. The math was getting complicated.”

  Pixie dramatically flopped onto her back. “But the ROMANCE! The FLOWERS! The SQUISHED CHEEKS!” Then she jumped into Ethan’s lap and tried squeezing his cheeks together like Sam had the day before with her little paws.

  Even Moose gave out a huff of amusement. “We should all eat before Pixie invents a wedding feast.”

  Pixie let out a loud bark of laughter, looking into Ethan’s eyes while trying to smoosh his face. Ethan flailed halfheartedly, trying to fend her off without success.

  Buster choked on his meat, then started laughing. Amelia blinked huge eyes. Moose just sighed.

  Pixie burst into song. “Alpha and Sam, sitting in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

  Buster grinned. “Should we set up a honeymoon tent?”

  Amelia added, “Sam stirs stew. Good long-term mate qualities.”

  Ethan turned beet red.

  Lyra’s ears pinned flat to her skull. “I saw the fate threads and assumed,” she murmured too quietly for anyone to hear.

  They both looked like they wanted to crawl into the earth. Pixie flopped over laughing. Buster shook with quiet rumbling amusement. Moose, steady as ever, just huffed again.

  And somehow, through all the mortification, through all the laughter and teasing—Ethan caught the tiniest twitch of a smile at the corner of Lyra’s mouth. It was small and tired, but real. For the first time in what felt like days, he let himself laugh too.

  The morning sun dragged itself slowly over the horizon, casting long, dusty shadows across the camp. Travelers stirred sluggishly, rolling up bedrolls, tying off carts, and shaking dust from worn cloaks. Boots thudded against packed earth while harnesses creaked as the caravan prepared to move again.

  Ethan slung his pack over one shoulder and joined the slow, steady stream of people and wagons. The Pack flowed easily around him—Buster plodding beside a supply wagon, head swinging like a lazy pendulum; Moose patrolling the caravan’s flanks with quiet, steady strides; Pixie darting ahead, bouncing between clumps of travelers like a golden blur of chaos; Amelia trotting close to Lyra’s side, her small form alert but relaxed.

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  The smaller tent Ethan had offered Lyra was now secured among the salvaged supplies—along with spare rations, extra waterskins, and half-repaired gear. They were lighter now, with fewer wagons and fewer people, but somehow heavier too—the weight of everything left unsaid trailing them like dust.

  The road ahead shimmered under the morning sun, a long, dusty ribbon stretched toward the invisible line where sky met land. Two more days to their destination, maybe less if they were lucky. Celdoras waited somewhere out there—a new city, new challenges.

  But for now, Ethan focused on the steady press of boots on dirt, the steady hum of the Pack around him. And for now, that was enough.

  It was maybe an hour into the march when Ethan heard it. “ETHAN! HEY, ETHAN!”

  He sighed before he even turned. Sam came barreling toward him from the middle of the caravan—scarf trailing like a ridiculous victory banner, something small and wooden clutched in both hands. He skidded to a stop in front of Ethan, beaming like he’d just won a championship.

  Without hesitation, he thrust the object out proudly. It was a rough carving—vaguely humanoid, holding a crooked sword, with something that might have been a cape flaring behind it if you squinted hard enough.

  “I made it!” Sam said breathlessly. “It’s you! Fighting that big scary guy with the cleaver! Everyone said you didn’t even flinch!”

  Ethan turned the figure over in his hands, trying to find a polite angle. “It’s... very detailed,” he managed.

  Sam bounced on the balls of his feet. “I wanted to carve the Pack too, but I ran out of wood! Next time! I’m getting better! Durgan said if I finish my chores he’ll show me how to use real carving knives!”

  Behind him, Ethan felt the bond hum with shared amusement.

  Buster reached through the bond and said, “Tell him to carve bacon next time. Much more useful.”

  “Or me!” Pixie yipped. “Riding Alpha into battle! With snacks!”

  “Focus,” Moose said calmly. “We are traveling, and we don’t want to run into monsters or more bandits.”

  Pixie retorted, completely unbothered. “FOCUS ON THE DREAM!”

  Ethan smiled despite himself and tucked the figure carefully into his belt.

  Sam beamed even brighter. “I’ve been telling everyone about you!” he said proudly. “How you charged the slavers! How you fought that big guy! How you saved everybody!” He bounced a little higher. “You’re the coolest person in the whole caravan! I want to be just like you!”

  Ethan blinked—startled—then laughed softly under his breath. Sam wasn’t in love with him. He was just... a golden retriever in human form—bounding, loyal, embarrassingly earnest—and somewhere along the way, he’d latched onto Ethan like he was the best thing in the world.

  Hero worship. Pure and chaotic and oddly flattering.

  And if Ethan was being honest—it was more like Sam had imprinted on him. Like a duckling.

  The thought wasn’t meant to escape—but it bled across the Pack bond anyway—and the reaction was immediate.

  Pixie shrieked with glee. “DUCKLING! Baby duck! Waddling after Alpha!”

  Buster grumbled darkly. “If he starts quacking, I’m leaving the Pack.”

  Pixie shouted louder, tail wagging so hard it kicked up dust. “Alpha Duck Dad! Quack Pack!”

  “We are traveling, and we don’t want to run into monsters or more bandits.”

  Ethan shook his head and kept walking, the dust curling up around his boots, the Pack flowing easily around him like a steady river. Sam buzzed somewhere nearby like a persistent fly. And somehow, life went on.

  The heat built slowly as the caravan dragged itself across the dusty plain. Ethan shifted his pack and squinted into the low glare of the afternoon sun. Sam had finally exhausted himself—or at least gotten distracted enough to pester someone else—leaving Ethan a few precious minutes of blessed silence.

  It didn’t last long.

  From the corner of his eye, Ethan spotted Gwenna slipping out of the moving line—barely a whisper of motion, more shadow than person. She fell into step beside him, matching his pace with ease. Her face was neutral, but there was a sharpness to her eyes—the same look she’d had back at the slaver camp. Her expression said everything: this is bigger than it seems.

  Without preamble, Gwenna murmured low, “We need to talk.”

  Ethan glanced at her sideways, cautious, then at the wagons nearby, the guards, and the merchants trudging along in their little clouds of dust. Too many ears and eyes around them. Gwenna caught the glance and gave a tight shake of her head.

  “Not here,” she said under her breath. “Too open.” She hesitated long enough that Ethan felt the tension coil in the air between them, then said quietly, “Find me at the Silver Thorn Inn when we reach Celdoras. It’s in Lantern Row—the residential tier near the lower tram stop.”

  She didn’t wait for a response, just drifted back into the moving line, disappearing with the ease of long practice and leaving Ethan with more questions than he had answers for.

  The afternoon dragged on heavy and slow as the road stretched ahead—a shimmering ribbon of dust under the punishing sun. Boots scuffed against packed earth, harnesses groaned with each step, and someone coughed dryly from the rear wagons.

  The caravan had thinned out since the forest crossing—less noise, less clatter—but the sense of weight hadn’t left. Ethan walked steadily near the front half of the train, the Pack flowing loosely around him like a lazy, protective current.

  Buster trotted beside a water wagon, head swinging in slow rhythm. Moose scouted ahead near the dusty verge, his massive frame moving like a shadow along the ditch line. Pixie darted back and forth between clusters of travelers, her nose twitching, her paws kicking up tiny puffs of powdery dirt. Amelia stayed close to Lyra, their steps falling into an easy, natural rhythm without either of them speaking a word. Occasionally, a soft tail flick would pass between them—silent Pack language.

  The sun dropped lower. The shadows stretched longer. The dust blurred the edges of the world into a flat, endless haze.

  Pixie flopped dramatically into a pile of dry grass and announced over the bond, “I’m melting. Alpha, save me.”

  “You’ll survive. Unfortunately,” Buster rumbled.

  “RUDE,” Pixie huffed.

  “Heat makes Pixie noisier,” Amelia observed, perfectly factual.

  “All things endure,” Moose said, steady as ever.

  Ethan wiped a sleeve across his forehead and shook his head. They still had a few hours left before camp—long enough to feel every step. But somehow, despite the heat, the dust, and the dragging ache of the day, he found himself smiling. The Pack was strong, and even a bad road was a little easier with them at his side.