Chapter Thirteen: Tooth and Claw

  I am fifty yards from my refuge when I spot them through the trees.

  The child first. Small, white fur with gray markings standing out starkly against the green forest. Torn shift, muddy and stained. Barefoot. Leaving bloody prints in the soft earth with every desperate step. Eight years old, maybe nine. All bones and terror, running on pure instinct because there is nothing left.

  Behind her, the hunters. Four men in leather armor, moving with the practiced coordination of professionals. Swords at their hips. One has a crossbow. They are spreading out, flanking, cutting off escape routes with the casual efficiency of people who have done this many times before.

  They are playing with her. Letting her tire herself out. They have all the time in the world.

  I drop behind a fallen log before they see me, my body moving on pure survival reflex. Bow down. Hand on knife. Breathing shallow and controlled. My heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.

  The child stumbles over a root, her small body hitting the ground hard. She is back up in seconds, survival instinct overriding pain, but it costs her distance. The men are gaining with every heartbeat.

  "There!" one shouts, pointing. "I saw something move!"

  "Where?"

  "East side! Heading for that thick brush!"

  The child hears them. Changes direction blindly, just trying to get away. Making noise. Leaving a trail any fool could follow. Doing everything wrong because she does not know better, because she is eight years old and terrified and alone.

  She is going to get caught. It is only a matter of time.

  My fingers dig into bark, splinters driving under my claws. The wood is rough and real and solid, grounding me while my mind races through impossible calculations.

  The child runs closer. Ten yards. Five. She does not see me behind the log, too focused on running, on surviving the next thirty seconds. On making it to the next tree, the next rock, the next breath.

  The hunters are fifteen yards behind and spreading out with practiced efficiency. These are not amateurs. They have done this before, hunted nekojin children before, and they know exactly what they are doing.

  Three yards. The child is gasping, her breath coming in panicked sobs. I can see her face now. Wide gray eyes swimming with tears. White fur streaked with dirt and blood. She has been running for a long time. Miles, maybe. Running until her body has nothing left but terror to fuel it.

  Her feet are destroyed. Soles torn up, bleeding, embedded with stones and thorns and debris. Every step must be agony beyond description. Every step leaving parts of herself behind on the forest floor.

  How long has she been running like that? How long has she endured that pain because the alternative is worse?

  She passes my hiding spot. So close I could touch her. Does not see me, does not see anything except the impossible task ahead. Keep running, keep surviving, do not let them catch you. Just keeps running on ruined feet, running on nothing but terror and the desperate animal need to survive.

  The hunters are ten yards behind. I can hear their breathing now, heavy but controlled, not winded. They know they have her. They know it is just a matter of time.

  "Got her!" one shouts with vicious satisfaction. "She's heading right into that clearing!"

  "Finally! I'm sick of chasing the little rat!"

  "Remember, Joren wants her alive. He paid good money for this one."

  Alive. They want her alive.

  Slavers. Or working for slavers, which amounts to the same thing. Either way, that child becomes property when they catch her. Merchandise. A thing to be bought and sold.

  The logical part of my brain, the part that has kept me alive these past weeks, is screaming at me. I am one nekojin against four armed men. I have a knife and a bow I barely know how to use. My left arm still aches from the wolf bite three days ago, pulls when I draw the bow, reminds me constantly that I am not at full strength. Not even close.

  Fighting them is suicide. Best case, I die quickly. Worst case, I get caught, sold alongside the child, spend the rest of my life in chains.

  Every rational thought says stay down. Stay hidden. Let them pass. Survive to hunt another day. Live to see tomorrow.

  But that face.

  Those wide eyes. Gray markings streaked with tears and dirt.

  That was me two weeks ago. Running through Millhaven with Captain Aldric's men chasing me, their boots echoing on cobblestones, their shouts cutting through the night. Running because nekojin without papers are things to be caught and sold. Running because the world had decided I was property, not person.

  Someone helped me then. Marta. Lyra. Because they chose to, despite the risk, despite the danger, despite every logical reason to turn away.

  Now someone needs help.

  And I am the only one here.

  I rise from behind the log.

  "RUN!" I shout ahead, my voice cracking with urgency and fear. "RUN AND DON'T STOP!"

  The hunters freeze mid-stride. Turn. Stare at me with expressions that shift rapidly from surprise to calculation to predatory interest.

  I pull my hood back deliberately, slowly, letting them see everything. See my face. See my ears. See the canines when I bare my teeth in a snarl that is half threat, half prayer.

  Not hiding anymore. Cannot hide anymore. Not when a child needs help.

  I hiss, low and threatening, the sound coming from somewhere deep in my chest that I did not know existed until this body taught me how. The sound a cornered predator makes. The sound that says I am wounded but not finished, desperate but not defeated.

  The lead hunter's hand drops to his sword, fingers wrapping around the hilt with practiced ease. "What the... another one?"

  "Where'd that come from?"

  "Doesn't matter. We take both, Joren pays double. Easy money."

  The child has stopped running. She has turned, staring back at me with confused, terrified eyes. Not understanding why a stranger just revealed herself. Not understanding that sometimes survival means sacrifice.

  "GO!" I shout again, putting everything I have into that one word.

  This time she moves. Disappears into the brush away from the hunters, away from me, away from capture. Running like I told her to. Running toward survival, even if she does not understand the cost.

  Good. Keep running. Do not stop. Whatever happens here, do not stop.

  The hunters spread out with practiced efficiency, flanking positions, surrounding me. They have done this before. Many times. They know exactly how to corner prey.

  "Easy now," the lead hunter says, his voice taking on that false-calm tone captors use. "No need for anyone to get hurt. Just come quiet and we'll make this simple. Nice and easy."

  I do not answer. All my focus goes into keeping my legs steady, keeping my knife hand from shaking, keeping the part of my brain screaming RUN quiet enough that I can think.

  "I said come quiet." His voice hardens, drops the pretense. "Last warning, rat."

  I bare my teeth more, show him every sharp curve. Hiss lower, deeper, the sound vibrating in my chest. My ears flatten against my skull, not from fear but from aggression, from rage at what they are doing, what they represent. My claws extend fully, each one curved and sharp and ready.

  This is going to hurt.

  The hunter on my left moves first, confident and fast, his sword already drawn and gleaming in filtered sunlight. Comes in expecting me to bolt or freeze, expecting easy prey.

  I do neither.

  I am faster.

  Drop under his swing, the blade whistling through empty air where my head was a heartbeat ago. The mottled hunting clothes blur as I move, making me hard to track in shifting forest light. My claws find his wrist before his sword completes its arc, four parallel cuts that make him shout in pain, and drops the weapon, blood welling dark and immediate.

  Not deep enough to kill or cripple. Just enough to hurt, to disable, to warn.

  Already moving again before he recovers, putting distance between us, forcing them to adjust their formation. The fallen log is behind me now. Good. Natural obstacle. Makes them come at me one at a time or risk tripping over it.

  "It's fast!" one shouts, genuine surprise in his voice.

  "Circle around! Don't let it get away!"

  It. Not her. Not even the nekojin. Just it.

  Property to be caught and sold. A thing, not a person.

  The rage surprises me with its intensity, white-hot and overwhelming.

  Two hunters move to flank while the lead one comes straight on, sword raised and eyes calculating. More cautious now. Smart. They are adapting to my tactics, learning from their mistake.

  I feint left, dive right. Roll under a swing that would have taken my head clean off. Come up in a crouch. Knife flashing. Catch the second hunter across the thigh, shallow but effective. Makes him stumble back with a curse.

  Three on one. Surrounded. They are between me and any escape route.

  This is bad. This is very bad.

  But that child is running. Getting farther away with every second. And these hunters are focused entirely on me.

  Worth it. Has to be worth it.

  The lead hunter lunges, his blade a silver blur. I dodge. Not quite fast enough. His sword catches my shoulder, line of fire opening across muscle. Not deep. Not fatal. But it burns and hot blood starts soaking through the tunic immediately.

  I slash back but he is already out of range, already repositioning. These are not amateurs. They are professionals. They know their craft.

  "Careful!" the lead hunter barks to his companions. "It's got teeth! And it knows how to use them!"

  My vision swims, edges going gray. How much blood am I losing? The shoulder wound is minor but it is adding to the wolf bite that is still healing. The left arm is still weak, still not fully recovered. I am fighting at maybe seventy percent capacity against three armed, experienced men who know what they are doing.

  The math is simple and brutal. I am going to lose.

  But the child is still running. I cannot hear her anymore, which means she is far enough away that maybe, just maybe, she will escape.

  Maybe.

  The hunter I cut on the wrist has recovered his sword, picking it up with his off-hand. Favoring his left now but he is back in formation, ready to fight. All three circling me like wolves, patient and coordinated. Waiting for an opening.

  They do not have to rush. They know I am hurt. Know I am outmatched. All they have to do is wait for exhaustion or blood loss to take me down. Time is on their side.

  I need to change the equation. Do something unexpected.

  I dart forward, going for the injured hunter, predictable, they expect it, then pivot at the last second and throw my knife at the lead hunter's face. He jerks back reflexively. Loses his footing on wet leaves. Goes down hard with a grunt.

  Do not have time to see if the knife hit, if I wounded him. Already moving. Past their formation. Deeper into the forest. Away from where the child ran. Away from my refuge. Leading them away from everything that matters.

  "After it!"

  "What about the kid?"

  "Forget the kid for now. This one knows something. Probably has a den nearby. We take it, we can use it to track the other."

  They are following. All three. Crashing through undergrowth without any attempt at stealth now. Shouting coordinates to each other.

  Good. Keep following me. Stay away from the child. Focus on me.

  My shoulder is burning, the wound deeper than I initially thought. Blood running down my arm in warm rivulets. Soaking into camouflage fabric. Making my grip slippery on branches I use to pull myself forward.

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  The left arm is screaming now too, the wolf bite pulling with every movement. The muscle not ready for this kind of exertion. Three days is not enough healing time. Not nearly enough.

  I run anyway. No choice. No other option.

  The forest blurs around me. Trees, undergrowth, fallen logs. I navigate by instinct, by memory, by desperate need to keep moving. My ears pinned back, tracking the hunters behind me. They are keeping up. Staying coordinated. Not giving me any space to breathe.

  I head for the rocks. Where terrain gets vertical and humans struggle. Where nekojin advantages matter most. Where I might actually have a chance.

  If I can still climb with one mostly-useless arm.

  "It's heading for the rocks!"

  "Good! We can corner it there!"

  They do not understand. The rocks are not where I get trapped.

  The rocks are where they lose.

  Undergrowth gives way to boulders and loose scree, the ground becoming treacherous. The incline steepens dramatically, forcing them to slow down and pick their way carefully. I am barely slower because my claws find purchase in cracks and crevices invisible to human eyes. My digitigrade legs handle the angles better than human feet, balance and power combined.

  But I am climbing one-handed now, and it is so much harder than it should be. Every pull takes twice the effort, twice the energy. My good arm is shaking from overuse, muscles burning with lactic acid. The shoulder wound keeps bleeding, keeps weakening me with every heartbeat that pumps my life onto stone.

  "Where'd it go?"

  "Up there! On that outcrop!"

  I am twenty feet up a rocky formation, pressed against cold stone, gasping for air that will not quite fill my lungs. My vision is starting to tunnel, dark spots dancing at the edges.

  Then I hear it.

  Crying.

  High-pitched, terrified, heartbreakingly close. Too close.

  No.

  No, she was supposed to run away. She was supposed to get clear, to survive, to make all of this worth it.

  I look down from my perch and see movement below. Small. White fur with gray markings. Stumbling through the boulders with the desperate, exhausted movements of someone at their absolute limit.

  The child. She did not keep running in one direction. She got turned around in the chase, panicked, and circled back toward the sounds of fighting. Toward what might have seemed like help or safety or at least something familiar in the chaos.

  She came back for me.

  "Got both of them!" one hunter shouts with vicious triumph. "Two for the price of one!"

  The child looks up, sees me twenty feet above on the rocks. Sees the hunters closing in from multiple angles. Her eyes meet mine across the distance. In them I see absolute trust, desperate hope, the belief that somehow I can save her.

  She thinks I can save her. This child who does not even know my name thinks I can protect her.

  I do not have a plan.

  I have a bleeding shoulder, a useless arm, and a body running on fumes and stubbornness. I have three professional hunters below and a child depending on me. I have seconds to decide what comes next.

  The child starts climbing, trying to reach me. Small hands reach for handholds too far apart for her size. Ruined feet trying desperately to find purchase on wet stone. But her claws have been filed down to nothing. I can see them clearly now in daylight. Blunt. Useless. Slave-marks. Filed deliberately to remove the very tools she needs to survive in the wild, to climb, to hunt, to defend herself.

  She slips. Falls back several feet. Tries again with determination that breaks my heart.

  The hunters are ten feet away from her and closing fast.

  I drop.

  Twenty feet is nothing with four working limbs and full health. It is suicide when you are injured and exhausted with one arm that barely functions.

  I land on the lead hunter. All my weight, all my momentum, right on his shoulders. We both go down in a tangle of limbs and steel and cursing. His sword goes flying, clattering against stone. I get my knife, picked up from where I threw it, against his throat before he fully recovers.

  "Back off," I snarl at the other two, pressing the blade just hard enough to break skin. "Or he dies."

  They freeze mid-step. The lead hunter under me goes very still, feeling the cold metal against his neck.

  "Easy," one says carefully, raising his hands slightly. "Easy now. Nobody has to die here."

  "Get. Away. From. The. Child." Each word deliberate, sharp as the blade.

  They look at each other. Look at their leader with my knife at his throat, a thin line of blood appearing. Look at the child still trying to climb, still trying to reach safety.

  "Joren won't pay if we come back empty-handed," one mutters, but he is already backing up slightly.

  "Joren won't pay if we're dead either," the lead hunter says carefully, his voice strained with my weight on his chest and blade at his throat. "Do what it says."

  They back up. Slowly. Weapons still drawn but held at their sides now, non-threatening.

  I press the knife harder, feeling resistance, feeling skin part. "Farther."

  They back up another ten feet, creating distance.

  The child has made it maybe six feet up now. She is shaking so hard her whole body trembles. Her ruined feet can barely grip the stone. She is at her absolute limit.

  "Come down," I call to her, keeping my voice calm despite my racing heart. "Slowly. I've got you."

  She does, half-climbing, half-falling into my arms. She weighs almost nothing, all bone and muscle and terror, maybe forty pounds soaking wet. Malnourished. Worked too hard for too long.

  "Hold on to me," I whisper directly into her ear. "Don't let go no matter what happens."

  She nods frantically against my shoulder. Small arms wrap around my neck. Legs lock around my waist with desperate strength.

  I look at the lead hunter beneath me, meeting his eyes. "Count to one hundred before you follow. If I see you before then, I kill him. Understood?"

  "You won't get far," he says, but there is uncertainty in his voice now.

  "I don't need far. Just far enough."

  I rise, pulling him up with me in one smooth motion, keeping the knife at his throat the entire time. He is taller, heavier, stronger. But I use that, use his body as a shield between me and his companions.

  "Start counting," I tell them. Then, to the leader, quieter: "Walk."

  We move backward into the forest. Me guiding him with the knife, every movement deliberate. The child clinging to my back, her breath warm against my neck. Ten yards. Twenty. The other hunters do not follow, do not risk their leader's life.

  At thirty yards, I shove the hunter forward hard. He stumbles, catches himself, turns. By the time he is oriented, I am already moving, already disappearing into undergrowth with the child on my back.

  "After them!" I hear him shout behind us, rage and frustration in his voice.

  But we have a head start. Thirty seconds. Maybe a minute. In this forest, with my knowledge of the terrain, it might be enough.

  Might be.

  The child's weight is awkward on my back, shifting with every movement. She is small, malnourished, maybe forty pounds of bone and terror. But with my injuries, every pound feels like ten. Her filed claws dig into my shoulders, eight points of pressure against already traumatized muscle. Not sharp enough to pierce cleanly, not like real claws would. Blunt enough to grind against tender flesh with every shift of her weight.

  Every step sends fresh jolts through my shoulder wound. The left arm swings useless at my side, dead weight throwing off my balance. Blood is soaking through my tunic now, I can feel it running down my back in warm streams.

  When did it start raining?

  I head south, away from my refuge, away from any trail they could follow back to my sanctuary. The child clings tighter as we move, her breath coming in small gasps against my ear.

  "Where are we going?" she whispers, voice small and scared.

  "Somewhere safe," I lie, because the truth, that I do not know, that I am making this up as I go, that we might both die out here, will not help either of us.

  Behind us, I hear them crashing through the forest with renewed purpose. They are following. Of course they are following. We left a blood trail a child could track, drops of my life marking every step.

  The rain intensifies, turning from drizzle to downpour. Good. It will wash away some of the blood, make tracking harder. But it also makes every rock slippery, every fallen log treacherous. I am moving too fast, taking risks I should not, betting everything on speed and distance and luck.

  My foot catches on a root hidden beneath wet leaves. I go down hard, twisting desperately to protect the child. We hit the ground rolling. Pain explodes through my injured shoulder, white-hot, blinding, all-consuming.

  The child is thrown clear. She lands in the mud, gasping and crying.

  "Sorry," she whispers through tears, like this is her fault. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

  "Not your fault," I gasp, forcing myself to hands and knees. Everything hurts. Everything is screaming at me to stay down. "Can you run?"

  She looks at her feet. At the bloody, torn mess of her soles. Then looks back at me with eyes that say she will try anyway.

  "Then run. That way." I point roughly south. "Don't stop until you find water or shelter. Hide and wait for dawn."

  "But you..."

  "I'll find you. I promise. Now go!"

  She goes. Stumbling through rain and mud. Leaving bloody prints I will have to cover somehow.

  Forcing myself, up. The world tilts dangerously. My vision tunnels. I grab a fallen branch for support, my good hand white-knuckled around wet wood.

  The hunters are close. Too close. Maybe thirty seconds behind.

  I need to buy her more time.

  There is an overhang ahead, rocky outcrop creating maybe ten feet of dry space beneath. Not ideal but it is shelter. Defensible position. Better than being caught in the open.

  I stumble toward it, using trees for support, leaving an obvious trail. Leading them away from where the child ran. Every step is agony but I keep moving because stopping means dying and dying means that child dies too.

  The overhang appears through the rain and I almost cry from relief. Ten feet deep, maybe six high at the entrance, sloping down to about four feet at the back. Dry leaves scattered across stone floor. A few animal droppings, old ones, dried, no recent occupants.

  I make it three steps inside before my legs give out completely.

  The stone is cold and hard and the most wonderful thing I have ever felt because it is not mud, it is not rain, it is not moving. I just lie there for a moment, maybe longer. Time feels strange, elastic, unreliable.

  Cannot stay here. Have to keep moving. Have to find the child.

  But my body is not listening anymore. It is done. Finished. Pushed beyond its limits and now demanding payment.

  Through the rain, I hear voices. The hunters. Close. Too close.

  "Lost the trail!"

  "Rain washed it out!"

  "Split up! It can't have gone far!"

  They are searching. Methodically. Professionally. They will find me eventually. Find us both.

  Forcing myself to sit up. The world spins sickeningly. My injured arm hangs completely useless, numb from shoulder to fingertips. The shoulder wound is still bleeding despite the cold and rain. The ribs hurt with every breath.

  Need to stop the bleeding. Need to stay conscious. Need to find that child.

  I tear strips from my already-ruined tunic, tie them around the worst wounds with shaking hands. It is not much but it is something. Enough to slow the bleeding. Maybe enough to keep me conscious a bit longer.

  The voices fade slightly. They are moving away, searching in the wrong direction. The rain is helping, confusing them, washing away our tracks.

  I sit against the back wall of the overhang and force myself to stay awake. To think. To plan.

  The child is out there. Alone. Terrified. Hurt. Running on destroyed feet through a forest she does not know.

  I told her I would find her. Promised.

  Cannot break that promise. Will not break that promise.

  But first I need to rest. Just for a moment. Just until the world stops spinning.

  Just for a moment...

  I wake to hands shaking me. Small hands. Terrified voice.

  "Please wake up! Please! I don't know what to do!"

  My eyes flutter open. The child is kneeling beside me, soaked through, shivering violently. Her gray eyes are huge with fear.

  "You came back," I mumble, my voice slurred and strange.

  "You were taking too long. I got scared. I thought..." She does not finish the sentence.

  "I told you to run."

  "I know. But I couldn't. Not after you saved me." She is crying now, tears mixing with rain on her face. "What do I do? How do I help?"

  Such a simple question. Such an impossible answer.

  "Fire," I manage. My voice sounds like it is coming from somewhere far away. "Need fire."

  "I don't know how."

  "I'll teach you." The words come slowly, with effort. "But first... need to stop the bleeding."

  She looks at my wounds and goes pale. "There's so much blood."

  "Just looks bad. Not as bad as it looks. My pack..." I gesture vaguely. "Medical supplies."

  She finds it, pulls out the small pouch where I keep bandages and herbs. Her hands shake as she opens it.

  "The cloth. Clean cloth. And that jar with the green paste."

  She finds them. Looks at me helplessly.

  "The shoulder wound first. Press the cloth against it. Hard."

  She does, and the pressure makes me see white for a moment. But she does not pull away, does not flinch. Just holds firm like I told her.

  "Good. That's good. Keep pressing. Count to one hundred."

  She counts quietly, her voice shaking. When she reaches one hundred, I tell her to remove the cloth.

  The bleeding has slowed. Not stopped, but slower.

  "Green paste. Put it on the wound. Thick."

  She does, her small fingers careful and gentle. The paste stings but it is cold, which feels good against the burning.

  "Now wrap it. Tight."

  She wraps with surprising competence, her filed claws not impeding her as much as I feared. When she is done, she looks at me for approval.

  "Perfect. You're a natural healer."

  A small smile breaks through her terror. Just for a second.

  "Now the arm. Same thing."

  We work through each wound methodically. The child follows instructions exactly, not complaining about the blood or the smell or the horror of it all. Just focusing on the task, on helping, on doing something useful.

  When we are done, I am bandaged like a war casualty but the bleeding has mostly stopped.

  "Now fire," I tell her. My voice is stronger now, the immediate crisis passed. "You'll have to make it. I'll talk you through it."

  My fire kit is still in my belt pouch, mercifully waterproof. I show her the striker, the char cloth, explain how to find dry wood at the back of the overhang where rain has not reached.

  She is a fast learner. Quick and careful and determined. Within minutes she has sparks. Then smoke. Then a small flame catching on dry leaves.

  "Feed it," I tell her. "Small twigs first. Let it grow."

  She does, building the fire with patient care. The warmth is immediate, spreading through the small space. Not enough to dry us completely but enough to stop the shaking, enough to push back the cold that has been creeping into my bones.

  I watch her work, this small child with filed claws and ruined feet. Building a fire because I cannot. Surviving because she has to.

  "What's your name?" I ask when the fire is stable and burning well.

  She looks at me with those wide gray eyes. "Kira."

  "I'm Asha."

  "You saved me." Her voice is small, wondering, like she cannot quite believe it.

  "You came back. When I told you to run, you came back. That makes us even."

  She shakes her head. "You almost died."

  "Almost doesn't count."

  A small smile. Fragile but real.

  "Are they still out there?" she asks. "The hunters?"

  "Probably. But they won't find us tonight. Rain's too heavy. They'll make camp, wait for dawn."

  "And then?"

  "And then we climb."

  "Climb what?"

  "My home. It's... it's in a cliff. Hidden. Safe. They'll never find it."

  She looks at my wounds, at my bandaged arm. "Can you climb?"

  Honest question. Deserves an honest answer.

  "I'll have to. No other choice."

  She nods, accepting this. Then, quieter: "I'll help. However I can."

  "I know you will."

  We sit in silence, watching the fire. The rain continues outside, a steady drumming that is almost soothing. The hunters are out there somewhere, but for now we are hidden. Safe enough.

  "Thank you," Kira says suddenly. "For not leaving me."

  "Thank you for coming back."

  "I was scared," she admits. "When I ran away at first. I kept running and running and then I realized... I didn't know where to go. Didn't know which direction was safe. So I came back. Because you were the only thing that made sense."

  My chest tightens. This child, making me her north star, her fixed point in chaos.

  "You're safe now," I tell her, though I am not sure it is true.

  "We're safe," she corrects softly. "Together."

  "Yeah. Together."

  She curls up against the back wall, wrapped in her torn shift, and within minutes her breathing evens out. Exhaustion finally claiming her.

  I watch her sleep and wonder what I have gotten myself into. One stray was manageable. Two is complicated. Dangerous. A responsibility I am not sure I can handle.

  But looking at her small form, at the bruises and cuts marking her skin, at the filed claws that mark her as someone else's property...

  I will figure it out. Somehow. Because the alternative, leaving her to those hunters, was never really an option.

  I feed the fire carefully. Small sticks, one at a time. Keep it burning. Keep us warm. Keep the darkness at bay.

  Kira shifts in her sleep, making a small sound. I watch her carefully until she settles again. So small. So fragile. So impossibly brave.

  My arm throbs. The bandages are already showing spots of blood, seeping through. Not good. The shoulder wound keeps weeping. Also not good. But neither is actively bleeding, which is something.

  The ribs hurt with every breath but that is just bruising. Painful but not dangerous.

  I am a mess. We are both a mess.

  But we are alive.

  The rain continues outside, a steady drumming that almost becomes soothing. White noise to cover the hunters if they are still searching. But I do not hear voices anymore, do not hear footsteps. They have either given up for the night or moved on to search elsewhere.

  Either way, we have until dawn.

  Sometime deep in the night, Kira wakes with a small cry. Her eyes snap open, wild and unfocused. Nightmare.

  "It's okay," I say quietly, making sure she can see me in the firelight. "You're safe."

  She looks at me, breathing hard. For a moment she does not seem to recognize me. Then her eyes focus.

  "They were coming," she whispers. "The hunters. They had dogs and ropes and they were coming."

  "They're not here. It was just a dream."

  "Promise?"

  I should not promise. Cannot promise. Do not know what tomorrow will bring or if I can keep her safe or if we will even survive the night.

  But she needs to hear it.

  "I promise."

  She studies my face, looking for the lie. But she must see something that satisfies her because she nods slowly. Settles back down.

  This time she sleeps closer to me. Close enough that our shoulders almost touch. Close enough that I can feel her warmth, hear her breathing clearly.

  Close enough that if she cries out again, I will hear immediately.

  I add more wood to the fire, watching the flames dance across damp stone. Feel my body slowly shutting down despite my best efforts to stay alert.

  Cannot sleep. Have to keep watch. Have to stay awake.

  But my eyes keep closing. Just for a moment. Just to rest them.

  I look at Kira one more time, small and vulnerable and trusting.

  "I won't let them take you," I whisper to her sleeping form. "I promise."

  The fire crackles in response. The rain continues. The night stretches on.

  And I keep watch.

  Always watching.

  Always ready.

  Because tomorrow, everything changes.

  Tomorrow, we climb.