---Magnen---

  I step through the front door, shaking snow from my boots before hanging my coat on the rack. The living room is quiet save for the soft murmur of voices from the couch where Jason and Grace sit, heads bent. Dawson bounds over to greet me, and I automatically bend to scratch behind his ears while still working through the traffic logistics that made a fifteen-minute trip stretch to nearly forty, and not to mention the seven-year-old girl who climbed in half-way in. Least it's not like the kid had an axe or anything, even if that crazy guy did. Till, I think it was our pizza guy from yesterday? I'll just say solved the problem and leave it at that.

  "So you guys made it back alright?" I ask, glancing up to see Grace's perfect posture contrasting with Jason's more relaxed slouch. The kitten sleeps in a tight orange ball on her lap, looking impossibly small against her hand as she absently strokes her fur.

  "Took the bus," Jason grunts without turning fully toward me. Something about his tone catches my attention immediately—a slight pitch variation I've learned to recognize over twenty-eight years of fatherhood. It's his "not exactly lying but definitely not telling the whole truth" voice.

  I catalog this response, filing it away for later. Jason rarely lies, especially to me, and when he does, it's usually for a reason worth understanding. The fact that a kid climbed into my truck while an angry man waved an axe at me before our pizza guy broke said axe, noted that if the other guy had actually attacked me Grace would have turned him into gloves, then said kid kept asking questions about my son, well. I'm more concerned about that than how Jason and Grace, and let's be honest, Grace being Grace would insure Jason didn't do anything too bad. Probably by just stabbing said bad thing till it died, but that's also technically solveing it, got back home, and they did get back home and seem to be fine, so there's that.

  "The bus?" I repeat, keeping my tone casual. "Must have been perfect timing."

  "Yeah," Jason says, shoulders tensing almost imperceptibly. "Lucky."

  Grace rises in a single fluid motion, somehow managing not to disturb the kitten as she transfers her to Jason's lap. "Magnen," she says, her voice carrying that distinctive formal quality, "may I speak with you?"

  "Sure," I reply, intrigued by the request. In the four days she's been here, Grace has rarely initiated conversation with me directly. Or, really, anyone other than Jason. Dawson, but Dawson's adorible and, well. Dawson.

  She follows me to the kitchen with that unnervingly silent tread. I've been cataloging her movements since she arrived—the economical precision, the perfect balance, the way she somehow manages to cross our creaky floors without producing a sound. It's as if she exists at a slightly different frequency than the rest of us, vibrating just outside normal human parameters. And my son likes her. As in, attractive likeing as uposed to 'you're not an asshole' likeing. Which brings it's own set of complications.

  Once we reach the kitchen, she stands with military precision, hands at her sides, feet exactly shoulder-width apart. The engineer in me appreciates the perfect symmetry of her stance while simultaneously noting how unnatural it appears in our kitchen.

  "I am concerned with inconveniencing you further," she states without preamble. "Jason and I plan to visit the survival school this afternoon, but I require its location as I do not wish to cause you additional difficulty after you have already assisted us."

  I lean against the counter, studying her. Every interaction with Grace feels like assembling a complex puzzle with half the pieces missing. "The survival school's about twenty minutes east of here," I explain. "Normally I'd offer to drive you—"

  "That is unnecessary," she interrupts. "I can ensure our arrival without requiring your assistance. However, before we go, I wish to know if there is anything regarding Jason's abilities I should be aware of. Hang-ups with various blades or other issues, for example, so I may plan accordingly."

  The precise way she phrases her question strikes me as odd. Why would Jason have "hang-ups" with blades specifically? And why does she seem confident she can get them there without my help?

  "Jason's pretty capable," I say carefully, testing her reactions. "Been blind his whole life, you know that, so he's learned to adapt. The only real limitation is he can't see, obviously." I pause, watching her face for any reaction. "Though you already know that too."

  Grace's expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes sharpens slightly. "Yes," she agrees. "Though adaptation can create both advantages and compensatory behaviors that must be accounted for."

  Her analytical approach to my son is both troubling and fascinating. She speaks about him like he's a system to be optimized rather than a person to be understood, but the concern when doing this, talking to me and the concern in her tone suggests genuine interest in his welfare that's strange, considering what she told me earlier when I dropped them off about her being a psychopath. Also, not going to try to dig into that now, that's Bearee's department, I just build shit, and you can't fix people with hammers and loud violent swearing. What's that called again... Percussive maintenance? Fuck it, I like that better, as Jason taught me, 'yeeting' it.

  "He's got good spatial awareness," I offer, deciding to engage with her approach for now. "Better than most sighted people, actually. But he doesn't have visual reference points for how to hold certain tools properly. Mike at the survival school usually demonstrates techniques by guiding Jason's hands through the motions, for example."

  Grace nods once, processing this information with visible focus. "Understood. I will adjust my instructional approach accordingly."

  I straighten, curiosity finally overwhelming caution. "You still haven't told me how you're planning to get there without a car."

  "We will walk."

  I blink, running the calculations automatically. "That's at least fifteen kilometers each way, in below-freezing temperatures."

  "Yes," Grace agrees, as if this is perfectly reasonable. "The exercise will be beneficial."

  "For you, maybe," I say, thinking of my son walking for hours in the Canadian winter. "But Jason's not—"

  "I will ensure he remains safe," she interrupts, her tone shifting subtly toward something firmer. "Your son's wellbeing is my primary concern, Magnen. I have given my word on this matter. As such, anything or anyone who attempts to geperdize that safety is the enemy, and the enemy exists only to be destroyed."

  There's something in how she says this—a weight to her words that suggests more than casual reassurance. I've spent my career analyzing structural integrity, determining what will hold under pressure and what will fail. Grace's commitment to Jason's safety feels like reinforced steel—rigid, unyielding, and distinctly non-standard. The fact she's talking about enemies, well. I red a bit of bloodthorn, so I'm glad Grace appears to be enjoying the man's works, if nothing else. Something for them to talk about where jason is on equal footing, which is rare enough most of the time.

  "Why are you doing this?" I ask, the question escaping before I can reconsider. "The survival training, taking care of him. What's your angle?"

  Grace meets my gaze directly, her green eyes unsettlingly intense. "Jason saved my life," she states. "Where I am from, such a debt cannot be ignored or dismissed. He requires skills that I possess. I will provide them."

  The simplicity of her explanation should be reassuring, yet something about it raises more questions than it answers. Where exactly is she from that saving someone's life creates such an absolute obligation, for one. The village story was just that, I'm not Bearee with her grasp on people, but I know stories. Also, I heard Grace noteing to Bearee the story failed, and more concerningly, how much of this does Jason actually know?

  "Alright," I concede, recognizing I won't get anything else now. "The survival school is called Northern Edge. It's on the east side of Marklen Woods, just past the old community center. Can't miss it—looks like a big log cabin with a blue door and a giant fucker, Dave, standing outside with an axe and no shirt because, and I quote: "a man needs only his chest-hair to warm himself, and if you can't do that, grow more chest-hair."

  "Thank you," Grace says with a precise nod. "I will ensure our arrival by optimal means."

  She turns to leave, her movement so smooth it almost seems choreographed. I'm struck again by the contradiction she represents—clearly intelligent and highly capable, but also fundimentally different from normal human behavior, well. Normal human behavior.

  "Grace," I call after her, making a sudden decision. "When you get back later, I'd like to hear what you think of Jason's abilities. As his father, I want to understand his potential through your... unique perspective."

  She pauses, considering this request. "I will provide an accurate assessment, Magnen," she agrees before continuing her silent exit.

  Alone in the kitchen, I find myself revisiting Jason's lie about the bus. Why would he feel the need to conceal how they really got home? And how did they actually manage it, given that I had the truck and they were at least five kilometers from the nearest bus stop?

  I pour myself a coffee, mind working through possible scenarios. My son's relationship with this unusual woman represents an unknown variable in an equation I've been carefully balancing for twenty-eight years. The protective father in me wants to remove the variable entirely; the engineer understands that new components sometimes create unprecedented structural improvements.

  For now, I'll observe and document, gathering data before reaching conclusions. But one thing is certain—there's more to Grace than either she or Jason is telling us. The question is whether that something more represents a threat or an opportunity for my son.

  Either way, I intend to find out.

  ---Jason---

  I zip my jacket higher as Grace and I step onto the front porch, the bitter afternoon cold nipping at my exposed skin. The temperature has dropped at least five degrees since morning, and the concrete porch sags under my boots with that distinctive winter sound—that special kind of brittleness that comes when concrete expands because ice has gotten into cracks.

  "We could still ask Dad for a ride," I suggest, watching my breath form little clouds that dissipate into the crisp air. "It's going to take us forever to walk there."

  Grace stands beside me, somehow looking completely unaffected by the cold despite wearing only the borrowed jacket that's slightly too large for her frame. But then she's got magical vigger, so of course she's fine in this. Her posture remains perfect—spine straight, shoulders squared, head held at that precise angle that suggests constant awareness of her surroundings.

  "Walking is not necessary," she states, her eyes scanning the street with that predatory focus I've grown accustomed to. "I can ensure our arrival through more efficient means."

  Before I can ask what she means, she extends her hand toward me, palm up. "I require physical contact to maintain your structural integrity during transit."

  I stare at her outstretched hand, confused. "You're going to... what? Carry me?"

  "In a way," she replies with complete seriousness. "Though 'carry' implies a passive state on your part. You will be actively moving, but I will reinforce you're physical capabilities with vigger to prevent tearing."

  "Like when we ran back from the pet store earlier?" I ask, remembering the exhilarating and terrifying experience of moving at impossible speede.

  "Yes," Grace confirms. "Though with greater efficiency now that I understand the necessary vigger distribution."

  I hesitate, eyeing her outstretched hand. Despite her slender frame, I've seen enough evidence of Grace's extraordinary strength to believe she can do exactly what she's promising. Also, the memory of whatever she did last time, conscious or not, remains fresh. Still, the idea of racing through Toronto neighborhoods at impossible speeds seems like asking for unwanted attention, and I don't want, and Grace really doesn't need, that. Especially with her internet video so fresh.

  "Before we go," I say, taking her hand despite my misgivings, "I should probably warn you about the guys at the survival school."

  Grace's slightly cooler than average fingers close around mine with careful precision—firm enough to maintain contact but measured to avoid discomfort. "Explain," she says simply.

  "They're going to assume you're my girlfriend," I explain, feeling heat rise to my cheeks despite the cold. "And nothing I say will convince them otherwise. Trust me, I've worked there for three years, and they've been hoping I'd find someone the whole time."

  Grace tilts her head slightly, processing this information. "Girlfriend. This indicates a romantic and or sexual relationship, yes?"

  "Yes," I confirm, the tipical bluntness of her statement not helping me in this situation. Especially when I'm holding her hand. And still attracted to her. Fuck. "That's what they'll think. It's called 'ribbing'—like, friendly teasing. They're not trying to be mean, it's just how guys show affection sometimes."

  "Verbal exchanges designed to create mild social discomfort as a form of bonding," Grace summarizes with perfect seriousness. "Similar to how hunters in my clan would describe each other's failures during group meals."

  "That's... actually a pretty good comparison," I admit, surprised by her understanding. "Just please don't take their jokes literally, okay? Especially if they say anything about, you know, us being together or whatever."

  Grace considers this for a moment. "I could be introduced as your survival instructor rather than your mate," she suggests. "This would be factually accurate."

  I can't help but grin at the thought. "Dave—he's the head instructor—would be mock-offended at that. He's super proud of the school. Plus, all the guys are kind of protective of me."

  "Because of your former visual limitation," Grace states rather than asks.

  "Partly," I acknowledge. "But also because I handle most of their paperwork. Without me, they'd have reports backed up for months." I squeeze her hand gently. "Just so you know, Dave will probably want to evaluate your actual skills. He won't believe anyone is qualified to teach me until he sees proof, and, well. he does want to chat with you more about survival, said he seemed excited about the hole conversation yesterday when we talked earlier."

  Grace nods once. "Acceptable. I welcome the opportunity to demonstrate practical competence."

  "Great," I say, taking a deep breath and bracing myself. "So, how exactly are we doing this running thing?"

  "Maintain forward momentum," Grace instructs, her grip on my hand tightening slightly. "I will match and enhance your pace. Do not resist the vigger flow—allow it to integrate with your muscular systems."

  "That doesn't actually explain anything," I mutter, but take a step forward anyway.

  One moment we're walking down my driveway at a normal pace, the next we're practically flying across the neighborhood. The world blurs around us, houses and trees streaking past in smears of, how ever the fuck I can actually see shit. The cold air burns my lungs as we accelerate, but somehow my legs keep pumping, matching Grace's impossible speed stride for stride.

  I feel energy coursing through my body—warm like a bath but on the inside, radiating from where her hand grips mine. It flows into my muscles, reinforcing them, preventing the tears and strains that should be happening at this speed. Despite the rational part of my brain screaming that this is impossible, my body moves with a power and grace I've never experienced before.

  Streets fly by beneath our feet. We weave between pedestrians who barely have time to register our passing. Grace navigates with perfect precision, adjusting our trajectory to avoid obstacles milliseconds before impact. I'm simultaneously terrified and exhilarated, feeling like I'm riding a controlled lightning bolt.

  "This is insane!" I shout, my voice whipped away by the wind.

  Grace doesn't respond, her focus entirely on maintaining our trajectory. Her face shows no strain, no effort, despite the fact that we must be moving at at least sixty kilometers per hour through city streets.

  The journey that should have taken over an hour on foot passes in minutes. We slow as we approach the edge of the forest, Grace gradually decreasing our pace until we're moving at something closer to a normal run, then a jog, and finally a walk. When we stop completely, I double over, gasping for breath, though more out of adrenaline than actual, well, tiredness? Exertion sounds too clinicle for what that was and I don't have another word. Anyway, that.

  "Holy shit," I wheeze, straightening up to look around. We're standing at the forest's edge, the familiar structure of Northern Edge Survival School visible through the trees about a hundred meters ahead. "That was... That was..."

  "Efficient," Grace supplies, looking completely unaffected by our journey. Not a hair out of place, not even breathing hard.

  "Yeah," I laugh shakily, running a hand through my now windblown hair. "Efficient is one word for it."

  We walk the remaining distance at a normal pace, giving me time to collect myself. Northern Edge looks exactly as I remember it—a sprawling main lodge crafted from locally sourced timber, surrounded by various outbuildings and training areas. The warm, inviting structure exudes a rustic charm that somehow manages to be both welcoming and serious about its purpose simultaneously. The sign over the entrance reads "Northern Edge Survival School" in hand-carved letters, with the smaller tagline "The Edge is Where You Learn" underneath.

  "This place looks like it belongs in my homeland," Grace observes, studying the structure with apparent approval. "Functional design for harsh conditions."

  "Dave built most of it himself," I explain while leading her toward the entrance. "He's pretty proud of it."

  Before we reach the door it swings open, and Dave's massive frame fills the entrance, though without the no-shirt or axe, unfortunitly.

  "Jason!" he booms, his voice carrying easily across the clearing. "Thought I heard someone coming up the..." His words trail off as he notices Grace beside me, his bushy eyebrows shooting upward. "Well, well, well. Look who's back! Grace, wasn't it? Already bringing her to work with you, Stone? That was quick."

  "Hello, Dave," Grace replies with a nod. "Jason has requested that I demonstrate various survival techniques, as I promised earlier during our conversation."

  "Right, right," Dave says, grinning broadly as he steps aside to let us enter. "The moisture-wicking base layer, insulating mid-layer, waterproof shell conversation. Still think your approach has merit, though I'd love to see it in action."

  I follow them inside, somewhat surprised by their easy rapport. I keep forgetting that Dave actually drove me home and met Grace already, it feels like a lot longer than it was, though seems the conversation they had about layering systems and heat retention clearly made an impression, though who it did more to, I don't know. It's nice, either way. Dave and Grace will have lots to talk about, at least.

  The main room of the cabin is warm and inviting, heated by a large stone fireplace along one wall. Various survival tools hang from the wooden beams above, and the air smells of pine, woodsmoke, and coffee. Mike, Raj, and Carter sit around a large table, playing cards and drinking from steaming mugs.

  "Hey, look what the cat dragged in!" calls Mike, his familiar voice cutting through the warm air. "And he's brought his lady friend this time!"

  "No way," says Raj, his dark eyes widening dramatically. "Jason 'I'm too busy for dating' Stone has a girlfriend?"

  *It would be nice*, I think before I can stop myself. *Grace is straightforward, honest and beautiful in a Grace sort of way, and she'd never play games or lead me on.*

  I mentally hammer that thought down with one of those drop hammers you use in industrial projects to meld different sheets of metal together, or would that be a press? Anyway, remembering our conversation earlier. The death oath creates a power imbalance I can't ethically ignore, no matter how attracted I might be to her. And we've known each other for what—four days? I'm being ridiculous and needy, and Grace has enough shit with being here to deal with without that on everything else.

  "She's not my girlfriend," I sigh, knowing it's futile. "Grace is a survival expert I met recently. She's going to show me some techniques today."

  This prompts a chorus of exaggerated "Ooohs" from Mike and Raj, while Dave chuckles behind us and Carter, if he's here, well dis his best Carter impression.

  "Techniques, huh?" Mike waggles his eyebrows suggestively. "What kind of 'techniques' are we talking about here?"

  "Give it a rest, Mike," Carter says, though I catch the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth. He turns his attention to Grace. "Grace, right? I'm not sure if you've heard, but we run a tabletop roleplaying game here on Friday nights. Jason mentioned you might be interested in joining. We're actually switching from our space pirates campaign to a medieval fantasy setting—swords and sorcery instead of laser rifles and starships."

  Grace turns to me, her brow furrowing slightly. "What is a TTRPG?"

  "It's a game where you pretend to be characters in a story," I explain. "Like, you create a fictional person—maybe a warrior or a wizard—and you make decisions about what they'd do in different situations. One person, usually Dave, runs the game and describes the world and the challenges you face."

  "I control a fictional entity who engages in combat and survival scenarios?" Grace asks, clearly trying to process the concept.

  "Something like that," Dave jumps in. "But it's cooperative—you work with everyone else's characters to overcome challenges. Like hunting in a pack instead of alone."

  "It's fun," Raj adds. "Low stakes, just hanging out and telling a story together with lots of snacks. Also, you can fireball everything, but that's not for everyone."

  "Jason asked if we could switch to medieval fantasy," Carter notes. "Thought it might be easier for you to relate to than space pirates."

  Grace nods slowly. "I will consider this 'TTRPG' activity. The concept of strategic decision-making in fictional scenarios has tactical training applications."

  "It's mostly just for fun," I clarify, though I'm secretly happy she's interested.

  Dave claps his hands together. "So, Grace, Jason tells me you're going to be teaching him some survival skills. Mind if I ask where you learned your craft? Not many people have the kind of practical knowledge that impressed me during our chat yesterday."

  "Far north," Grace says without hesitation. "My settlement exists above the tree line where temperatures average -40°C during winter months. Survival is not taught as a separate skill—it is simply existence. Those who do not survive are killed. Those who do survive continue their kin lines."

  Grace turns to me briefly. "I should note that the story we concocted for your parents about me being from a small Eastern European village has now failed. As such, we first met when Jason brought me inside when I would have otherwise frozen to death. In exchange, I am ensuring he has adequate skills to continue to survive and thus not be killed."

  The room falls silent as the men process this blunt explanation. Carter's eyebrows rise slightly, while Dave's expression grows increasingly intrigued.

  "Above the tree line?" Raj asks, breaking the silence. "You mean like, the Arctic?"

  "Similar conditions," Grace confirms. "The cold in my homeland kills without mercy or hesitation. Those who live in it make said cold seem, pleasent. As such, those who cannot adapt do not survive."

  "And you're going to teach Jason some of these skills?" Dave asks, professional interest evident in his tone.

  "Yes," Grace states simply. "He has requested instruction in basic survival techniques, beginning with proper knife handling and fire-starting."

  "Jason," Grace turns to me. "Show them the grip I taught you."

  Feeling all eyes on me, I reach for my survival knife—the larger one I'd brought along—and draw it from its sheath. I position my hand as Grace had shown me three days ago after she'd disarmed me in my own home after returning from her first walk through the city. My thumb wrapped naturally around the handle, index finger extending slightly along the spine toward the guard without actually touching it. Wrist relaxed rather than rigid, though that's the hardest part.

  "That's a Fairbairn approach," Dave notes with surprise. "When did you pick that up, Stone? That's not what I taught you."

  "Grace showed me after she disarmed me," I explain, feeling a mix of embarrassment and pride. "I was holding it wrong when she came back from her walk through the city. She fixed my grip."

  "Disarmed you, huh?" Mike chuckles. "Stone, I think you might be in over your head with this one."

  "You have no idea, man," I mutter under my breath.

  Dave exchanges a glance with Carter, some unspoken communication passing between them. "Well then," he says finally, "let's see what you've got. We've got a training area out back set up for exactly this kind of thing."

  As we follow Dave through the cabin toward the back door, Mike sidles up beside me, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Dude, where did you find her? She's intense, and she's not sed more than a hundred words since she's gotten here."

  "You have no idea," I mutter again.

  The training area behind the cabin is a large clearing surrounded by pine trees, with several designated sections for different skills. There's a fire-starting area with stone circles and various types of kindling; a knife skills section with logs set up for batoning and feather-stick creation; and targets for throwing practice.

  "This area is acceptable," Grace states, surveying the space with that calculating gaze of hers.

  "High praise," Dave says dryly, though I can tell he's impressed by her confidence. "Mind if we observe? Always good to pick up new techniques."

  "Your presence will not interfere with instruction," Grace replies, which I translate mentally to "sure, whatever."

  "Great!" Dave claps his hands together. "Jason, your 'friend' has the floor."

  As the instructors settle on a nearby bench, Grace turns to me, her expression shifting subtly into what I've come to recognize as her teaching mode—focused, direct, with absolute certainty in her knowledge.

  "We will begin with proper knife positioning," she announces, gesturing for me to produce my blade. "Show me how you currently hold your knife for basic cutting tasks."

  I withdraw my full-tang fixed-blade knife from its sheath again, aware of Dave and the others watching with professional interest.

  I hold my knife with what I've always considered a practical grip. My fingers wrap around the handle in what Dave calls a "hammer grip" — thumb along one side of the handle, four fingers curled around the opposite side, like I'm gripping a hammer ready to strike. It's always felt secure in my hand despite Grace's previous lesson, stable when cutting through branches or batoning wood. The knife points forward, blade extending from the bottom of my fist, with my wrist aligned straight with my forearm.

  My weight shifts forward slightly with the knife, unconsciously positioning myself as I would for cutting through resistant material. It's the grip I've used for two and a half years at Northern Edge, the one Mike taught me during my first lesson, guiding my hands through the motions when I couldn't see what I was doing.

  Grace's expression changes almost imperceptibly as she studies my hand position—a subtle tightening around her eyes that I'm learning to recognize as her version of a frown.

  "Incorrect," she states, the word delivered without judgment, merely assessment. "Your grip creates three critical inefficiencies."

  She steps closer, and I notice Dave leaning forward with interest.

  "First," Grace continues, "your thumb placement creates unnecessary tension in the flexor muscles, reducing endurance during prolonged use. Second, your wrist angle distributes force inefficiently, wasting approximately thirty percent of applied energy. Third, the positioning of your little finger fails to utilize its stabilizing potential."

  Grace produces her bone knife and demonstrates her grip. Her hand cradles the knife rather than clutches it. Her index finger extends slightly along the spine of the blade, providing directional control. Her thumb rests against the side of the handle in a position I've never seen before—not pressing downward but slightly forward, creating what appears to be a counterbalance to the index finger. Her remaining three fingers wrap around the handle, but with the little finger positioned slightly apart from the others, creating a subtle triangulation point that somehow makes the entire grip look more stable.

  The knife doesn't extend straight from her fist as mine did. Instead, it forms a more natural continuation of her arm, the blade almost becoming an extension of her forearm rather than something held by it. Her wrist maintains a slight natural curve rather than rigid straightness, eliminating the tension I hadn't even realized I was carrying in my own grip.

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  When she moves the knife in a demonstration cut, the motion flows seamlessly from shoulder to fingertip, with no discernible transition point between arm and blade. It's like watching water flow downstream, finding the path of least resistance through perfect efficiency of movement.

  "This grip," Grace explains, "distributes force evenly across multiple muscle groups rather than concentrating it in the forearm. It permits rotation without adjustment, allows for precise control during delicate tasks, and enables maximum power transfer during forceful applications." Before. "Remember. The knife is a part of the arm, not a tool to be used by it."

  I attempt to replicate her position, and immediately feel the difference. Where, like last time my previous grip felt secure but somewhat rigid, this new configuration feels alive—responsive in a way I hadn't imagined possible. The knife suddenly weighs less, moves more naturally, and seems to anticipate my intentions rather than simply following them.

  "The blade is not separate from you," Grace says as she adjusts my finger positions with precise touches. "It should respond as naturally as your own fingers."

  I notice Dave and Carter exchanging impressed glances. This isn't just a different technique—it's a fundamentally different relationship with the tool itself.

  "Now," Grace says, guiding my hand through one more cutting motion to ensure I've internalized the grip, "we will proceed to battoning. Show me your current approach."

  I retrieve a length of split pine from the nearby rack, one of dozens that Dave keeps seasoned and ready for practice. Selecting my larger fixed-blade knife, I didn't bring my smaller rat-tang blade because the tang would snap if I tried battoning with it, I place the wood on a cutting stump, position the knife across the top, and prepare to strike.

  Grace observes my setup with focused attention. "Proceed."

  I position the dry pine length horizontally across the cutting stump, its rough bark catching slightly on the weathered wood surface. My knife feels solid in my hand as I place it perpendicular to the log, the blade's edge facing downward at roughly a thirty-degree angle from vertical. I've placed it about a third of the way from the end, where I can see a slight natural split in the grain that should make for an easier start.

  My left hand steadies the knife, gripping the handle firmly in the hammer-style hold I've been using for years despite the fact that now, I suspect that Grace's grip would be better. She did ask me to show her how I normally do this, so. The blade sits atop the wood, ready to be driven through. In my right hand, I grip another piece of wood—a dense hardwood baton about ten inches long and two inches thick. It's smooth from hundreds of previous strikes, the wood polished by use rather than tools.

  Raising the baton to my shoulder, I bring it down with calculated force onto the spine of the knife. There's a satisfying thunk as wood meets steel, and the blade sinks about half an inch into the pine. I strike again, putting more muscle behind the motion, driving the knife deeper with each hit. My wrist flexes slightly on impact, absorbing some of the shock. The blade's progress is steady but requires significant force—three, four, five solid strikes before it's halfway through the log.

  The wood begins to split along the grain, opening like a mouth on either side of my blade. I apply slightly more lateral pressure with my knife hand, trying to help the split widen while continuing to drive the blade downward. Each strike sends a jolt up my arm, the impact traveling from the baton through the knife and into my wrist. After about ten strikes, the blade finally breaks through the bottom of the log, the wood splitting apart with a dry crack.

  The resulting halves have relatively smooth faces where the split followed the grain, though there are areas where the wood splintered instead of separating cleanly. I've used a fair amount of energy in the process, and my wrist feels the cumulative impact of the repeated strikes. Yeah, Grace's grip, if it's anything like it was when I was just holding the knife, is probably better for battoning if nothing else. Though given it's Grace, there's going to be else.

  "Not entirely inefficient," Grace comments, which from her seems like high praise. "However, your angle creates unnecessary resistance, and your battoning force is imprecisely applied."

  Grace selects a similar piece of pine, but before placing it on the stump, she runs her fingertips along its length with deliberate care. Her touch seems almost sensory, like she's reading something in the wood's surface that I can't see. She rotates the log several times, examining it from different angles, then makes a small mark with her fingernail at a specific point.

  "Natural separation planes exist within all organic materials," she explains, positioning the log on the stump with precise alignment. "Successful battoning begins with identification, not force."

  She places her bone knife on the log where she made the mark, but the angle is different from mine—steeper, almost forty-five degrees, with the blade oriented so it's almost parallel to what must be an invisible grain line. Her grip on the knife handle employs the new technique she taught me—index finger providing directional guidance along the spine, thumb creating counter-pressure, remaining fingers curled with the little finger slightly separated for stabilization.

  Grace selects her baton—the same piece of hardwood I used—but holds it differently, gripping it near one end rather than the middle, creating what looks like better leverage with less effort. Her stance shifts subtly, feet positioned for stability without rigidity.

  Her first strike is nothing like mine—it's more of a precise tap than a forceful blow, delivered with wrist and forearm rather than shoulder and upper arm. The blade sinks deeper than mine did with what appears to be half the effort. There's no tension in her frame, no wasted energy.

  The second tap is equally controlled, placed at exactly the same spot on the knife spine. The blade slides deeper into the wood as if being welcomed rather than forced. I notice her knife hand makes minute adjustments between strikes, somehow guiding the blade's path rather than just holding it in place.

  With her third strike, I hear a different sound—not the resistant thunk of my battoning, but a softer, almost musical tone that suggests the wood is separating along a natural plane. Also, the log begins opening cleanly along either side of the blade, and you don't get that without seperateing along a natural plane.

  Her fourth and final tap sends the knife through the remaining wood, the log splitting completely with a sound more like a sigh than a crack. The separated halves fall away from each other, revealing perfectly smooth faces that followed the grain entirely. The entire process took less than half the strikes I needed, with perhaps a third of the energy I used.

  "The wood's structure determines the optimal separation path," Grace says, lifting one of the halves to show me the almost polished appearance of the split surface. "Force should be precisely applied to exploit existing weaknesses, not to overcome resistance."

  "Holy shit," Mike mutters from the observation bench. "She barely hit it."

  "It's all about proper blade alignment with the grain," Carter comments quietly. "Impressive precision."

  Grace hands me another piece of wood. "Try again. Place your blade along this line," she says, tracing an almost invisible pattern in the wood grain with her fingertip. "Strike firmly but without excessive force. The wood will separate along its natural fault lines rather than being forced apart."

  I follow her guidance, positioning the knife where indicated. When I strike, I'm startled by how easily the blade sinks in, as if the wood is inviting it rather than resisting. Three strikes later, the split is complete, requiring noticeably less effort than my first attempt.

  "Better," Grace acknowledges. "Your application of force is improving, though your blade angle still requires refinement."

  For the next hour and fifteen minutes, we practice battoning techniques, with Grace making subtle adjustments to my approach. Each time, the process becomes more efficient, requiring less energy while achieving cleaner results. Dave and the others watch attentively, occasionally exchanging impressed glances.

  "Now," Grace announces, "we will progress to feathersticks. Explain your understanding of their purpose and creation method."

  I select a fresh piece of wood while considering my answer. "Feathersticks are thin curls of wood still attached to the main piece, creating more surface area for a fire to catch. They're especially useful with damp wood or difficult conditions. We carve them by making thin, controlled cuts along the grain, keeping the shavings attached at one end." Before, "I'm, not the best at them, though."

  Grace nods once. "Correct in principle. What conditions necessitate their use rather than smaller kindling?"

  I think for a moment. "High humidity environments, where smaller pieces might be too damp to catch. Also, windy conditions where loose tinder might blow away."

  "Acceptable," Grace says, then continues: "Your assessment reflects the conditions of this environment correctly. Now, demonstrate."

  I move the fresh piece of split pine I selected earlier, about eight inches long and two inches wide with a relatively straight grain pattern to the stump, now Holding it in my left hand, I position my knife at the top end of the wood, blade angled at about sixty degrees to the grain. Using my standard grip, I begin shaving downward along the length while trying to keep the cuts thin and controlled.

  The first few curls are thicker than I'd like—about a sixteenth of an inch—and they break off from the main piece rather than remaining attached like there supposed to. I adjust my angle slightly and try again while pushing down my frustration at failing in front of the guies, and also, though also mostly, Grace, while focusing this time on maintaining consistent pressure throughout the cutting motion.

  My next attempt produces better results—thin shavings that curl away from the wood but remain attached at the base. I continue working my way around the stick, creating a cluster of curls at the top end. The process requires focus, especially maintaining the correct angle of the blade against the grain.

  After several minutes, I've created what Dave always considered a decent featherstick—maybe thirty to forty curls sprouting from the top two inches of the wood. They're roughly uniform in thickness, most about the width of a piece of paper, though some are noticeably thicker. The curls stand out from the main piece at various angles, creating increased surface area that should catch a spark effectively in normal conditions.

  I've worked primarily with the grain, following the natural lines of the wood, and the resulting feathers have a somewhat regular appearance. The cutting process required frequent adjustment of either the wood or my knife position to maintain the correct angle as I worked around the stick.

  "This is how we typically make them," I explain, holding up my finished piece. "Enough surface area to catch easily, but still substantial enough not to burn away too quickly."

  Grace examines my work with clinical detachment before selecting her own piece of wood. Unlike my direct approach, she first spends several seconds studying the material, turning it in her hands and occasionally running a fingertip along certain sections of the grain.

  "In my homeland, feathersticks serve an additional critical function beyond what you've described. When temperatures drop below -40°C, standard kindling often fails to catch even with optimal ignition sources. The increased surface area of properly constructed feathersticks not only improves ignition probability but extends initial burn time by approximately four minutes—often the difference between successful fire establishment and death." With that, Grace takes the piece of wood, turning the material in her hand with an expert's consideration.

  "The wood speaks if you listen," she says, finally settling on a position to begin. Her bone knife emerges from its sheath with fluid precision, and she adjusts her grip to the form she taught me earlier.

  Her technique immediately diverges from mine. Rather than starting at the top and working downward, she positions her blade about three inches from the end, angling it at approximately seventy degrees to the grain. The knife moves in a long, continuous stroke as she draws it that spirals gradually up and around the stick, creating a single, unbroken curled shaving that wraps around the wood core.

  The shaving she produces is remarkably consistent—paper-thin throughout its length, with no thicker sections or breaks. It curls away from the main piece in a perfect spiral while remaining firmly attached at its base. There's a rhythmic quality to her movements, a flow that seems almost meditative despite its precision.

  After completing one spiraling cut, she repositions her blade slightly and begins another, working methodically around the circumference of the stick. Each stroke produces another perfect spiral, all uniform in thickness and curl pattern. She never seems to adjust her grip or reposition the wood—instead, her wrist and fingers make minute compensations as she works, maintaining optimal blade angle regardless of the grain's direction.

  Within two minutes, she's created a featherstick that makes mine look crude by comparison. Dozens of uniform, translucent curls extend from the top third of the wood, each precisely the same thickness, creating a symmetrical pattern around the central core. The curls stand out at a consistent angle, maximizing air exposure while maintaining structural integrity.

  "Standard featherstick construction for moderate climate conditions," Grace states, holding up her work. "Adequate for environments where temperatures remain above -15°C and moderate humidity levels. Unless you journey to similar extreme environments, your approach is tactically sound for local conditions. The technique, however, can be refined."

  She hands me the finished piece—a masterpiece of carving that still looks more like an artist's sculpture than a survival tool, dispite the fact I literally saw her carve it in real-time.

  "Damn," Dave whispers from behind us, genuine awe in his voice.

  Grace passes me a fresh piece of wood. "Now you will attempt this. Focus on blade angle relative to grain direction. The knife should glide through the wood fibers rather than force them apart. Check twice, carve once, as the Druid would say."

  I take my knife, adjusting to the new grip she taught me earlier, and begin to carve. My first few attempts produce thick, chunky curls—functional but crude compared to Grace's delicate work.

  "Your angle is too aggressive," Grace observes. "Reduce pressure by forty percent and increase blade angle by approximately fifteen degrees."

  I adjust my approach, adjusting the angle to be shallower and immediately the cuts become smoother, producing thinner curls. Grace watches intently, occasionally reaching out to make minor corrections to my grip or angle. With each adjustment, the feathers become finer and more numerous.

  "Your adaptability is commendable," Grace notes after my fourth attempt produces something approaching her standard. "Many hunters require significantly more time to modify established patterns."

  Coming from Grace, this is practically effusive praise even if I wouldn't have even gotten this far if not for the woman. I catch a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth—so brief I might have imagined it.

  From the observation bench, I hear Carter murmur to Dave, "Where did he find her? Those are arctic survival techniques."

  Dave shakes his head with a shrug. "couldn't get it out of him when I went to his house earlier, but I'm starting to think our boy's been holding out on us."

  Grace either doesn't hear their comments or chooses to ignore them, her focus remaining entirely on my technique, which, well, is kind of nice.

  "The principle remains consistent across environments," she explains, watching as I create another set of curls. "But application must adapt to local conditions. Your forests provide abundant tinder materials that my homeland lacks. Consequently, your feathersticks need not achieve the same density as those required in extreme cold."

  She takes my latest attempt, examining it critically. "This would be sufficient for your environment under most conditions. In mine, it would be inadequate by approximately thirty percent."

  "Could you teach me the arctic version anyway?" I ask, genuinely curious. "Even if I don't need it here, I'd like to know."

  Something shifts in Grace's expression—a subtle softening around her eyes that I'm learning to recognize as approval.

  "Yes." Grace agrees while selecting another piece of wood: "now, observe closely. This technique demands precise muscle control and absolute focus. Few, if any, attane success on their first attempt."

  "Arctic conditions demand greater precision," Grace continues, while actually picking up the piece of wood. "At extreme temperatures, standard techniques fail due to reduced oxygen content in super-cooled air and diminished combustibility of wood fibers."

  She positions her bone knife differently now, almost flat against the wood's surface at an angle of approximately fifteen degrees. Her grip shifts subtly—index finger extending further along the spine, applying directional pressure with microscopic precision.

  "Observe the cutting angle," she instructs. "Blade inclination should never exceed twenty degrees relative to the wood surface in arctic applications."

  Her first cut is so shallow it's barely visible—more like she's shaving a human hair than working with wood. The resulting curl is so thin it's translucent, catching the light like a delicate piece of parchment. Unlike her previous technique, she doesn't create spiraling cuts but instead makes dozens of parallel strokes, each producing an individual feather while maintaining connection to the base.

  Her knife moves with hypnotic precision, each stroke identical to the last. The blade seems to float just above the wood's surface, barely making contact yet producing perfectly formed curls. She works methodically around the entire circumference of the stick, gradually moving upward in tiers, creating layers upon layers of incredibly fine shavings.

  "Arctic feathersticking requires understanding of wood fiber structure at microscopic levels," Grace explains, her knife never pausing. "Each cut must sever precisely 90-95% of connecting fibers while maintaining structural integrity at the attachment point."

  The resulting creation looks nothing like conventional feathersticks. Instead of distinct, separated curls, Grace has produced something that resembles a fine fur covering the upper half of the wood. Hundreds—perhaps thousands—of micro-thin shavings stand out from the core, creating an almost fuzzy appearance. The density is remarkable, with seemingly no space between individual curls.

  "The increased surface area-to-mass ratio dramatically improves ignition probability in environments where oxygen content is reduced by extreme cold," Grace says, holding up the finished piece. "Additionally, the micro-structure creates air pockets that insulate initial flames against wind shear and temperature differential."

  The transformation is complete—what began as a simple piece of wood has become an intricate, precisely engineered fire-starting tool. The level of skill required to create such delicate, uniform curls without breaking them or separating them completely from the base is clearly beyond ordinary human capabilities. surtainly beyond mine.

  "At temperatures below -40°C," Grace continues matter-of-factly, "even small inefficiencies in construction result in fire failure. The difference between survival and death often depends on details invisible to the untrained eye."

  I stare at the arctic featherstick in amazement as I slowly realize that what looks like artistry is actually pure functionality—every aspect of its construction designed for a specific purpose in an environment that most humans would never survive long enough to need a fire in.

  Dave steps forward, examining the creation with undisguised awe. "I've been teaching survival for over thirty years," he says quietly, "and I've never seen craftsmanship like this. This isn't just technique—this is, I don't know what it is but it's dam better than what I've ever seen."

  Grace acknowledges his assessment with a slight nod before turning back to me. "Your attempt now," she says, before handing me a fresh piece of wood.

  As I position my knife against the fresh piece of wood, I feel a strange sense of anticipation mixed with determination. In just an hour, Grace has completely transformed my understanding of skills I thought I knew well. The subtle changes in technique she's teaching aren't just refinements—they're fundamental shifts in how I approach the relationship between tool and task.

  I begin carving, focusing intently on maintaining the precise angle Grace demonstrated. My first few cuts are clumsy, too deep and uneven. But as I continue, something clicks—a sudden understanding of exactly how the knife should interact with the wood grain. My movements become smoother, more confident, producing increasingly delicate curls.

  "Yes," Is the only thing Grace says when I complete my first truly successful arctic-style featherstick, though it's still nothing like what Grace seemingly did effortlessly. You can see the individual curls, for one, though it's still better than anything I've created thus far. Still, the single word carries more approval than any elaborate praise could convey.

  Dave whistles softly from beside us. "Jason, you're a quick study. That would keep you alive at thirty below."

  "Negative thirty-eight Celsius," Grace corrects without looking up. "Below that threshold, additional refinements become necessary."

  The matter-of-fact way she delivers this information silences even Dave. The implication that she has personally tested these techniques at such extreme temperatures is, at least to me, obvious.

  "We will continue with fire starting methods next," Grace announces, apparently oblivious to the effect her casual mention of surviving conditions that would kill most humans has had on her audience. "But first, you will practice this technique until muscle memory begins to form. I will insure this outcome."

  As I set to work on another piece of wood, I catch Mike mouthing to Raj, "Dude, where did he find her?" Raj just shakes his head, clearly as impressed as the rest of them.

  The pride I feel isn't just about having brought someone here who clearly knows her stuff, though. It's deeper than that—a sense of connection to Grace's world through these skills she's sharing, a bridge between her reality and mine built through the language of survival. Something that I can do, and, if past experiences with Grace are anything to go by, will be able to do well, too.

  For all her strangeness, all her formal speech and alien perspectives, in this moment Grace makes perfect sense. And judging by the expressions on Dave and the others' faces, they're starting to see what I see in her—not just expertise, but a kind of elemental authenticity that can't be taught or faked.

  As I continue practicing under her watchful eye, I realize that whatever ribbing I might face later about bringing a "girlfriend" to the survival school, Grace has more than proven her worth. She hasn't just impressed them—she's fundamentally changed how they see both of us.

  And somehow, that feels more significant than any other development in our strange, evolving relationship.

  ---Durge---

  The mathematics of observation never change, regardless of reality. Distance equals thirty-seven point four meters from my position within Jason's shadow to the training area behind the Northern Edge Survival School cabin. Angle of observation, forty-three degrees. The early afternoon sun creates optimal shadow depth, reducing probability of visual detection to zero point zero one percent for enhanced individuals, zero for baseline humans.

  I watch Grace teach this reality's Jason Stone through eyes that calculate survival percentages in the same moment they register wood grain patterns. She holds a fresh piece of wood, turning it in her hands with the methodical precision of someone who learned these techniques in environments where failure meant death.

  "In my homeland, feathersticks serve an additional critical function beyond what you've described," Grace states, her voice carrying that familiar flat tone of tactical instruction. "When temperatures drop below minus forty Celsius, standard kindling often fails to catch even with optimal ignition sources."

  This Jason variant leans forward with evident interest, his KA-BAR resting across his knees. The blade—full tang construction, approximately seven inches, weight distribution suggesting quality steel—catches afternoon light as he adjusts his position. His posture demonstrates the focused attention of someone who understands he's receiving instruction beyond typical survival school curricula.

  Grace positions her bone knife at approximately fifteen degrees to the wood surface, far shallower than conventional techniques. Her grip shifts subtly—index finger extending along the spine, applying directional pressure with microscopic precision. The first cut produces a curl so thin it's translucent, barely visible until light catches its edge.

  "Blade inclination should never exceed twenty degrees relative to the wood surface in arctic applications," she explains, making another impossibly delicate cut. Each stroke produces an individual feather while maintaining connection to the base, building layers of microscopic shavings with mathematical uniformity.

  I calculate the surface area-to-mass ratio as she continues working. Each curl extends at precisely sixty-seven degrees, creating optimal air exposure while maintaining structural integrity. Her technique transforms simple wood into something resembling fur—hundreds of micro-thin shavings standing out from the core in perfect density.

  "Arctic feathersticking requires understanding of wood fiber structure at microscopic levels," Grace continues, never pausing in her work. "Each cut must sever precisely ninety to ninety-five percent of connecting fibers while maintaining structural integrity at the attachment point."

  The resulting creation looks nothing like conventional feathersticks. Where Jason's previous attempts produced distinct, separated curls, Grace has created something with an almost fuzzy appearance. The density is remarkable—seemingly no space between individual shavings, each one contributing to the overall effectiveness of the construct.

  "The increased surface area-to-mass ratio dramatically improves ignition probability in environments where oxygen content is reduced by extreme cold," she states, holding up the finished piece. "Additionally, the micro-structure creates air pockets that insulate initial flames against wind shear and temperature differential."

  From the observation bench, the large man known as Dave whistles softly in appreciation. "I've been teaching survival for over three decades, and I've never seen craftsmanship like this."

  Grace acknowledges his assessment with a fractional nod before turning back to Jason. "Your attempt now."

  As Jason positions his knife against fresh wood, I phase between shadows toward a different observation point. The distortion roughly two meters from their location marks Deathblade Mia's concealment—standard shadow pocket construction, functional positioning with multiple attack vectors. Her enhanced senses detect my approach immediately, as she should.

  I enter her shadow pocket through an opening that closes behind me like ripping silk. She doesn't turn her head, maintaining visual contact with Jason as he begins his clumsy attempts to replicate Grace's arctic technique though she knows that I am there. Her grip on the short axe remains relaxed but ready, the weapon positioned for rapid deployment if circumstances require it. They will not. The inocent live. This girl, like the other outside, is guilty only of not shattering under her breaking.

  "Kavuks told me what happened," I state without preamble. "What you wished to become."

  Her eyes—carrying trauma that should have destroyed someone her apparent age—never leave Jason as he struggles with the precise blade angle Grace demonstrated. His first few cuts produce thick, chunky curls, functional but crude compared to her delicate work.

  "Your angle is too aggressive," Grace's voice carries across the training area. "Reduce pressure by forty percent and increase blade angle by approximately fifteen degrees."

  "Warden Jason," Mia says, voice carrying flat certainty while watching Jason adjust his technique.

  "For all his inhumanity, he is still a Jason." I respond, voice equally flat. "He will not harm children, even if his reasons for it are fundamentally alien to the rest of our kind. You, despite everything, are still a child. Still inocent."

  I observe Jason's improved attempt. The cuts become smoother under Grace's guidance, producing thinner curls as he incorporates her corrections. His adaptability rate suggests intelligence combined with determination, though his movements lack her fluid certainty.

  "He chose to save another," Mia continues, still watching Jason's careful knife work. "Chose to let them hurt me. So I'm going to hurt him. I'm going to hurt him until he understands what I went through. Not reenact it—I'm not a animal. But he must understand. It's the only way I can even think of."

  Her voice carries the mechanical precision that reminds me of my own speech patterns. The deathblade enhancements have modified her emotional responses, increasing tactical efficiency while reducing psychological vulnerability. But trauma predates enhancement—the scarring runs deeper than the deathblade conditioning can reach. I and kavuks did what we could, but she is not who she was. Another child i failed. One by breaking myself. One by through inaction letting be broken, regardless of the fact that I had no idea of her existinse. Guilty is guilty. The reasons do not matter, only the result.

  "The flesh does not forget," I say, speaking into the silence while Jason creates another set of fractionally better curls under Grace's watchful supervision. "The flesh cannot."

  She nods understanding. Physical trauma creates permanent changes that transcend conscious memory, even with I and Kavuks burning the worst from her mind. The body remembers what the mind tries to heal, carrying scars that never truly fade. Her experiences have carved channels of pain that influence every subsequent decision she will ever have. I can not burn these scars from her flesh as I burned the memories from her mind. The flesh remembers. I am not a healer lf flesh. perhaps this jason, given what I know of him, however, will be.

  I consider explaining to the girl that this variant hasn't chosen anything beyond bringing Grace inside when she would have frozen. The mathematical probability that he would make the choices Mia attributes to him approaches zero based on observed behavioral patterns. But the information wouldn't matter. Not to a child who believes someone saw her and chose to look away.

  "If I had found the woman who raped and murdered my little sister," I continue, drawing from my own experience, "setting aside the fact that it was actually the sister of a teen I killed and then drained during my initial rampage when I first was bound to my blades—which I don't remember due to eating at least two other wielders of my current shortswords—I would have gutted said woman, regardless of whether she had actually killed the girl yet or not."

  Trauma creates imperatives that transcend logical analysis. Justice becomes necessity, revenge transforms into the only possible survival mechanism. Mia's psychological structure requires resolution of perceived injustice, regardless of actual guilt or timing.

  "As such, there's no point telling you this," I observe, watching Jason produce his fourth attempt at featherstick construction. "You wouldn't change your mind anyway."

  From the training area, Grace's voice carries clinical assessment: "This would be sufficient for your environment under most conditions. In mine, it would be inadequate by approximately thirty percent."

  The mathematics are clear, as always. Jason's surface area-to-mass ratio measures roughly seventy percent of Grace's arctic standard. Adequate for moderate temperatures, insufficient for extreme cold survival. Yet Grace teaches as though perfect technique might become necessary—suggesting awareness of challenges beyond current circumstances. or, perhaps she simply does not wish to loose the man who looks at her and does not see a function. A tool. A weapon.

  "Among most of the brotherhood, apart from maybe Justice, perhaps,," I continue to Mia. "And maybe Jar, though he hates Dr. Reeves with a passion that is disconcerting even to me, what you are doing here would be considered, incomprehensible."

  Mia's tactical mind processes this information while maintaining surveillance of her target. Jason begins work on another piece of wood, his movements showing gradual improvement as muscle memory incorporates Grace's corrections.

  "I do not remember my Magnen," I note, voice remaining flat while calculating the probability equations of her intended actions. "My Bearee, Tyran or Worthy. étienne may be able to out-fight Grace. étienne cannot out-fight me."

  The statement establishes tactical reality without emotional content. Mia possesses considerable abilities enhanced by deathblade modifications, but the mathematics of combat remain constant. Power levels, experience differentials, strategic advantages—all quantifiable variables in the equation of violence.

  Mia scoffs, though her attention never wavers from Jason's continued practice. "I'm not an animal. Magnen and Bearee, Tyran and Worthy didn't choose to leave a girl to be broken. They are innocent. The innocent live. The guilty die. Isn't that your creed?"

  Her understanding of my operational parameters demonstrates intelligence beyond her apparent age. The deathblade enhancements have amplified cognitive function while preserving essential ethical frameworks. This represents optimal outcome—increased effectiveness without loss of her fundamental humanity. I am, happy that this outcome, her outcome, was found. Enough children lose their humanity. Cindra. marry. Me, though I was not a child when I lost it. Mia, at least, retains her asencial humanity. This girl, at least, may become something other than a killer, as jason is assisting Grace in in his own way.

  "You are under the elusion that I am going to stop you," I state, watching Grace demonstrate proper kindling selection to the assembled group. "I will not, apart from doing what I am doing now."

  Mia's head turns toward me for the first time, axe shifting slightly in her grip. "Why?"

  "Hunter likes to say, 'the pup must learn to survive when small or it will die when it is grown,' or something to that effect." The quote serves its purpose—establishing parameters without emotional investment. "This is between you and this Jason. As long as you do not harm anyone that isn't this Jason directly, the brotherhood will not step in. If you do, they will."

  The mathematical certainty of my statement produces the desired effect. Mia nods acknowledgment, her enhanced psychology processing implications and acceptable parameters. She understands consequences, accepts the boundaries I've established. Good.

  From the training area, Jason's voice carries genuine curiosity: "Could you teach me the arctic version anyway? Even if I don't need it here, I'd like to know."

  Something shifts in Grace's expression—a subtle softening around her eyes that suggests approval. The interaction demonstrates this Jason's willingness to learn beyond immediate necessity. Knowledge for its own value, preparation for circumstances that may never arise. Such attitudes increase survival probability across multiple scenarios.

  "I wasn't going to kill Magnen in that car," Mia says, still watching the lesson continue. "He is an innocent. I do not kill innocents. I hurt those who hurt others. If I hurt innocents, it would make me no better than the ones who hurt me."

  Her moral framework remains intact despite enhancement and trauma. The deathblade modifications have preserved essential ethical structures while amplifying operational capabilities. étienne's work continues to demonstrate precision in such transformations—power without corruption, effectiveness without loss of humanity.

  "Understood," I acknowledge. Grace begins demonstrating the arctic technique to Jason, her knife moving with hypnotic precision as she creates impossibly delicate shavings. "Also, Jason has friends who will not take kindly to him being attacked. I suggest that you add that into you're calculations."

  Mia nods again. "I'll take that into account."

  The lesson continues with Jason attempting to replicate Grace's arctic technique. His first cuts are clumsy, too deep and uneven, but gradual improvement becomes evident as he incorporates her guidance. The blade angles adjust, pressure decreases, resulting cuts become progressively finer.

  "Yes," Grace says simply when Jason completes his first marginally successful arctic-style featherstick. The single word carries more approval than elaborate praise, acknowledgment of progress toward acceptable standards.

  As I prepare to withdraw from Mia's shadow pocket, one final constraint requires establishment. "If Dawson is harmed, I will kill you myself. Or Marry will eat you. I will not tell you what Flavious will do."

  The statement carries no threat, only mathematical certainty. Dawson represents innocent life—a creature incapable of moral choice and therefore deserving absolute protection. Any action against him would violate core parameters and activate immediate response protocols. Dogs are goodboys. Goodboys deserve headpets, tummy rubs, and many treets, as they are goodboys. Those who harm goodboys are the enemy. The enemy exists only to be destroyed.

  Mia understands this, accepts the constraint without argument. Her enhanced tactical reasoning recognizes non-negotiable boundaries when they're established. The dog remains off-limits regardless of other considerations.

  I step back within the shadow pocket, preparing for phase transition to predetermined extraction routes. "I am going," I announce, though Mia's attention has returned entirely to monitoring Jason's continued practice.

  The afternoon training session progresses according to predictable patterns. Grace provides systematic instruction while Jason demonstrates steady improvement through focused effort. The other instructors observe with growing respect, their initial skepticism replaced by recognition of expertise beyond conventional teaching.

  I phase out of Mia's shadow pocket, moving through the urban network toward the warehouse district. The infrastructure provides excellent coverage with multiple paths avoiding detection by baseline humans. Estimated travel time: fourteen minutes, thirty-seven seconds.

  Behind me, the mathematics of instruction continue their inexorable progression. Grace teaches techniques that may prove essential when current stability shifts. Jason learns with determination that suggests understanding of stakes beyond immediate circumstances. Mia maintains surveillance while calculating optimal approach vectors for future action.

  Each element moves according to its nature, creating patterns that extend beyond afternoon training sessions. I calculate probable outcomes while monitoring for variables that could disrupt established trajectories.

  The warehouse appears exactly as anticipated—concrete floors, exposed beams, shadows providing optimal concealment for clandestine meetings. Kavuks emerges from behind a support pillar as I materialize, hollow eyes reflecting brief acknowledgment.

  "How did it go?" he asks.

  "As expected," I reply. "Mia will not harm civilians, though the fact this variant hasn't chosen anything more than basic human decency wouldn't change her mind. She believes this Jason chose to let people hurt her. The fact that whether or not he would is moot because he hasn't chosen that yet is irrelevant, as I indicated."

  Kavuks processes this information with characteristic efficiency, calculating probable outcomes while monitoring our surroundings for potential complications. The warehouse provides adequate security, though both of us remain alert to changing circumstances.

  "I can't access Mia's shadow," he notes, concern evident in his flat voice. "Which is concerning."

  "You should be able to with your new cloak," I respond. "Though it was made for you, it takes time to integrate correctly."

  Kavuks steps into my shadow with the fluid precision he is known for. I feel his presence immediately—cold touch against supernatural senses that I could force out if necessary, though such action serves no tactical purpose. The sensation confirms successful integration of his new equipment. Good.

  He exits after several seconds, nodding satisfaction. "That will do."

  Kavuks moves toward the warehouse exit, disappearing into the urban shadow network with calculated efficiency. I watch his departure while processing the afternoon's events, mathematical certainties building toward inevitable conclusions.

  The afternoon continues its progression, carrying events forward through predictable trajectories. Grace and this Jason variant build their partnership one lesson at a time. Mia prepares her version of justice with deathblade precision. The brotherhood maintains careful balance between intervention and observation.

  All elements remain in motion, following paths established by choice, trauma, and the mathematics of survival. I monitor their progress through eyes that have witnessed such equations across multiple realities.

  I hope that this time, things will go differently. For a man who only wishes to help. For a woman who I had a hand in breaking, and who is slowly putting herself back together with the help of that man. For a child who should be doing childish things instead of hunting with an axe.

  I settle into observation, shadows folding around me like Marry's embrace. From this position, I can track developing situations while maintaining rapid response capability for whatever variables the approaching time might introduce.

  The innocent live. The guilty die. Everything else represents variables to be calculated, adjusted, and resolved through precise application of necessary force.

  The equation continues toward its mathematical conclusion, and as I always have, I prafirr it this way.