---Grace---

  I remain seated on the couch after Jason disappears down the hallway, laptop balanced on my knees, its screen casting blue-white light across my hands. The device hums softly, a mechanical purr that reminds me of the generators we sometimes found in abandoned campsights. But this one serves a different purpose entirely—connection rather than survival.

  The story Jason shared continues scrolling past my eyes, P'Thok's adventures through an alien world filled with ice cream and inexplicable kindnesses. A mantid warrior learning that strength isn't always about dominance, that survival sometimes requires accepting help from others. The parallels make something twist uncomfortably in my chest.

  Why had I done what I had done?

  The question surfaces unbidden, cutting through my focus like a blade through flesh. I pause my reading, fingers stilling on the laptop's trackpad. The house around me settles into its nighttime rhythms—the soft tick of a clock somewhere in the kitchen, the subtle creaks of wood adjusting to temperature changes, Dawson's occasional repositioning upstairs as he guards that ridiculous kitten that appears to enjoy her work as my scarf so much.

  Jason would have found sleep regardless of what I did. His body would have eventually overridden his mind's restless circling, exhaustion claiming him whether I intervened or not. Perhaps it would have taken longer, perhaps his coordination tomorrow would have suffered somewhat, but the outcome would have been the same. Sleep. Recovery. Continuation.

  So why had I given him that sleeping draught? Why had I cared about his restlessness at all?

  The questions circle in my mind with the persistence of scavengers around a kill site. I set the laptop aside carefully, ensuring the screen doesn't dim from inactivity, and lean back against the couch cushions. The fabric is softer than anything we used in my clan's territory, engineered for comfort rather than durability. Another luxury that serves no tactical purpose. Another luctury Jason gives without expectation of anything in return.

  I think back to that first night, when I awakened on this very couch. The disorientation of waking in unfamiliar surroundings, my body temperature still dangerously low from exposure, every instinct screaming that I was vulnerable in hostile territory. How I drew my blade on him when he approached—an automatic response to threat, honed by years of survival where hesitation meant death. The bone knife had felt solid and reassuring in my grip, its familiar weight centering me in a world gone strange.

  Any reasonable person would have retreated, called for help, recognized the danger I represented. Most would have seen the weapon and immediately assessed me as a threat to be neutralized or avoided. In my homeland, such reactions keep people breathing. The smart ones back away from drawn blades. The smarter ones never get close enough to see them drawn in the first place.

  Jason had stepped closer.

  Not with the swagger of someone trying to prove dominance, not with the calculated movement of a warrior assessing an opponent. He moved toward me with concern etched across his features, worried about my welfare rather than his own safety. I could read the tension in his shoulders, see how his hands moved with careful deliberation, notice the way his breathing remained steady despite the weapon in my grip. Even after I made it clear I was armed, even after I essentially threatened him in his own home, his primary emotion wasn't fear—it was worry. For me. Yes, his enitial stance was due to the fact he did not kow I was armed, but even when he realized, his concern still overwhelmed his fear.

  The strangeness of that reaction still settles oddly in my mind. In my world, approaching someone with a drawn weapon is either suicide or a declaration of your own lethal intent. There is no middle ground, no space for curiosity or concern. Yet Jason had moved closer anyway, his focus entirely on my condition rather than the danger I posed to his, even without knowing of the blade in my hand. He knew I could pose a threat to him, but attempted to assist regardless.

  Then Dawson had stumbled from my lap, and everything became even more incomprehensible.

  Jason's immediate reaction was to protect the dog. Not himself—the animal. He slid beneath my blade's reach without a thought for his own safety, his body moving with surprising speed and coordination for someone who navigated primarily by sound and touch. I watched him catch Dawson before the dog could hit the floor, his hands gentle and sure as he cradled the animal against his chest. I held a bone weapon pointed at his vital organs, and he paid it no attention whatsoever.

  His concern for one innocent creature had overridden every survival instinct a reasonable person should possess. The complete disregard for personal safety, the way he prioritized protecting something defenseless over protecting himself—it defied every lesson my training had taught me about human nature. People protected themselves first. Always. It was the most basic rule of survival, so fundamental that questioning it seemed like questioning the need to breathe.

  Yet there Jason had been, proving that rule wrong with every gentle movement as he settled Dawson safely in his arms.

  I rise from the couch and begin to pace, my movements silent across the hardwood floor. The house's layout reveals itself in three dimensions around me—Jason's bedroom above, where he hopefully sleeps more peacefully now, his parents' larger room beside it, the bathroom with its collection of towels and mysterious bottles. Every room designed for comfort, for living rather than mere survival. The contrast with the dwellings I know strikes me again. In my homeland, space serves function. Sleeping areas, food storage, weapon maintenance, tool repair. Nothing exists purely for comfort or aesthetics. We can not afford such.

  Here, entire rooms seem dedicated to activities that serve no survival purpose. A living room for sitting and talking. A dining room separate from the kitchen for eating meals that could easily be consumed where they're prepared. Decorative objects that take up space without contributing to defense or sustenance. Photographs preserved behind glass showing moments in time that matter to someone for purely emotional reasons.

  It speaks to a fundamental security I struggle to comprehend. When your survival is assured, when threats don't lurk around every corner, you can afford to dedicate resources to beauty, comfort, sentiment. You can create spaces designed to make life pleasant rather than just possible.

  Even when I explained that I pointed my blade at him during our first encounter, his reaction hadn't been anger or fear. He absorbed the information with that same careful attention he gives everything else, processed it with the methodical consideration I've come to associate with his thought patterns, and moved on. No demands for explanations, no accusations, no retreat into wounded pride or defensive posturing. Just acceptance that I did what seemed necessary to me at the time.

  The memory of his response still puzzles me. Most people, when told they were moments away from being stabbed, react with some combination of outrage, fear, or defensive anger. Jason had simply nodded, filed the information away, and asked about Dawson. As if learning he'd been in mortal danger was less important than understanding the dog's nature and proper care.

  Such an alien set of priorities. Such a fundamentally different way of processing threat and safety.

  He doesn't fear me. Not really.

  The realization settles over me like morning snow, subtle but pervasive. In my homeland, everyone fears what I can do. It's a practical response—I am dangerous, efficiently lethal, trained to end threats before they can develop. I am the weapon my clan uses when all else fails. The fear keeps people at the proper distance, maintains the boundaries necessary for our survival. It's not personal. It's simply reality.

  Fear serves a purpose in my world. It keeps the weak from challenging the strong unnecessarily. It prevents conflicts that would drain clan resources. It ensures that when I give orders during hunts or raids, they're followed without question or delay. Fear is a tool, as useful as my blades, as necessary as food and shelter.

  But Jason never looks at me as though I were a weapon waiting to go off. When I warned him not to touch me, when I explained what happened to the last person who grabbed me, his reaction was discomfort at the casual mention of violence—not terror of me personally. The distinction matters in ways I am still confused by.

  He processes the information about my capabilities the same way he processes everything else—with careful attention, methodical consideration, and practical acceptance. But the knowledge that I can kill efficiently doesn't seem to fundamentally change how he sees me. I remain Grace to him, not "Grace who could gut me if I make the wrong move." This is. Confuseing to me.

  Such an approach requires either supreme confidence in one's own abilities or a kind of trust that borders on the suicidel. Jason is clearly not a warrior. His movements, while increasingly coordinated as he adapts to the sight I gave him, lack the predatory efficiency that marks those trained for violence. His hands show no calluses from weapon work, his body no scars from combat. Yet he acts as though my lethal capabilities are simply another aspect of who I am, like my height or eye color.

  I pause by the large window facing the street, peering through glass that separates inside from outside without blocking vision. Another luxury that speaks to the fundamental safety of this world. In my homeland, clear barriers are weaknesses—they let enemies see in while giving inhabitants a false sense of security. Windows are small, placed strategically, often reinforced with metal grating that can be closed quickly when threats are encountered.

  Here, this massive expanse of glass serves as a statement of confidence. This neighborhood is safe enough for transparency. The people who live here don't need to worry about raiders studying their homes from outside, cataloguing inhabitants and resources, planning midnight attacks. They can afford to let light stream in unobstructed, to blur the line between interior and exterior space.

  The street lies empty except for the occasional car passing with headlights cutting through the darkness. No predators stalking between houses, no raiders planning midnight attacks, no desperate scavengers looking for easy targets. The most dangerous thing Jason faces tomorrow is probably his work at that survival school, and even that poses no real threat to someone with his adaptive skills and careful nature.

  Street lights cast steady pools of illumination at regular intervals, pushing back shadows where threats might hide. In my world, such lights would be tactical errors—they'd announce your position while simultaneously destroying your night vision. Here, they're gestures of hospitality, making the space welcoming rather than defensible.

  Such a different relationship with darkness, with visibility, with the very concept of threat itself.

  In my world, caring about another's rest is a tactical consideration. A tired warrior makes mistakes, compromises the group's safety, becomes a liability. When someone can't sleep, it means tomorrow's hunt might fail, tomorrow's watch might be compromised, tomorrow's decisions might lack the clarity needed for survival. So you notice sleeplessness because it affects the group's chances of seeing another dawn.

  But Jason isn't a warrior, and tomorrow's challenges aren't life-threatening. His slightly reduced reflexes won't mean the difference between eating and starving, between shelter and exposure to the elements leading to death. His coordination at work might suffer, yes, but the survival school operates with safety standards that my homeland would consider impossibly luxurious. Multiple instructors, medical support, equipment designed to minimize risk rather than prepare students for it.

  Yet I noticed his restlessness anyway. I processed the information, catalogued it, and then acted on something deeper than tactical necessity. Something that has nothing to do with group survival or resource management or threat assessment. Why?

  When I had offered him that sleeping draught on my first night here, he should have been suspicious. Any sensible person would demand proof of its safety first. In my world, such caution keeps you breathing—accepting unknown substances from near-strangers is how people end up dead or enslaved. Trust is earned through demonstrated reliability over time, not given freely based on apparent kindness. Apparent kindness just says they want to stab you in you're sleep, or worse. Usually worse.

  But Jason simply excepted the vial I offered tonight and drank it without hesitation, as he had the other. He trusts me completely, despite knowing exactly what I am capable of. Despite understanding that I could kill him efficiently if I chose to. Despite having no reason beyond my word to believe the draught will help rather than harm. Despite me telling him, in no un-certain terms, that I am a monster.

  That trust feels like something precious and fragile. Something I have no experience protecting, no framework for understanding. In my homeland, trust is conditional, limited, always balanced against potential cost. Here, Jason offers it freely, as if the possibility of betrayal simply doesn't occur to him.

  Such faith in another person's fundamental goodness seems impossible, yet I've witnessed it repeatedly since arriving in this strange place. Jason brought me inside his home. Fed me. clothed me. Showed me how to utalize his artifice. Continues to allow me access to his companion animal even after i told him that I could use Dawson for leverage. Lied to his clanmates for me, and suffered their rath as a consequence.

  Jason looks at me as something other than a weapon.

  I pause in my pacing, the weight of this recognition stopping me mid-step. My reflection catches in the dark window glass—a woman of average height, compact build optimized for speed and lethality, every line of my body honed for violence. In my homeland, that's all anyone ever sees. What I can kill, how efficiently I can eliminate threats, what tactical advantage my presence provides. it is all there is, after all.

  In my world, everyone sees me as a weapon first. Balder, my closest companion among the rangers, sees me as a companion of survival. A friend, yes, but he cannot afford to see me as anything else. Resources are too scarce, threats too constant. Our friendship exists within the framework of mutual utility—we keep each other alive, and that is the only luxury we can afford.

  The druid sees all his charges first as tactical assets. What they can do, what role they should play in the clan's survival strategy. It isn't cruelty—it is necessity. When winter can kill half the clan and raiders might strike at any moment, you cannot indulge in seeing people as more than their function. The luxury of personhood beyond utility is something only the dead can afford.

  But Jason has never seen me as a weapon. When I drew my blade that first morning, when I explained its bone construction and its requirements, he asked practical questions about its care. He worried about me carrying something that caused me pain, but he never once looked at me as if I had become more dangerous in his threat calculations.

  When I knocked him unconscious with a single punch—an automatic response to being startled—his first reaction upon waking was not fear or anger as is proper. He apologized to me for startling me. He joked about my punch being stronger than his jaw, downplaying the violence to put me at ease, perhaps?

  I return to the couch, legs suddenly unsteady. The laptop screen has dimmed during my contemplation despite my efforts, and I touch the trackpad to reactivate it. P'Thok's story continues, the mantid warrior discovering that his new companions value him for reasons beyond his ability to fight.

  The parallel doesn't just sting, however.

  Jason handed me his laptop because I was curious, not because my curiosity served any purpose beyond itself. He taught me to use it because he saw that learning interests me, not because new skills would make me more effective. He shares hot tubs and stories and the simple pleasure of a dog's uncomplicated affection because he thinks I might enjoy them, not because he wishes to bind me to him.

  Not because I was useful. Because I was present. Because I existed in his space and he wanted that existence to be... pleasant.

  The concept feels foreign in the way that sunlight must feel to creatures who've lived their entire lives in caves. Overwhelming and life-giving in equal measure, as it is for us in high summer, when we move to our southern-most camp for the few short days where the tempreture rises above freezing.

  Maybe that's what this world is teaching me. That not everything has to serve survival to have value. That some actions are worth taking simply because they acknowledge another person's humanity, though I am unsure why I would need to learn these lessons.

  I think about how Jason moves when Dawson is threatened, his immediate protective instinct overriding any concern for his own safety. How he slides beneath my blade without hesitation, focused entirely on preventing harm to something innocent and defenseless. The complete absence of fear in his actions despite he knowing what I can do, the way he prioritizes the dog's welfare over the very real danger that he knows I represent.

  Such fierce protectiveness over a creature that served no tactical purpose beyond companionship. Such immediate trust in someone who'd just demonstrated their capacity for violence. Such fundamental inability to see threat where others would see only danger.

  Jason doesn't need me to care about his sleep. But perhaps that is exactly why it matters. Not because tactical necessity demands it, but because kindness without obligation is itself a form of strength. A luxury this safer world makes possible, yes, but more than that—a recognition of personhood beyond just function.

  I gave him that draft not from strategic calculation, but from something more fundamental, perhaps. Something I believed my homeland had scoured out of me along with all the other inefficiencies that get people killed. The capacity to see another's discomfort and want to ease it simply because they matter as more than what they can do for me.

  Because Jason sees me as more than simply 'mine'.

  The house around me feels different now, less like a temporary shelter and more like something I don't have words for yet. The soft furniture, the unnecessary decorations, the photos on walls showing moments preserved not for tactical intelligence but for emotional value—all of it speaks to a world where people can afford to be more than their survival functions.

  Where I might be allowed to be more than mine, perhaps. In time.

  Dawson shifts upstairs, probably adjusting around that ridiculous kitten, the one who sleeps now because of my actions. The one who sleeps without fear now because predators don't exist for her in this world of plenty and warmth and strangers who rescue a defenseless creature instead of simply killing her. The sound makes me smile before I fully realize I'm doing it, and this time the expression doesn't feel foreign on my face.

  The story draws me back in, P'Thok discovering new flavors and friendship in equal measure. I read on, learning alongside him how to navigate a world where value isn't measured in kills or tactical advantage, where strength sometimes means choosing gentleness over force, where ice cream can lead to the salvation of a people who believed they had none.

  Where someone can look at a weapon and see a person instead. Where someone can prioritize protecting the innocent over protecting themselves. Where trust can be given freely because the world is safe enough to afford such.

  By the time I finally close the laptop and carry it upstairs to Jason's room, placing it exactly where he can find it tomorrow, I think I understand why I gave him that sleeping draught.

  Not because I had to. Not because it served any strategic purpose. I did it because someone looked at me and saw, Grace. Not a bladed. That demands, that requires, something in return. Not because I have to. Because I wish to.

  Because for the first time in my life, caring about another person's comfort feels like a choice I am free to make rather than a luxury I cannot afford.

  I turn back to the laptop. Back to a mantid warrior who likes icecream and sigarets, back to a dog named fido, back to a man who simply wishes to be left alone. Back to a world a formarly blind man showed me simply because he could.

  The distinction feels... Right, somehow. Like. I am unsure.

  ---Paladin---

  I stand over Grace as she sleeps on the couch, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath. Even in slumber, her brow remains slightly furrowed, as if she can't fully escape vigilance. She appears peaceful enough to most, but I know better. I can sense what others cannot, after all. Being a defined paladin lets you do that, alongside haveing a entient sword. The sword in question just happening to be my wife? Well. That's not quite standard. Also, fight me if you have an issue with that.

  I reach out, my hand hovering just above her forehead. My fingers tremble, though not from weakness. I've done this thousands of times before. Under artilliry fire, in the sucking mud of trenches, when screaming men with broken minds and weapons coated with souleater virus made to gut the man with healing hands and a blade who spoke as a woman. No. No, not weakness. Not here. Not now. This particular one however. She requires restraint. So, I restrain. She deserves nothing less from me. I, after all, am Durge's oppisit. Justice and compassion. The walker of shadows with the shield of light. The hollow man to the man whho is far too human, though you're not here for any of that bullshit, so I'll stop now.

  The connection forms instantly. Not just physical, but something deeper—a bridge between my consciousness and hers. In a flash, I see fragments of her life: snow-covered forests, blood on bone knives, the Druid's calculating gaze, an arrow meant for an enemy finding its target in the wrong skull. And beneath it all, that hollowness where emotions should flow freely. The fundimental understanding that I am different. I am broken. My value is to what I can kill and take andd hunt. Nothing more.

  I grunt in only bairly-suppressed rage and withdraw my hand. Lucerna, currently in her cane form taps rhythmically against the floor as the rage courses through me. My fingers tighten around her handle, the stylized lion's head she's grown attached too digging into my palm, the paine grounding me. Which, I suspect is why she enjoys this particular cane form so much. It would be just like my Lucerna to figure a way to enjoy herself while helping me in the same stroke, after all.

  "Damn them," I growl under my breath. "Dam them all who took a little girl and turned her into, this. Not even because the Deathborn are going to lose their collective shit when, and it is when, they find out what's been done here."

  "Where I come from, strange men watching women they have no connection to sleep is considered... weird," a deadpan voice comments from behind me. "Even more so if there you're brother, and you are mine."

  I don't startle—I'd sensed his presence the moment he arrived—but I do turn to face him. Healer stands in the doorway, sandy blond hair catching the faint moonlight from the window, his face bearing the same features as the sleeping young man down the hall. The same features as my own face. He leans against the doorframe with practiced casualness, but I recognize the tension in his shoulders—the readiness to act if necessary.

  "Are you here to assist her?" I ask, gesturing toward the sleeping girl with Lucerna.

  Healer shakes his head, the living crown atop it pulsing softly with gentle light as its tiny flowers open and close in rhythmic patterns. "Actually, I'm here to make sure the new kitten doesn't die. Kind of like how I helped with you're Hope, in the beginning." He steps further into the room, his eyes scanning Grace's sleeping form with clinical detachment. "She seems capable of handling herself."

  "That remains to be seen," I mutter, turning toward the door. "Come. There's something else that needs our attention."

  We move silently through the darkened house, reaching Jason's room without disturbing anyone. The young man is curled into a tight ball, his face contorted with tension even in slumber, his fingers clutching the edge of his blanket like a lifeline.

  I stand beside his bed, observing him with the same intensity I'd directed at Grace moments before. Then, as I had done moments before, I place my hand on his forehead.

  The connection forms again, but this time, I do more than observe. I reach into the swirling mass of emotions, carefully extracting a portion of his fear, his self-loathing and paine so similor to my own, and just enough of his learned helplessness that he can continue functioning with Grace's assistance.

  "The parallels are... interesting," I say softly as I work. "Between myself, this Jason, and you. We all began from the same point—all painfully apathetic—except I wore my apathy openly like armor, while this Jason has, by circumstance or design, internalized it."

  Healer watches from the doorway, his expression thoughtful as he observes his alternate self. "That'll make it much harder to excise," he notes, fingers unconsciously adjusting the crown resting atop his head. The small flowers pulse with a slightly stronger glow.

  "Indeed," I agree, withdrawing my hand. Jason's expression softens slightly in sleep, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. "For you, it took a literal goddess to help, didn't it?"

  "I don't care about the rest of the pantheon," Healer corrects me with unexpected sharpness, then softens. "I care about Eddara. And Kylia is a respected friend, as much as anyone can befriend Kylia. Akiko, well. You can't forgive her, so I won't mention her again. But the rest?" He makes a dismissive gesture. "They can all burn for all I care. They did not assist. They hurt Eddara, and well. The legion proves what happens to those who hurt my goddess."

  He looks down at the sleeping Jason, then toward the livingroom. "But you're right about one thing. Grace is no goddess of life, but she does care."

  "More than she realizes," I murmur, stepping back from the bed. "More than either of them realize."

  Healer crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "Are you going to kill Durge for what he did to her?"

  I shake my head, Lucerna tapping softly against the floor as I move toward the door. "No. To paraphrase one of the Harker books, Durge, being Durge, will rake himself longer and harder over the coals than I ever could." The cane's lion head seems to warm under my fingers, as if agreeing with the assessment. "Deathborn though? The first will not forgive this. Eshen can not, forgive this. Kavaks too, though his connections will probably keep him directly out of it.

  "Fair enough," Healer concedes. He hesitates, then adds, "I've deployed Legion assets on the Stone property. Jar will probably put people in place as well, being Jar."

  I raise an eyebrow at this, the moonlight catching the movement. "That seems excessive."

  "My people are only to intervene when Grace, or, I hope, Jason, can't deal with it," Healer clarifies. The crown on his head pulses with a brief pattern of anxiety before settling back to its normal rhythm. "Which shouldn't be often, if things progress as we expect."

  I nod, understanding the necessity of the precaution. "Very well. I have other tasks to attend to."

  "And I should check on the cat," Healer says, turning to leave. His mouth quirks in a half-smile. "Making sure it survives the night is apparently my contribution to this cosmic drama. At least until the next stage begins."

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  Just as Healer begins to move toward the living room, I shift my grip on Lucerna. The movement is subtle, barely a twist of my wrist, but suddenly the stylized lion's head transforms, flowing like liquid mercury into a straight crossguard. Five feet of pale-white steel emerges from what was once a walking stick, the blade singing softly as Lucerna cuts through the air. I point the sword directly at Healer's chest, the tip hovering mere inches from his sternum.

  "Clever," I say quietly, "but not clever enough."

  Healer doesn't flinch. Instead, he tilts his head with an expression of mild amusement, then reaches up to flip his sandy blond hair in a gesture that's completely at odds with everything I know about his character. The movement is theatrical, feminine, utterly wrong on his features, not least that he can't flip his hair, it's too short. As is ours all, apart from Hunter, who's fucking Hunter, Harald, who doesn't count, and Justice, who only did that once, and only for a bet when really, really really drunk because Clare decided she wanted to test mixing drinks on the man. Not that I would have done otherwise if Lucerna had decided she wanted to tend bar for a bit, but that's not the point.

  "How long did you notice?" he asks, and now the voice is different too—still using Healer's vocal cords, but the cadence, the intonation, everything about it screams someone else wearing his face.

  "From the moment you walked through the door," I reply, keeping Lucerna steady. "Healer doesn't lean against doorframes like he's posing for a photograph. He also doesn't use terms like 'weird' when clinical vocabulary serves better. And he sure as hell doesn't flip his too-short hair." The blade doesn't waver. "Shift. Now."

  The false Healer shrugs, another completely un-Healer gesture, then grins with an expression that definitely doesn't belong on his face, with teeth too sharp to be in his mouth. "Well, shit. And here I thought I was being subtle. Looks like our goodboy used his goodboy powers again."

  The shift starts with the eyes. Healer's blue eyes, our blue eyes, deepen, darkening through amber into a brilliant, predatory green that catches the moonlight like cut emeralds. Then the bone structure follows, not breaking or reshaping but somehow remembering a different pattern, as if the calcium itself holds multiple templates and is just switching between them. Which, considering who this is, well. I've seen stranger.

  Height adjusts with snaps and pops that are also still somehow natural, the figure shrinking from Healer's six feet to something more petite. Muscle mass redistributes, broad shoulders narrowing while hips widen slightly. The sandy blond hair darkens to deep chestnut, growing longer as I watch before cascading past shoulders that are now definitively feminine, though also scream sword practice.

  Throughout the entire transformation, that knowing grin never wavers, as if she's delighting in my discomfort at watching one person dissolve into another through what can only be described as controlled hemorrhaging on a molecular scale. Which, as I know well, she is. The crown on her head shifts too, its living tendrils releasing their grip before dissolving entirely into blood that caskades down the woman's face, she opening her mouth to catch every drop, eyes closing in bliss, because of fucking corse the woman would do that.

  When the change completes, Marry stands before me in all her lethal elegance. Just over five and a half feet of controlled violence wrapped in deceptively casual clothing, her green eyes dancing with mischief. Her chestnut hair falls in waves around a face that manages to be both beautiful and terrifying, the kind of face that has smiled while sliding the blade at her hip between your ribs.

  "Better?" she asks, stretching luxuriously so her ample breasts strain against the fabric of her top, though if it's supposed to be for me or the reader base is something I am not going to ever ask the woman. Because who the fuck asks that? Also Durge will tie me up again, and fuck that, only Lucerna gets to do that and only on her birthday. "I always feel a bit cramped in male forms. All those extra inches in the wrong places. Durge, bless him, can't do the opposit. He gets all broody afterwards and he's no fun to be around. Not even talking about blood drinking while fucking gets him out of one of his moods, and that just pisses me off so I want to stab something. Like, for example, our glorious author. Ever just wanted to reach in and rip his heart out of his chest while he, well, not watches but you know what I mean."

  I don't lower Lucerna. "Where is Healer? The actual Healer. Also, no."

  Marry reaches into her jacket, whos pockets, even with the sisterhood modifications shouldn't be able to contain some of the shit I've seen her pull out of them, and pulls out a small potted plant with glossy leaves and fruit that I recognize immediately. The berries are deep purple, almost black, each one pulsing with inner light. Restoration fruit, grown in divine soil, capable of healing wounds that magic cannot touch, and only ever found in healer's garden. The fact it's almost identicle to Eddara's own garden, well. We do much for our reasons, and the man had a good template for his own devine realm.

  "Relax," she says, setting the pot down on Jason's dresser with surprising care. "He's right—"

  A familiar head pops up from behind the plant like a startled turtle, Healer's actual face peering around the ceramic edge. The real crown sits properly on his head, its flowers opening and closing in what I can only interpret as embarrassment because, the fuck else is it supposed to be, a man hiding behind a fucking plant? Catching sight of my sword still pointed in Marry's general direction, the man immediately ducks back behind the pot.

  "There," Marry says with satisfaction. "See? Safe and sound. Though he's being a bit dramatic about the turtle impression."

  The head appears again briefly, just long enough for Healer to mutter, "Not dramatic. Cautious. There's a difference," before disappearing once more.

  I finally lower Lucerna, though I don't dismiss her blade form entirely. "Explain." Before, to healer: "you have a thousand marble golems who will pull you're ass out of litirally anything you get into. How the fuck are you scared of either of us? Or the girl? Or the new Jason?"

  Marry settles herself cross-legged on the floor with fluid grace before starting to speak while stretching again, though I am not affected. So I assume it's for the reader base. "Simple trade agreement. I needed access to the house without triggering whatever detection systems you and Jar have probably layered all over this place, and what the fuck ever Traveler's decided to drizzle all over like fucking candy. Healer needed to deliver that—" she gestures at the potted plant "—without anyone questioning why he was suddenly gardening at two in the morning."

  "So he gave you his blood," I say though I don't need to. I'm not a blood mage, but she either used a fourth tier blood technique, or a second level shadow technique layered over a fourth tier blood technique like a flayed skin to do that, and both require blood, and willingly given at that. Since, you know, Healer still has his face, and since the last person who tried to take anything from healer he didn't want is currently locked in a time-looped room...

  "Just a vial," she confirms. "The transformation technique I used requires genetic material from the target, but once I have it, I can maintain the form for several hours. Long enough to play nursemaid to cats and have philosophical discussions about cosmic justice with you."

  From behind the plant comes Healer's muffled voice: "Also she promised not to kill anyone while wearing my face, though I think it was more because Eddara would get mad than anything else.

  "Details," Marry flips her hair. "Though I did stick to the agreement. No murders, no maiming, not even a light stabbing. I'm practically a saint."

  I find myself genuinely curious despite everything. Also because Marry hasn't stabbed anything yet means she gives a shit, and that's. Well, I'm curious. "What's he planning with the restoration fruit?"

  Marry's grin turns positively wicked. "Something to 'fuck with the audience,' were his exact words. You know how he gets when he thinks people are watching too closely. Likes to remind them that they don't control the narrative as much as they think they do."

  That sounds exactly like something Healer would do. For a man dedicated to healing, he has a remarkably vindictive streak when it comes to cosmic forces trying to manipulate his patients. Or, well, the audience in general, really. I think it has to do with that one time the story was in his head when he first had sex with his goddess. We can be assholes like that.

  The turtle head appears again, this time staying visible long enough to speak normally. "The fruit will help Grace process the emotional trauma more efficiently," Healer explains, his voice carrying the clinical tone I know well. "But the method of delivery needs to appear natural, organic to her experience. Hence the subterfuge."

  "And you couldn't just ask me to help because...?" I ask: "I'm literally archityped to help you do shit, Cleric brother. The fact you also have sex with the goddess you worship, well. Benefits and all that." I shrug.

  "Because you would have insisted on doing it properly," Marry interjects. "Formal permissions, careful explanations, probably a written consent form. Sometimes the healing process works better when the patient doesn't know they're being healed."

  I have to concede the point. Grace would likely reject help if she knew it was being offered, her pride and self-reliance making her suspicious of anything that smacks of charity or pity. or just stab us once she realized we could get into the house without her knowledge.

  "Fine," I say, though I keep Lucerna in sword form a moment longer. "But you still haven't explained why you're really here, Marry. And don't tell me it's just to help Healer with fruit delivery. That's not you."

  Marry's expression shifts, the playful mischief fading into something more serious. For a moment, I see past the predator's mask to the woman beneath—someone who has lost more than most people could survive but stubbornly refuses to break under it.

  "If I was going to kill Grace," she says quietly, "I would have done it by now. Hell, I could have done it while she was sleeping five feet away from me. But I won't be doing that, paladin."

  "Because it would ensure your perfect murder husband doesn't get lost again?" I suggest, remembering her obsessive devotion to her Durge, even among the sisterhood, which is fucking saying something considering some of the shit they have done for their Jason's, Lucerna counted among that tally.

  "That's part of it," she admits. "But it's not the whole truth." She's quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing patterns on the carpet. "I lost him once before, you know. When I was Cindra, the woman he valued more than any other. I lost him again when I rammed Souldrinker through his chest as Marry."

  Her voice grows distant, remembering pain across lifetimes. "Granted, he had trained me to do exactly that, and I didn't know then what I know now about the larger game. I was a child at the time, and he had flayed my father in front of me, though he didn't know I was there at the time, but still..." She shakes her head, tresses swaying, smell of iron and blood growing stronger as they do. "No, I won't be killing Grace. I can't lose him again. Not when I finally understand what I lost the first two times."

  The honesty in her voice surprises me. Marry isn't known for vulnerable admissions, but something about this situation has cracked her usual armor.

  "It's always Bloodthorn, isn't it?" I ask, waveing towards Grace and the laptop.

  Marry shrugs, but there's weight behind the gesture. "I've never actually read it, though Lucerna says it's wild. Granted, Lucerna also brags about your stamina when fucking, so there's that level of unreliable narrator to consider."

  I feel heat rise in my cheeks and decide that's quite enough of that particular topic. "Lucerna is technically a weapon given flesh," I say with deliberate casualness. "This version's Tyran's suggestion to use my own self-hatred and turn it into a perpetual motion engine has its benefits. She and I have... an understanding."

  "I'm sure you do," Marry says with a knowing smirk that makes me want to change the subject even more. Or, you know, just punch the woman, especially as she'd ust consider it all good fun.

  Instead, I focus on what she said about Grace. "You mentioned you'll be helping her. Why?"

  Marry's expression grows thoughtful, some of the predatory edge softening. "Because Clare was never a weapon, not really. Forged into one? Yes, but that's different from being rebuilt as a weapon from the ground up. The only one who might understand what that's like is Lucerna. Maybe Soulrender, but she won't involve herself. Not when Harald had, granted it was a small part, a role to play in all this. Anyway, she's too dominent to be what Grace needs, and she, and Harald, both know that."

  She stands, stretching again, then moves toward Jason's desk. I watch as she withdraws his laptop and charger cord from a shadow, items I hadn't noticed were missing from the table beside Grace.

  "I borrowed these after Grace fell asleepe," she explains, winding the cord with practiced efficiency. "Needed to do some research on Grace's new world. Amazing what you can learn from someone's internet history. Did you know Jason spent three hours last night researching 'how to help someone with PTSD' and 'signs of emotional trauma'? Kid's more observant than anyone gives him credit for. Especially now, you know, he's actually not blind anymore. That probably helpes."

  She places both items back exactly where they belonged, her movements precise enough to suggest she'd mapped their original positions perfectly. Which, given Marry, she had.

  The turtle head pops up again. "Is she done explaining herself in circles? Because I have actual medical procedures to perform, and the longer this takes, the less effective the fruit will be."

  "Almost done," Marry says, then turns back to me. "I know you're wondering if you can trust me around Grace. The answer is yes, but not for the reasons you'd prefer. I'm not going to protect her out of altruism or cosmic duty. I'm going to protect her because she's the key to Jason Stone becoming who he needs to be, and Jason Stone becoming who he needs to be is the key to Durge not falling into the same self-destructive spiral directly because of all this that's claimed him in other realities, my presence or not."

  She pauses, her green eyes meeting mine directly. "I've seen what happens when Durge loses himself to his mathematics without anyone to anchor him to humanity. It's not pretty, and it usually ends with him deciding that the only solution to injustice is to remove all variables from the equation, and you know what comes next, goodboy."

  The implications of that statement settle over me like a heavy wet blanket. A Durge with no emotional connections, no moral limitations beyond his abstract sense of justice, would be a catastrophe waiting to happen, especially as I don't know if we could actually kill him. The only reason Marry was even able to in the firstplace was because he spasifically trained her so she could do so after he realized she wouldn't stop hunting the mask. The rest of us? Protector might be able to, he's a hard counter to Durge, but would he even get involved? He's... Well he's fucking Protector, and cares for little outside his Thornara, Mia rescue, and hunting those who harm children.

  "So yes," Marry continues, "I'll be helping Grace. Not because I like her—though I'm beginning to find her interesting—but because keeping her functional keeps Jason functional, and keeping Jason functional keeps Durge anchored to something other than pure mathematics."

  She moves toward the bedroom door, then pauses, looking back at where Healer is still crouched behind his potted plant. "You can come out now, turtle boy. The scary lady is leaving, though you're daughter is proveing quite the scary lady herself these days, so the tirtle impression won't work forever."

  "I prefer the term 'tactically cautious,'" comes the muffled reply.

  "Call it whatever makes you feel better," Marry says with a fond smile that shifts her face, so for just a moment, the woman looks less like a predator and more like someone actually capable of genuine affection towards people. "Just remember to water the plant. Grace will need the fruit in about three days, right when her emotional barriers start to crack from all this forced domesticity bullshit. Not as fun as a good stabbing, but different strokes and all that."

  She turns to me one final time. "Oh, and Paladin? When this all goes sideways—and it will go sideways because it always does—don't try to be the hero. That's not your role in this particular story. Your job is to make sure the people who can be heroes have the tools they need to succeed."

  With that, she slips out of the room as silently as she'd entered, leaving only the faint scent of blood and iron and the memory of green eyes that hold knowledge they fundimentally shouldn't.

  Healer finally emerges from behind his plant, the crown on his head pulsing with what I interpret as relief. "Well, that could have gone worse."

  "How exactly?" I ask, finally dismissing Lucerna back to her cane form.

  "She could have decided to redecorate Jason's room in arterial spray patterns," he points out. "Also, she could have just stolen the laptop permanently instead of just borrowing it for research purposes, which would have caused Jason to suspect Grace, and, well. Grace wouldn't take well to being accused of something she didn't do, and react accordingly."

  He has a point. In the grand scheme of Marry's potential destructive capabilities, tonight has been remarkably restrained.

  "The fruit," I say, nodding toward the potted plant. "How does it work?"

  "Grace will be drawn to it," Healer explains, carefully adjusting the pot's position on the dresser. "Something about its energy signature appeals to people carrying significant emotional trauma. She'll probably start spending time in Jason's room, initially to avoid the rest of the family, but the proximity to the fruit will gradually help her process what Durge did to her, though she won't remember it was him."

  "And Jason?"

  "Jason will think she's starting to trust him enough to invade his personal space," Healer says with a slight smile. "Which will boost his confidence and encourage him to take more initiative in helping her adapt. Positive feedback loop that benefits everyone involved." Before with a shrug: "also, well, attractive woman spending time in his room and all that, you know how it goes."

  "Sex is sacred." I grunt: "even masterbation."

  "That only happened once." Healer grumbles: "which you weren't there for."

  "I'm just pointing that out." I say, and now it's healer's turn to grunt before: "He won't." I shrug, Healer is closer to this variant than I evr well. So if he says this Jason won't? I will accept that.

  "You do realize she's going to figure out what you've done eventually?" I ask, returning the topic to something other than our assorted biological reactions to the women in our lives.

  "Eventually," he agrees. "But by then, she won't need the fruit anymore. And honestly, Grace strikes me as the type who might actually appreciate the manipulation once she understands the reasoning behind it. She's practical above all else."

  He moves toward the door, pausing to look back at the sleeping Jason one more time. "He's going to be okay, you know. They both are. It's going to be messy and complicated and probably involve more blood than anyone would prefer, but they're going to be okay."

  "How can you be so certain?"

  Healer's smile turns genuine, warm in a way that transforms his entire face. "Because they found each other, and neither of them knows how to give up. Sometimes that's all the healing magic you need."

  As he moves toward the living room to check on the kitten that started this entire nocturnal adventure, I find myself standing alone in Jason's room, looking at a young man who sleeps more peacefully than he has in years and a plant that might just change everything.

  Outside, I can sense Marry's presence fading as she moves away from the house, but I know she'll be back. She has too much invested in this outcome to simply walk away. Also, she loves fucking with the audience too much to just leave an opertunity like this alone.

  The game, as they say, is afoot. Good thing I've heard rumers of our detective brother, then. he'll have a welcome gift he will appretiate, at least. Just hope he's not from reality one fourty three...

  ---Healer, no actually it's me---

  The last traces of Paladin fade from the room, leaving behind only the faintest shimmer in the air, like heat rising from summer pavement. I linger in the doorway, watching the sleeping form of my alternate self. In the dim light filtering through the half-closed blinds, Jason's face is peaceful, unburdened by the weight of knowledge that will eventually come.

  The crown on my head stirs gently, its small flowers turning toward the sleeping figure as if drawn by some invisible connection. They pulse with soft bioluminescence, casting barely perceptible patterns across the bedroom walls. I feel their consciousness brush against mine—curious, attentive, recognizing something familiar in this other Jason.

  "Yes," I whisper to the crown, "he's me. Or I'm him. It gets complicated, especially with this one."

  There's an intimacy in seeing another version of myself, particularly one untouched by any intervention. This Jason stands at the precipice of transformation, but he doesn't know it yet. No godly powers shape his destiny. No Brotherhood guides his path. No crown sits upon his brow, whispering ancient wisdom directly into his thoughts or a sword with the voice of a hot woman talking to him in a store. He is all potential, no actualization—just as I was before Eddara found me.

  I study the familiar contours of his face—my face, in another life. The same high cheekbones, the same sandy hair perpetually in need of a trim, the same frame that appears deceptively slight until tested. But where my crown pulses with living energy, his brow is furrowed even in sleep, troubled by worries he can't fully understand. That none of us can, not really. Not till we get beaten around a bit. Not till, well. Spoilers.

  "At least you've got Grace," I murmur softly, my voice barely disturbing the night air. "Better than nothing. Better than I had, when I was you. You were me? Fuck, this is... Fuck!"

  The crown's flowers ripple slightly, responding to my emotional state. They remember those early days too—the loneliness, the confusion, the overwhelming sensation of being thrust into a world where the impossible was suddenly mundane. The crown had come later for me, after I'd already stumbled through the initial shock alone apart from a woman in a buttondown sweater who had warm hands.

  I turn away, leaving my sleeping alternate to his dreams. My footsteps make no sound as I move through the darkened hallway—a skill learned through necessity when navigating realities where detection would mean disaster. The darkness poses no obstacle; the crown provides just enough illumination to navigate, a soft blue-green glow that somehow doesn't disturb the sleeping household, and my own sight through that crown provides the rest.

  The conversation with Paladin replays in my mind as I walk. The unspoken knowledge hanging between us like a physical weight—that it was my Legion, though not this specific deployment currently surrounding the Stone property, that caused Grace to be brought to the world that required her reshaping. Paladin knows I know this now. The weight of that knowledge sits heavy beneath my crown, another burden of responsibility to add to my growing collection, as we all hold. All the brothers have made mistakes. Hunter with Deathblade Mia. I with Grace. Paladin, with Durge's now consumed god.

  My Legion. My first true creation. The irony isn't lost on me that First Hate—that troubled, brilliant man he has become, would ask for this, when my command, in a fit of protective rage, would eventually become the primary guardians of the final Grace. The, Grace. The one for whom I created the legion to hunt. The crown flowers close slightly, sharing my discomfort. They've always been sensitive to my guilt, even when I try to hide it from myself.

  In the living room, I find Dawson curled protectively around the tiny black kitten. The scene brings a genuine smile to my face—some things remain beautifully consistent across realities. Dogs never lose their capacity for protection and care. Even in worlds where everything else has gone to hell, they remember what it means to love unconditionally. They remember what it is to protect pack. Perhaps that's why Etienne loves them so much, though he would never admit it, perhaps even to himself.

  I kneel beside them, my knees cracking slightly. For all my divine healing abilities, for all the fact that I am a god in all but name now, I still sound like an aging man sometimes. Funny how some aspects of humanity remain, regardless of how far you travel from your original nature.

  I extend a hand toward the kitten, fingers hovering just above her tiny form. The crown activates fully now, the flowers opening wide as I focus, drawing on the power that flows between us. The smallest vines extend from my fingertips, delicate as spider silk and barely visible even in the crown's soft glow, gently probing the kitten's vital systems.

  "Moderate malnutrition," I diagnose quietly, feeling the tiny body's deficiencies as if they were my own. "Early stages of respiratory infection. Nothing fatal yet, but it would have been without intervention."

  Dawson's eyes open briefly, looking at me with calm acceptance before closing again. He recognizes something in me—perhaps the scent of his human, perhaps something deeper. Dogs have always seen through the veils between realities better than most creatures. It's why Hunter loves them so, why he brought them into his Red Hunt first above all others.

  I focus now, directing healing energy into the tiny body. The kitten stretches in her sleep, tiny paws extending as the infection clears from her lungs and nutrients flow into her depleted system. The crown thrums with satisfaction as we work, the flowers pulsing more vibrantly as health returns to the small creature. It's always easier to heal the innocent.

  "Sleep well, little one," I whisper, withdrawing my hand as the last of the healing completes. "You've got a role to play too, believe it or not."

  Bigger than you might think, I add silently, knowing how the smallest things often create the largest ripples. Butterfly wings and hurricanes. Kittens and cosmic balances. The universe works in strange ways, particularly when multiple realities begin to overlap and the author is high off his ass.

  As I straighten, my thoughts turn to Paladin's next tasks. He'll be seeking out Durge and Jar now—two men who represent opposite ends of the intervention spectrum. One who carved Grace into what he believed she needed to become, the other who would destroy worlds to protect those under his care. Both terrifying in their own ways, both convinced of their righteousness.

  I remember Harald's expression when we last spoke of Grace—that terrible mixture of self-loathing and resignation. The glacier-blue eyes that couldn't meet mine, the massive hands that could crush steel clenching and unclenching in helpless rage. "Intent means nothing," he had growled, "when results speak for themselves."

  For all his fearsome appearance and capabilities, Harald carries the weight of every decision that led to Grace's reshaping. The innate kindness that forms the core of every Jason Stone variant—whether expressed as my healing, Paladin's protection, or Harald's fierce guardianship of those within his pack—becomes self-destructive when turned inward. Harald hates himself with the same intensity that we, as a demographic, bring to everything else—full commitment, no half measures. It's usually where the women in our lives come in, saving us from ourselves when that intensity becomes destructive. Literally, which is the final act in, what ever ritual binds us, in the end.

  I move to the window, gazing out at the seemingly peaceful suburban street. Toronto sleeps under a blanket of winter, snow reflecting the distant streetlights. To ordinary eyes, it would appear perfectly normal—just another quiet neighborhood in the early hours. But my crown shows me what others cannot see.

  Invisible to ordinary perception, Legion assets maintain their vigilant perimeter around the property—Golems of impossibly perfect white marble, each bearing the mark of First Hate's perfect precision. Brotherhood operatives with quantum-probability manipulation capabilities stand at key intersections, their massive forms somehow avoiding notice through technological means I've never fully understood. Shadows move, disciples from Durge's temple of judgement assigned here to watch and guard. Massive frames, Protector's people, here to watch a woman who deserved better, and a man who might give her something more. All silent watchers from organizations ready to intervene if necessary.

  So much power gathered around one ordinary house. So many plans in motion. So many intersecting interests. All because of two people who have no idea what they represent in the greater scheme of things, or even to eachother.

  The crown pulses gently against my temples, its flowers opening and closing in response to my thoughts. It senses the increasing probability of conflict, of realities intersecting in ways they weren't meant to. It's worried, though it would never admit such a human emotion even to me.

  "We're all broken reflections," I murmur to no one in particular. "Trying to protect what we can."

  The television across the room flickers to life without warning, casting blue-white light across the living room. The screen resolves into the face of a woman with subtly geometric features—human in appearance but with an underlying precision that betrays her true nature.

  "That's a surprisingly poetic sentiment coming from you, Healer," Cortanna says, her voice emerging from the speakers at a volume precisely calculated to be audible to me without disturbing the sleeping household. "I wasn't expecting to find you here."

  I turn toward the screen, unsurprised by her sudden appearance. "Cortanna. I should have known Traveler would have you cataloging this variant."

  Her digitally rendered expression shifts to something approximating mild offense. "I'm not just Traveler's recording device, you know. I have my own interests. It's just that one of them is cataloging variants.

  "Of course you do," I agree, moving closer to the television. "My apologies."

  Cortanna's expression softens. "What I'm more interested in is why you're here, and why you've deployed Legion assets around the perimeter. Especially considering the Trauma has seemingly bound itself to all Grace variants. There's significant risk in having your forces here, Healer. Durge's people? She never saw them, and they live in the shadows. Brotherhood, Jar's brotherhood? Fine. The legion? If she sees them...

  I sigh, running a hand through my hair—a human gesture I've never quite abandoned despite everything else that's changed. "First Hate requested it, and how could I refuse my first son? Especially when he actually feels guilty about something for once." I smile ruefully. "Though Mia probably had something to do with it too, as she tends to do."

  "Your daughter is becoming quite the manipulator," Cortanna observes with what might be approval. "Speaking of unexpected guests though, did you know Etienne is here? He delivered their pizza earlier."

  I raise an eyebrow. "Deathblade Delivery Service? That's new."

  "And Deathloard made an appearance to Grace during her run," Cortanna continues. "Though considering Deathloard was one of the ones who sent Grace here in the first place, he's probably not a direct concern."

  "Probably," I echo, not entirely convinced. Deathloard's motivations have always been opaque, even to those of us who actually know he exists. The fact there's technically four of him, that just gives us all collective headaches. Hell, it gives the author a headache, which is saying something since he wrote the man.

  "I'm more worried about Grace deciding to hunt down Etienne if she ever figures out what he is," Cortanna continues, her digital features showing genuine concern. "Vigger or not, Etienne is a better fighter than Grace, especially in hand-to-hand combat. The outcome would not be favorable."

  I snort. "That's an understatement. étienne would carve her into pieces while complaining about her sub-standard combat form." A thought occurs to me. "Did Etienne replace all of Jason's meat products with something up to his standards? You know how he gets about proper food, our French-Canadian santa."

  Cortanna's face brightens with amusement. "Yes, he did. Quite the selection too—venison, properly aged beef, heritage-bred pork. All meticulously labeled with storage and preparation instructions that Jason can see, which I thought was a nice touch, given it's him. Considering he beat Traveler almost to death the first time they met?"

  "Of course they are," I chuckle. "Wouldn't want anyone cooking his premium meat incorrectly. The horror." I study Cortanna's digital representation for a moment. "So why are you here, apart from cataloging all variants for Traveler? This doesn't seem like your typical assignment."

  Cortanna's expression becomes thoughtful, pixels rearranging themselves. "I won't have a very big part to play, not in this. Though I should be able to help Grace with fishing scams, because you just know she's going to be drawn into at least one."

  I grunt in agreement. "Most new arrivals are. The internet is a minefield for the unprepared. hell, it's a minefield for the prepared. Though Jason will most probably try to hunt down the scammer when it happens. Will you assist him?"

  Cortanna considers this, her processing appearing as a brief ripple across her digital features. "I might? I hate scammers almost as much as child traffickers, and this Jason variant doesn't have spatial magic or necromancy to assist him, so I'll have to do."

  "Speaking of Jason," I say, "is the speed at which he's processing his work fully him, or are you pitching in?"

  "It's all Jason," Cortanna replies, a note of pride in her synthesized voice. "His newfound sight seems to be giving him confidence. I'm both impressed and... pleased."

  I smile at her hesitation over the emotional term. "You're a person, Cortanna. A person writ in code, yes, but a person nonetheless. You shouldn't be surprised about being pleased about things."

  "Grace is a person," Cortanna counters, "and she's surprised about being pleased. I can sense her autonomic system responses."

  My smile fades slightly. "Grace is... not quite a person yet. She's getting there, but part of her is still the weapon Durge designed. Jason will hopefully assist with that process."

  "Like you assisted Gardner?" Cortanna asks, referencing my first golem, who's... Well he's a lot more than just a little golem now.

  "Similar principle, different context," I shrug. "We all need someone to see us as more than what we were made to be." I pause, then add, "You're doing well, Cortanna. Traveler is lucky to have you as his daughter."

  The digital face on the screen shows a brief flash of what might be pleasure at the compliment. "I'm still learning. Mia has been helpful—your daughter has a unique perspective on personhood that I find... illuminating."

  I nod, smiling slightly. I've always liked Cortanna; she reminds me of Mia in many ways, particularly as the two spend so much time together these days. Both infinitely curious, both learning to navigate the boundaries of their unusual existences.

  "Well," I say, checking the time—nearly three in the morning—"I should be going. My task here is complete."

  I turn back to the sleeping kitten, now breathing easily in her slumber, the first step in a chain of events that might just save this reality—or at least this tiny corner of it. Dawson shifts slightly, adjusting his position to better shelter the small creature.

  "Keep an eye on them, would you?" I ask Cortanna. "Not just for Traveler's records. They're going to need all the help they can get."

  "I will," she promises, her voice softening. "Safe travels, Healer."

  With one last glance at the peaceful scene of dog and kitten, I focus my concentration, feeling the familiar sensation of reality bending around me. The crown flares briefly, its flowers fully opening as they facilitate my transition between worlds. For a moment, my form seems to become translucent, edged with the same bioluminescent glow as the crown.

  Then I'm back to my goddess, leaving nothing but the faintest scent of growing things in my wake, and a sleeping household unaware of how many forces gather around them in the Canadian winter night. Which, as harald is fond of putting it, I prafir it this way.