---Deathblade Mia---

  # Stolen Things and Shadow Meetings

  The bastard stole my book.

  I dig my fingernails into my palms, feeling the crescents of pressure that keep me from reaching forward. Jason's neck sits right there, exposed above his collar, and the shadows are already pooling between my fingers without me calling them. One movement. Quick. The urge burns behind my sternum. He's taken everything from me, and now he takes my fucking book?

  But I exhale through my teeth and force my hands flat against my thighs.

  I'd torn through my pack twice last night. Everything dumped on the floor of my room—spare clothes, the one knife I'm not supposed to have, the protein bars I'd stolen from Jason's kitchen even though Healer dropped off some ambrosia yesterday. No book. I'd been working through the blood magic section, wanted to compare it to the hermetic stuff I've been learning, and then nothing. Gone.

  So I'd tried Dave's house, thinking maybe I'd left it there. Got within ten feet of the front door before the blood wards hit me like walking into a wall of ice water. They pressed against my skin, cold and precise, humming with the particular flavor that told me dad had built them. I'd stood there for probably five minutes, prodding at them, looking for weaknesses. Nothing. Tight construction, no gaps. Just like Etienne, dad, taught me.

  After that I sat down on his front step, closed my eyes, and ran back through every memory since the TTRPG game. I can do that now—replay things frame by frame, notice details I missed the first time. I saw myself reading during the break, felt the weight of the book in my hands, smelled that wild-animal scent that clung to the pages. Then someone, Revenna I think? Had brought out cookies and I'd set the book down on the couch arm while I grabbed one.

  That's where my memory of it ended.

  Jason had been standing right behind my chair waiting for Grace. Close enough to reach over and take it while everyone was distracted by chocolate chip cookies still warm from the oven.

  The fucker took my book. The one Protector gave me. The one I chose over watching Warden Jason Stone teach lessons to the people who hurt me.

  "I need to relieve myself," Grace says from the driver's seat.

  I barely suppress a snort. Relieve herself. Who the fuck talks like that? Just say you need to piss like everyone else, even if you're from another dimention.

  The car slows, tires crunching as Grace pulls onto the shoulder. The engine drops to an idle, that low rumble thrumming through the frame. Cold air immediately starts seeping through the window seals despite the heater blasting at full power, that dry artificial warmth that never quite reaches deep enough though since both Jason and Grace have vigger, not sure why they bother anymore.

  Grace opens her door—the click loud in the sudden quiet—and steps out. A wall of freezing air rushes in before she shuts it, sharp enough to make Jason huff out a breath and hunch his shoulders. She walks toward a stand of tall, thin trees, her boots crunching through the crusty top layer of snow. Poplars maybe. I don't know trees. Don't like them either. Too many shadows that aren't mine, too many places for things to hide.

  She disappears between the trunks, her mottled cloak blending into the grey-brown bark.

  Then one of the trees moves.

  Except it's not the tree. Protector separates from behind a trunk that's at least half as wide as his torso, which is saying something because Protector is fucking massive. He just materializes out of the bark pattern and winter shadows like he'd been part of the forest a second ago, like he'd grown there with the roots and waited. Which, considering what the man is, he actually might have.

  He crosses the snow toward the car without a sound. His bare feet don't sink in. Don't leave prints. Don't disturb the surface at all. He's wearing some kind of enormous cloak that looks like someone stole a wool circus tent and turned it into a cloak, the fabric heavy and dark except for something bright across the chest that I can't make out yet.

  He reaches my door and doesn't slow down.

  Doesn't open it.

  He phases straight through the metal and glass like they're made of smoke, solid matter apparently meaning jack shit to him, and suddenly he's folded into the backseat beside me, though in this car there's nowhere near enough room for someone his size. His shoulders take up most of the space, broad enough that he has to angle them to fit. He has to hunch almost double, head tilted at an awkward angle to avoid the ceiling, neck bent. The smell of wood smoke and crushed pine needles fills the small space, mixing with something else—old leather maybe, or turned earth. Something unique to him that involves primal magic.

  I press back against my door, not from fear but from something that sits heavier in my chest. Something that makes it hard to look at him directly. I can gut things that I'm afraid of. I can't gut this.

  I don't look at him. Instead I stare at my hands in my lap, at the half-moon marks my nails left in my palms, at the calouses from the knives I practice with, the katana I train with, which is why I picked it in the stupid game.

  He made me that book. However he did it—copying or magic or sitting down and writing it all out by hand—he'd put in time and effort to give me something valuable. Didn't ask for anything in return. Didn't test me or make me prove I deserved it. Protector doesn't play those games like the others do. He just gave it to me, said it was mine now, and walked away.

  And I fucking lost it.

  Protector's face creases into a smile. Easy. Warm. No agenda behind it that I can detect, none of that calculation I'm used to seeing in adults' faces. He reaches into his cloak and I can finally see the front properly—"I love you because you're mine and only mine" in huge red letters across the chest, with an anatomically-correct human heart drawn below it in the same red, and Thornara's name in small script above the heart like a label. Which, given Thornara's Thornara and Protector's wearing it, it probably is. Sort of.

  He pulls out a book from somewhere in the depths of that ridiculous cloak.

  My breath catches. But no—the cover's a shade lighter than I remember. The binding less worn, the corners not as soft. He extends it toward me, his hand so large it makes the book look small even though it's a normal-sized book.

  "Always got copies," he rumbles, his voice somehow not carrying past the car's interior despite its depth, like the sound just stops at the windows. Not even carrying to jason, either. "One of the many, many positives of the modern day." His expression shifts into something almost amused, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. "Like not dying because you happened to cut yourself on a thorn once. Not having to shit in a fucking hole in the ground and get splinters in your ass. Not freezing all the dam time because central heating exists."

  I take the book carefully, feeling the weight of it settle into my hands. My fingers register the texture of the cover, slightly rough, that same wild smell rising from the pages when I crack it open. The bookmark sits exactly where I'd stopped reading. Exactly. Down to the sentence, probably. I slide it into my pack's inner pocket where I can feel it press against my ribs through the fabric. Where I won't lose it again.

  "Wouldn't have been mad if you lost it," Protector says, still watching me with that easy expression. "It's your book. Yours to do with as you want. When I gave it to you and all."

  I turn this over in my head, testing it for traps, for hidden meanings, for the catch. Finding none. I nod slowly, not trusting my voice. Not now.

  Then the next thought hits me and I frown at the space between us. "How the fuck are you just sitting here? Grace is a ranger. She'd sense something. Sense you, and well." I wave a hand at him. Also, jason can hear, and now see, and he hasn't heard any of this. Or seen the 8-and-a-half-foot-tall man wearing a tent and no shoes and covered with flowing runes sitting in his back seet.

  Protector's smile fades like water draining from a basin. The easy warmth drains out of his face, leaving something harder underneath, something that makes me think of stone weathering under years of rain. "Don't know this variant of Jason well. Don't know Grace at all." He stops. His jaw works, muscles bunching. Then he actually growls, low in his chest like an animal, words coming out rough and jagged: "Children should be protected, though. Not dumped in the shit."

  He takes a breath, chest expanding, holds it for a moment. "If they start anything physical—you understand what I mean—you'll be removed from the situation. By force if required, though we'd all rather you remove yourself first. Walk away, find shadows, disappear."

  Heat flashes through me, indignation sharp and hot. "I know what sex is. I'm not a fucking baby."

  Grace emerges from the trees, hands visibly wet, water droplets catching the grey light and falling onto the snow. She's walking carefully, picking her way back toward the car.

  I grab Protector without thinking and yank. The shadows respond instantly, curling up from the floor like living things, pulling him down and into the pocket space I create between heartbeats. He lets me, sinking into the darkness without resistance, his weight disappearing from the seat beside me as he drops into that in-between place that's currently beneeth the car. Sort of.

  Grace reaches the car and opens the driver's door. "I washed my hands at a nearby stream," she says to Jason, shaking droplets off her fingers before wiping them on her pants.

  Jason doesn't look up, just makes a small acknowledging sound in his throat.

  Grace settles into her seat with small precise movements—adjusting the mirror down slightly, checking her seatbelt with one hand, brushing snow off her coat with the other. The movements are economical, practiced. "You getting tired? I can drive if you want." Jason says, still not looking up while rubbing at his eyes with a hand.

  Grace goes completely still. Not frozen, but deliberately motionless, the way people get when they're actually thinking instead of just reacting. One second. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

  Then she shakes her head, just once.

  Jason nods, accepting her answer without comment. Doesn't push, doesn't ask again.

  Grace shifts into drive with a solid clunk. The car rolls forward, tires humming on cleared pavement, that steady vibration returning to the frame.

  In the shadow pocket beneath the car, Protector drops about five feet so he's not hunched anymore, so his spine can straighten. The space is dim—shadows thick enough to hide us but not so dark I can't see his expression. He straightens his back with small cracks and pops of settling joints, rolling his shoulders with a huff.

  "Doesn't matter that you know," he says, voice still low but clearer down here. "You're a child. Deathblade or not. Same thing I told my own daughter—you won't see any of that until you're at least seventeen. You're too early by a decade."

  I open my mouth to argue.

  He raises one huge hand, palm out, fingers spread. A clear stop gesture.

  "Deathblade Mia, you're, not my child," he acknowledges, hand still raised. "However—" He stops. His chest expands with a long breath, ribs pressing against the ridiculous shirt, then deflates slowly. His shoulders drop, tension bleeding out. The hand lowers.

  Something in his expression—something tired and sad and determined all at once—makes me close my mouth. I nod instead, swallowing whatever argument I'd been building.

  "I think I know how I'm going to make this Jason see," I say after a moment. The words come out careful, measured, like I'm testing thin ice. "But I need to contact Paladin."

  Protector's eyes narrow slightly, going thoughtful. He tilts his head, considering. "Might not be able to learn that technique. To gift pain—to force someone to experience what they caused—you need to learn how to take it first." His gaze pins me, intense and focused. "Can you do that? Not physically. You've felt physical pain. But mentally? Can you open yourself up like that? Let someone in deep enough to hurt you in ways that matter?"

  My stomach twists, something cold settling in despite the artificial warmth around me.

  He continues before I can formulate a response. "Paladin's rigid about this. Most rigid of all of us about what children should and shouldn't do, what they should and shouldn't experience. You have to feel it before you can give it. Experience it fully, completely, let it wash through you and understand every aspect of it." His voice drops lower, almost gentle. "And Paladin will not force pain on a child. Won't do it. Can't do it. To him—to all of us—that's abomination. Goes against everything we are."

  I think about this. Turn it over in my head, examining it from different angles. The idea of deliberately letting someone hurt me, really hurt me in ways that matter, makes my skin feel wrong, too tight over my bones. But I've been hurt before. Plenty of times. This would just be different. Controlled. Chosen. Takeing pain from someone wo doesn't deserve it. Probably.

  "I could just stab the shiny man," I offer, testing the idea.

  Protector's grin cracks across his face, sudden and bright like sun breaking through clouds. "Might help. Probably won't—he's Paladin, takes more than a knife to rattle him—but might. Either way I'll get a good laugh out of it." His grin widens, teeth showing white. "That'll help plenty, and he will too."

  I nod, filing the idea away in the back of my head for later consideration.

  Protector stretches, or attempts to in the limited space. His joints crack quietly in sequence—shoulder, elbow, spine—small pops echoing in the enclosed space. "Got to go. Stuff to do. Thornara expected me back an hour ago and she's probably getting impatient." He pauses, expression shifting to something almost sheepish. "Date night. My Mia wants to watch Austin Powers 3—Goldmember—for the fourth time this month. Or was it? The one with the dutchman who paints everything gold? Is that 3 or 4?" Protector shrugs.

  I blink at him, confused. "Date night's between you and Thornara. Why's your Mia, you're daughter, watching movies during your date?"

  "Yeah, it is date night," he agrees, nodding. "Reason my Mia gets to watch her movie even though she's married now and should probably have her own date nights—there was a bet. Involved three hundred kilograms of vodka, Deathblade Mia, and a hammer. Not Thane. Different hammer entirely." He says this like it's perfectly logical, like those elements obviously connect into movie-watching privileges. Then again, I'm a 7-year-old shadow-walking assasson talking to a varient of the man I am going to make experience everything that, due to his turning away, or him going to turn away, I experienced, all in a shadow pocket. Also said varient, Jason, is going camping with a woman who didn't know what a camp was a month ago. So. Also I know you're there.

  I try to piece together how those elements combine into anything resembling sense. Can't. Give up because, well, that and no-one wants to watch me do that anyway. "You're not going to ask me what I'll do after? After I learn the technique and make Jason see?" I ask instead.

  Protector reaches out slowly, telegraphing the movement so I can see it coming. His hand covers the top of my head entirely, palm warm and callused against my hair. Suddenly there's heat flooding from his touch into my skull, pouring down like warm honey. It spreads fast—down my spine in a rush, radiating out into my limbs, pushing into my fingers and toes, filling all the cold empty spaces. The cold that lives in my bones, constant and familiar as my own heartbeat ever since I started training, started useing shadow magic, gets shoved back. Not gone. But distant. Muted. I'm not sure if I like it or not.

  He lifts his hand away and the warmth stays, radiating through me.

  "You'll do what you'll do," he says simply, matter-of-fact. "Can't stop you and I won't try. You've had enough choices taken away from you, and I won't do that."

  I flex my fingers experimentally, feeling the warmth still radiating through them, making them loose and more nimble then they had been before.

  "That was environmental adaptation. Tier three." He gestures vaguely at me, at my whole body. "Lasts sixteen hours. Take advantage with that cloak blanket thing of yours. Layer up while you've got the protection, stay warm, figure out shit when the cold's not gnawing at you."

  Then a giant hand made entirely of light appears behind him out of nowhere and grabs. Just materializes in the shadow space and yanks. Protector gets pulled backward through a tree that shouldn't exist, that can't exist, all glowing branches and impossible geometry and light that doesn't cast shadows. I catch a glimpse of Thornara's face beyond the light—she's grinning wide, teeth showing, eyes bright with amusement—before both of them vanish completely and the light-tree winks out like someone turned off a switch, the last thing I see of Protector is his face, and the genuine joy on it as he vanishes.

  I sit in the shadow pocket for a long moment, processing. Above me, through the thin layer of darkness that separates this space from the car's interior, I can hear Jason and Grace's voices. Just murmurs, words indistinct, the rise and fall of conversation without meaning.

  I pull the new book from my pack, feeling its weight in my hands. Flip it open to where the bookmark was, pages falling naturally to that spot. The bookmark slides out and falls onto my lap, a thin strip of leather worn soft. I start reading where I left off, picking up mid-sentence.

  I'll talk to Paladin eventually. See if he'll teach me how to take pain properly, how to open myself up and let it in, so I can learn to give it back. Then eventually, when I'm ready, when I've learned what I need to learn, I'll make this Jason experience what he did. Make him feel every moment of it.

  But not now.

  Now they can play at camping. Play at being a normal family doing normal family things. Jason doesn't deserve it. But Grace? Grace deserves to feel like something other than a weapon.

  The car hits a bump and I sway sideways, catch myself with one hand pressed flat against the seat, keep the book steady with the other. The words blur slightly as we round a curve, then refocus when we straighten out.

  *Blood magic requires understanding of life force at its most fundamental level. You cannot manipulate what you do not comprehend, cannot bend what you do not know. To use blood—your own or another's—you must first understand what flows through the veins, what carries life from heart to extremity and back again.*

  I keep my eyes on the page, absorbing the words.

  Outside the windows the landscape keeps changing. The trees get denser, pressing closer to the road. Snow piles higher on the roadside where plows have shoved it into dirty white banks. The sky stays that flat grey color that makes it impossible to tell what time it is, what position the sun holds behind the clouds.

  "Maybe two hours out from the campsite," Grace says from up front. Her voice is clear, matter-of-fact.

  Jason makes a sound—agreement maybe, or just acknowledgment. Something noncommittal.

  The environmental adaptation Protector gave me makes my skin feel strange, different. Like I'm wrapped in something invisible, some layer between me and the cold that's always there. When I breathe toward the window experimentally, no fog appears on the glass. My breath stays invisible. My fingers don't ache when I turn the page, don't feel stiff or clumsy. They move easily, naturally, the way I imagine normal people's fingers always move.

  Sixteen hours. I'll have to track that, pay attention to when it wears off so I'm not caught somewhere exposed when the cold comes rushing back in.

  I read about using your own blood versus someone else's blood. Different properties for each. Different risks. Your own blood connects directly to your life force, makes the magic stronger but costs more. Someone else's blood is weaker but safer, doesn't drain you the same way. The text goes into detail about collection methods, preservation, the way blood changes when exposed to air versus kept sealed.

  The car drones on. Engine humming at a steady pitch. Tires on pavement making that continuous white noise. Occasional creak of leather seats when someone shifts position. Grace adjusts something on the dashboard—the heater maybe, or the radio though no music plays.

  I move into the next chapter, turning the page carefully. *Primal Energy as it Relates to Natural Spaces.* The text discusses forests first, how old growth differs from new growth, how the magic in a place changes based on what's lived and died there. Mountains next. Then brief mentions of oceans and deserts. Each environment has its own signature, its own particular flavor of magic that can be tapped into if you know what you're looking for, if you can sense the difference between pine and oak, between limestone and granite, between snow and sand and sea.

  The words fill my head steadily. Information storing itself away in the back of my mind, filing into categories I'll be able to access later. I read about ley lines and power spots, about places where the natural magic pools and concentrates. About how to find them, how to recognize the signs. Animal behavior. Plant growth patterns. The way light falls differently and what said can tell you if you can read it.

  The car's movement becomes background sensation. The steady vibration. The occasional larger bump that makes the suspension work. The sound of tires on pavement changing slightly when we cross from one section of road to another, from newer asphalt to older, from cleared surface to one with more ice.

  I keep reading, paragraph after paragraph, page after page. Absorbing information about primal magic, about blood magic, about the differences between hermetic systems and natural ones. The book is dense, packed with information, but it's written clearly. Protector or whoever originally wrote this knew how to explain things, how to build from simple concepts to complex ones without losing the thread.

  Later I'll use all of this. Every technique, every scrap of knowledge, every lesson about pain and power and how to make people understand what they've done. I'll take everything I'm learning and I'll put it to use. I'll become good enough, skilled enough, powerful enough to do what needs doing. Not what I want to do. Killing someone is never easy, but what needs to be done.

  But that's later.

  For now, I sit in my shadow pocket beneath the car, wrapped in borrowed warmth, and I read. The words flow into me. The knowledge settles into place. And above me, Jason and Grace drive north toward the campsite, toward playing pretend, toward whatever happens next.

  I turn another page. Keep reading. The vibration of the car steady beneath me. The warmth still radiating through my bones. The book solid and real in my hands.

  ---Grace---

  I exit the vehicle with measured precision the moment it comes to a complete stop at the trailhead. Jason practically launches himself from the passenger seat, his movements full of energy that seems to radiate from him like heat. The fact that I am the cause of this creates an unexpected, though not unpleasent, warmth within my chest.

  "We're really doing this," he announces, his face illuminated with a smile that reaches his eyes—eyes that now see because of my vigger intervention. Those eyes dart everywhere, drinking in the forest around us, from the towering pine trees to the dappled shadows between branches. "I can't believe we're actually here."

  I continue to experience the pleasant warmth spreading through my chest as I watch his reaction. This sensation serves no immediate tactical purpose, yet I find myself not wanting to suppress it. His joy at experiencing the forest visually for the first time creates an unfamiliar but not unwelcome feeling of accomplishment similor to many of the warm feelings I have been haveing in regards to Jason. My, Jason, as he did not react negatively to said designation previously at the TTRPG game, since I arrived in this world.

  "Yes. We are here," I respond, the words emerging with less emotional inflection than I intended. Despite my limited vocal range, Jason has learned to detect the subtle changes in my expression—the small softening around my eyes that he calls my "almost-smiles."

  His rapid transformation from yesterday's distress over something as simple as finding chicken to today's unbridled enthusiasm for our expedition demonstrates a resilience I find increasingly fascinating. While his frustration with his sight's limitations regarding solid objects was evident less than a day ago, he has adapted quickly, focusing instead on what he can now experience rather than what remains challenging.

  I find myself grateful for this capacity he has—to acknowledge limitations while still embracing new possibilities. It's a quality I've rarely encountered in my homeland, where acknowledging weakness typically resulted in isolation and then death. Here, with Jason, limitations are simply problems to solve rather than defining characteristics.

  The warmth in my chest expands slightly as I reach for my pack, preparing for our journey into the forest. Perhaps this is what the druid meant when he spoke of connection beyond tactical necessity—this quiet satisfaction in another's joy.

  "Let me get the gear," Jason says, moving toward the trunk with enthusiasm that seems to bubble from his every motion.

  "Wait." I stop him with a light touch to his arm, noting how he no longer flinches at my contact—a small but significant change. "There's a more efficient way to distribute the weight."

  For the next few minutes, I guide him through organizing our supplies. I demonstrate my own pack first—a system I developed during my first winter with the rangers when improper weight distribution left me with an injury that could have proven fatal in harsher conditions. I will not allow Jason to learn through a similor method.

  "Notice how I've placed the tent poles along the spine of the pack," I explain, showing him the carefully arranged components. "They're rigid and uniform in weight, creating a solid vertical support." My fingers trace the arrangement that feels now as natural to me as breathing.

  The sleeping bag is compressed tightly at the bottom, creating a stable base. Above that, I've arranged our cooking equipment—pot, portable stove, and fuel—surrounded by soft items like clothing to prevent shifting. The food is sealed in waterproof bags and placed in the middle section, where it will rest against the strongest part of his back.

  "Emergency supplies go here," I continue, indicating the top pocket of my pack. "First aid kit, firestarter, compass—items that must be accessible without unpacking everything. The water bladder slides in this compartment against your back. The weight will shift as you drink, but its position minimizes the impact of those changes."

  Jason watches with attentive eyes—eyes that see because of my intervention. The thought creates that now-familiar warmth in my chest. Not pride exactly—rangers in my homeland don't indulge in such emotions—but something adjacent to it. Satisfaction, perhaps.

  "This will reduce strain on your spine by approximately forty percent," I explain, making a final adjustment to his shoulder strap. My fingers linger briefly on the fabric, smoothing a wrinkle that might cause discomfort over long distances. "Minimizing fatigue increases both safety and enjoyment."

  I notice my choice of words only after speaking them. Enjoyment—not just survival efficiency. Jason's influence on my thought patterns becomes more apparent each day, it seams. In my homeland, packs were organized purely for tactical advantage. The concept of arranging equipment to enhance pleasure would have been considered wasteful, perhaps even dangerous.

  "Always practical," Jason says, but his smile tells me he appreciates the care. The smile reaches his eyes in a way that creates small creases at the corners—a detail I couldn't have noticed when he was blind, one that I find myself cataloging without conscious intent now.

  He looks around suddenly, patting his pockets. "Wait, where's my cane? Did I leave it in the car?"

  "Second exterior pocket on the right side of your pack," I answer, having noted its placement earlier. "I added it as a contingency measure. While your ranger sight functions in darkness, terrain variations might be less discernible in certain conditions. The cane provides tactical redundancy."

  What I don't say is that I noticed his momentary panic yesterday when the lights flickered during the thunderstorm—how his hand had instinctively reached for the cane that wasn't there. How vulnerability had flashed across his face before he remembered he could see.

  Some fears don't vanish with newfound abilities. Some habits take longer to break than others. This, too, I understand without needing to explain it to him.

  "Thanks," he says, looking relieved. "Always thinking three steps ahead, aren't you?"

  "It's not three steps," I reply honestly. "It's evaluating all potential variables and preparing contingencies accordingly."

  His laugh echoes through the clearing, bright and unexpected. The sound creates another flare of warmth that spreads from my chest to my fingertips. I'm growing accustomed to these sensations now—no longer analyzing them for tactical implications, simply experiencing them as they come.

  This, perhaps, is the most significant adaptation I've made since arriving in his world just over two weeks ago now.

  I watch as panic gradually creeps across Jason's face, his movements becoming more frantic as he searches through the pack, his breath quickening. The confidence and joy from moments ago vanish in an instant, replaced by something raw and vulnerable.

  "I can't see anything in there," he mutters, hands patting through the exterior pockets desperately. "It's too dark—no, it's nothing. I see nothing. Grace, I need my cane. I can't manage the trail without it. Can you look? You've got the super-vision and all."

  The sudden shift is jarring—Jason speaking as if he's still blind, his confidence evaporating into familiar helplessness. I recognize the response from my training with injured rangers: muscle memory of vulnerability, of limitation so deeply ingrained it momentarily overrides reality. What I do not recognize, however, is my surprisingly strong desire to apply conetic violence to said feelings with a suitably heafty object.

  "Jason," I say, my voice softer than my usual tactical communications. "You can see."

  He freezes, hands still clutching the pack. For three heartbeats, he remains perfectly still. Then he slowly straightens and turns—his eyes focusing directly on my face. Something changes in his expression as he truly sees me, as if the sight of me is what anchors him back to this new reality.

  "Grace," he whispers, my name sounding different than when others say it. His eyes—eyes that function because of my vigger—drink in my features with an intensity that creates an unfamiliar warmth under my skin. It's not just recognition that fills his gaze, but wonder. As if seeing me is what makes his sight real.

  "Oh my god," he laughs, the sound bright with relief and embarrassment. "I completely forgot. For a second there, I was back in... the nothing." He shakes his head, still laughing but with a tremor beneath it. "Twenty-eight years of habit is hard to break, I guess."

  I want to reach out to him—another unfamiliar impulse that serves no immediate tactical purpose. Instead, I simply nod, understanding without needing to analyze. "Your brain established neural pathways for navigating without sight. These pathways remain active despite new visual input. Similar to how rangers maintain awareness of exit points even in secure environments."

  The comparison isn't perfect, but I see relief in his expression as I offer him this framework—this way of understanding his momentary lapse not as weakness but as adaptation.

  "Yeah," he agrees, his breathing steadying. "Exactly like that."

  His smile returns, though different now—less exuberant, more thoughtful. "Thanks for not making a big deal out of it, Grace."

  "There is no tactical advantage in emphasizing momentary disorientation," I reply truthfully. What I don't say is how the vulnerability in his eyes created a protective response in me more powerful then I have experienced before, and my surprise that I did not emmediatly reject it. Doing so will do nothing.

  "The cane is a reasonable backup system," I add, reaching into my own pack. "I brought one as well." I extract the folding cane I'd included with my gear, offering it to him. "In case terrain or weather conditions compromise visibility."

  His eyebrows rise in surprise. "You brought a spare?"

  "Yes." I don't elaborate on how I'd spent an hour researching the optimal model, testing its weight and balance, ensuring it would provide maximum stability while adding minimal pack weight. How I'd noticed his attachment to his original cane—the way his fingers sometimes reached for it unconsciously even now. After all, Jason is trusting me in my environment, as I trusted him when in his. I will not fail.

  Jason takes the cane, his fingers brushing mine. The contact sends a pleasent warmth up my arm. "Always prepared for everything, aren't you?"

  "Not everything," I admit, thinking of yesterday's freezer incident, how helpless I'd felt watching his frustration. "Just foreseeable contingencies."

  He tucks the cane into his belt loop where it's easily accessible, then shoulders his pack with renewed confidence. "Lead the way, Ranger Grace."

  Suddenly, Jason moves toward me, arms beginning to rise, his expression open and grateful. Then he catches himself mid-motion, arms awkwardly suspended between us before he quickly drops them to his sides, cheeks flushing with color.

  "Sorry," he mutters, looking away. "I almost. I forgot to ask again."

  The aborted gesture creates an unexpected ache in my chest. His instinct had been to embrace me—to express gratitude through physical connection, connection he sees as fundimental to him as my tactical responses are to me—but his careful respect for my boundaries made him stop himself. In the days since my arrival on his doorstep, he has learned to approach me with a consideration I've rarely experienced, to ask. Always to ask.

  I find myself thinking of the movie night in the basement—falling asleep against him, waking with my head on his chest, his fingers tangled in my hair. How I should have felt vulnerable, exposed, tactically disadvantaged. How instead I had felt warmth, safety, an unfamiliar peace. The memory creates a strange sensation beneath my breastbone, neither uncomfortable nor unwelcome. The embrace just inside the door of the ouse. His arms around me, warm, not restraining, simply holding.

  "It is acceptable," I hear myself saying, the words emerging before tactical assessment can intervene. "You may... hug me. If you wish."

  Jason looks up, surprise widening his eyes. "Are you sure? You don't have to—"

  "I am not compelled by external forces," I clarify, my voice steadier than the unfamiliar flutter in my stomach might suggest. "I am offering permission based on my own assessment, Jason."

  For a moment, he remains motionless, studying my face as if searching for signs of hesitation. Then slowly, telegraphing each movement to give me time to withdraw consent, he steps forward and wraps his arms around me before gently pulling me against his chest.

  The embrace is gentle—his arms encircling my shoulders without constraining movement, his chest warm against mine, his heartbeat a rapid rhythm I can feel through his jacket. My arms remain at my sides initially, uncertain of proper placement, before I raise them to rest lightly against his back as this, embraces, are still new to me and I do not wish to, harm this experience.

  "Thank you," he whispers against my hair. "For everything. For my eyes. For being here. For the cane. For just... Well. careing."

  I notice he doesn't mention the death oath that binds us, that would end my life should his cease. His gratitude focuses on what I've given rather than what binds me to him—another subtle kindness I'm still learning to recognize, another line that he refuses to cross.

  The embrace lasts precisely 8.3 seconds before Jason steps back, his smile somehow both brighter and softer than before. The forest air feels cooler against my skin where his warmth had been, my back feeling, less secure, where his palms had pressed flat against it.

  "Well," he says, adjusting his pack straps with hands that tremble slightly, though with excitement now and not fear. "Ready to hit the trail?"

  I nod, finding words temporarily beyond my reach. The feeling of his arms around me lingers like an echo, unfamiliar yet not unwelcome. In my homeland, physical contact served only tactical purposes—combat, medical intervention, occasional necessary warmth-sharing in extreme conditions. This embrace had served none of those functions, yet had fulfilled some need I hadn't recognized until this moment. Perhaps due to the several embraces, 3 in fact, before this?

  As we start down the forest path, I find myself categorizing this new experience not as a tactical advantage or disadvantage, but simply as something worth remembering. Something worth, perhaps, repeating. Something worth, ilistrateing the new world I have found myself in, holding close.

  This thought creates another surge of warmth that stays with me as we move deeper into the trees, the scent of pine and earth surrounding us, Jason's footsteps steady and confident beside mine.

  "You could have continued," I hear myself say, the words emerging before I've fully processed them. "The hug. It would have been... acceptable."

  Jason's eyes widen in surprise, searching my face for confirmation. "Really?"

  I nod once, sharply, uncertain how to explain the change—how his consistent respect for my boundaries has made me more willing to expand them. How the memory of waking against his chest during the movie, feeling safe rather than vulnerable, has shifted something fundamental in my assessment of physical contact. How the constant, unwavering respect for me when he could have done otherwise, matters in ways I am unsure how to articulate.

  "Yes," I add, my voice steadier than the unfamiliar flutter in my stomach might suggest. "I find I do not... object to certain forms of contact. When properly initiated." The fact that said only applies to Jason in particular is, not something that I can say. Not now, at least.

  Before I can find more precise words, before I can decide weather or not I will speak this last, the moment passes, and Jason's expression shifts to a softer smile, his scent flareing with warmth.

  "Maybe next time," he says without disappointment, shifting his pack with renewed energy. "After all, I've got you to thank for being able to hike into the woods without my cane, and. Well. I like hugs so." He shrugs, smirking now.

  I feel uncharacteristically awkward at his gratitude—still unused to accepting thanks for something that seemed so simple to give. The vigger healing was simply the most efficient solution to his condition, and the one that did not include opening his arteries, yet he treats it as a gift beyond measure. I deflect by checking my own pack one final time, adjusting a strap that requires no adjustment as we continue moveing.

  "We should reach the campsite in approximately forty-seven minutes at a sustainable pace," I say, securing the last strap with more attention than necessary. "The terrain is mostly level, with one small stream crossing."

  Jason nods, still smiling that bright smile that creates the warmth in my chest. "Lead the way."

  As we continue down the trail, I notice how his gaze sweeps across the forest with wonder—taking in details most would overlook. The pattern of lichen on a north-facing tree trunk. The subtle difference in moss coloration where sunlight filters through branches. The fresh claw marks on a pine where, by the length and shape of the marks, a young brown bear marked its territory.

  "You see like a ranger," I observe as he pauses to examine deer tracks crossing our path.

  "I learned to notice details by touch and sound for twenty-eight years," he explains, rising to continue walking. "Now I just use my eyes instead of my fingers and ears. But I still notice things others miss." Then, quieter: "also, I can see stuff that I don't have to touch now. Why wouldn't I want to notice everything?"

  His explanation makes perfect sense—his brain already trained to gather information others overlook, now simply using a different input method. I feel that unexpected warmth again, watching him apply his hard-won skills in this new context.

  The forest thickens as we continue, the trail narrowing. Jason walks slightly behind me, occasionally calling out and requesting more information on observations—a woodpecker's distinctive damage pattern, a cluster of mushrooms emerging from decaying wood, the subtle differences in birdsong as we progress deeper into the woods.

  Time passes in this comfortable rhythm until we reach the promised stream. It's narrow enough to cross with a single step, the water clear and cold over smooth stones.

  "About twelve more minutes," I say as we continue beyond the crossing.

  "How do you know so precisely?" Jason asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

  "Stride length multiplied by probable pace, accounting for terrain variables and pack weight," I explain. "The druid taught calculation methods for distance estimation when I was very young."

  "The druid sounded like a complicated person," Jason observes, stepping carefully over an exposed root.

  I consider this as we walk, thinking of the man who recognized my condition and chose to train rather than isolate me. "Yes," I agree finally. "He was... tactically complex."

  "I'd like to hear more about him sometime," Jason says, and I find myself nodding in agreement, surprised by my willingness to share that part of my past.

  True to my calculation, we reach the campsite in precisely forty-five minutes and twenty-two seconds—within acceptable margin of error. The clearing appears perfect—a small open space surrounded by tall pines, with enough open sky above to see stars later. The ground is relatively flat, with good drainage and natural windbreaks.

  Jason drops his pack with a dramatic groan, rolling his shoulders. "I don't know how you're not even winded," he says, stretching his back. "Do you have super-strength along with your super-vision?"

  "No," I answer truthfully. "Simply extensive conditioning and efficient movement patterns. Also. Though vigger allows you to become as half again as strong as you would normally be, you now possess this ability, and as such, no, I do not, as you say, have sooper-strength."

  His laugh echoes through the clearing, bright and unrestrained. The sound creates another surge of that unfamiliar warmth that I now associate with Jason specifically—not with tactical advantage or survival benefit, but simply with his presence alongside the cooked meet and paper smell that sorounds him.

  "Let's set up camp," I suggest, already mentally mapping the optimal tent position for both safety and comfort.

  As I begin unpacking, I find myself appreciating how Jason follows my instructions without questioning my expertise, how his movements become more confident with each passing minute, how his eyes—eyes that function because of my intervention—take in everything with undisguised wonder.

  Not for the first time since arriving in this world, I feel something beyond mere adaptation or tactical assessment. Something closer to belonging. Jason's dog has accepted me as I was pack. Kitten does not fear me despite my nature. Bearee and Magnen accept me despite the fact that I told Bearee what I am. And Jason. Always Jason.

  "Not bad," he says after a time, rolling his shoulders to release tension, "but I can already tell I'm using muscles I forgot I had."

  "Your form was good," I tell him, meaning it. His gait had been efficient despite his inexperience, his weight distribution adapting naturally to the changing trail conditions. "You adapted quickly to the uneven terrain."

  His pleased expression at the simple compliment creates that same warm feeling in my chest. I'm learning to recognize it now—not as weakness or tactical disadvantage, but as... connection. Something I rarely felt in my homeland, where praise was reserved for exceptional performance rather than genuine effort, and even then rairly reserved for me.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  "Let's set up the tent first," I suggest, unstrapping the bundle from my pack with practiced motions. "Shelter before comfort, shelter before fire. Shelter is life."

  "The first rule of survival," Jason agrees, kneeling beside me as I lay out the components. "Though technically we could just hike back to the car if disaster strikes."

  I find myself appreciating his pragmatism—the balance he strikes between learning survival skills and maintaining perspective about our relatively safe circumstances. In my homeland, such an attitude might be considered dangerously casual, yet here it seems appropriately calibrated to the actual threat level. Just another adaptation from my homeland to his, even if, despit my feelings, I can think of multiple reasons that would provent us from, as he said, 'hikeing back to the car' Dwellers in the pipes, for example. Or the car simply not being there when we arrived.

  I scan the clearing methodically, assessing optimal tent placement. "Here," I indicate a spot where the ground slopes almost imperceptibly—enough to prevent water pooling but not enough to create discomfort during sleep. "This location provides good sight lines, protection from northern wind patterns, and minimal root structure beneath."

  "Also, training should still be approached with proper seriousness," I remind him as he moves to look where I point, though without my former rigidity. "Habits formed in controlled situations become instinct in genuine emergencies."

  "Yes, ma'am," he says with a mock salute, but his eyes are attentive as I begin arranging the tent poles.

  I lay out the groundsheet first, smoothing it carefully over the selected site. "The foundation is critical," I explain, gesturing for Jason to hold down the corners against the light breeze. "Improper placement leads to water pooling, cold spots, and potential structural failure."

  Once the groundsheet is properly positioned, I remove the tent body from its compression sack with methodical precision. "Notice how the material is folded," I instruct, allowing him to feel the tight, organized pattern. "This specific sequence prevents unnecessary creasing and ensures rapid deployment."

  I shake the tent body once with a precise snap of my wrists that causes it to unfurl in a controlled manner rather than tangling. Placing it centered on the groundsheet, I align the door opening facing east—away from the prevailing winds but positioned to catch the morning sun.

  "Pole assembly next," I continue, removing the interconnected aluminum segments from their sleeve. "Modern pole systems utilize elastic cording for structural integrity. However, improper sequencing can still create weak points."

  I demonstrate how to unfold the poles, allowing each segment to snap into place rather than forcing them. "Listen for the connection sound," I instruct as each joint locks with a satisfying click. "Incomplete engagement creates failure points under stress."

  When the poles are fully assembled into three equal lengths, I indicate the color-coded ends. "This system prevents incorrect insertion. Red connects to red sleeves, blue to blue. The color coding is a concession to efficiency over skill, but tactically sound nonetheless."

  Jason takes the poles from my hands, examining the connections with focused attention. His fingers trace the same paths mine did, his movements becoming more confident as he identifies the pattern, finding his own way to identafy the various sides as he can not tell the collor coded ends.

  "Now for the critical integration," I explain, showing him how to insert each pole through the designated sleeve. "Begin at the foot end, feed through completely, then secure the tip into the reinforced pocket at the base."

  I guide his hands through the first pole insertion, then step back to allow him to complete the second and third independently. He moves with surprising dexterity for someone who has not done this previously, his fingers working the poles through the fabric channels with careful attention.

  "Now arc the poles," I instruct once all three are properly threaded. "Apply even pressure from the center outward. Excessive force at any single point creates structural imbalance."

  Jason follows my direction, bending each pole into its proper dome formation and securing the ends into the reinforced corner pockets. The tent begins taking shape, rising from the ground in a precisely engineered curve.

  "Next, attach the clips," I continue, indicating the small plastic fasteners along the tent body. "Begin from the center and work outward to ensure proper tension distribution."

  As Jason secures each clip to its corresponding pole, I observe his technique with approval. His movements are economical, his attention to detail impressive for someone with minimal training.

  "Finally, the rainfly," I state, removing the waterproof outer layer from its separate compartment. "Proper orientation is crucial. The reinforced seams should align perfectly with the pole structure beneath."

  I shake out the rainfly using the same controlled snap, then demonstrate how to position it over the tent body. "Begin at the head end," I instruct, "then draw it evenly toward the foot to prevent air capture and potential sail effect."

  Once the rainfly is positioned, I show Jason how to secure the buckles at each corner, adjusting the tension with precise increments. "Too loose allows water penetration and wind buffeting," I explain. "Too tight creates stress on the seams during temperature fluctuations."

  The final step involves staking the tent. I remove aluminum stakes from their separate bag, demonstrating the proper angle for insertion. "Forty-five degrees toward the tent," I show him, driving the first stake with the heel of my hand. "This creates maximum resistance against outward force."

  Jason follows my example, securing each stake with careful attention to angle and depth. When the final stake is in place, I step back to assess the result.

  "Good," I approve, noting the symmetrical tension across all panels. "The structure will maintain integrity in winds up to approximately fifty kilometers per hour and rainfall up to seven centimeters per hour."

  Jason stands beside me, surveying our work with evident satisfaction. "Not bad for a first lesson," he says, nudging my shoulder lightly with his—another casual touch that would have been unthinkable just days ago.

  "Your performance exceeded baseline expectations," I acknowledge, allowing a small smile to form. "You possess natural aptitude for structural systems."

  His pleased expression at this simple assessment creates that now-familiar warmth in my chest. In my homeland, such performance would have been expected, not praised. Here, I'm learning the value of acknowledgment—how it strengthens bonds beyond mere tactical alliance.

  "Ready to tackle that fire next?" Jason asks, already gathering small branches from the perimeter of our clearing.

  I nod, moving toward a clear area about 3.2 meters from the tent—close enough for warmth but far enough to prevent accidental ignition. "The druid taught seven different fire-starting techniques optimized for various environmental conditions," I explain, already gathering materials. "For this forest ecosystem, the inverted parallel method works best."

  Jason kneels beside me, watching intently as I begin creating a small pit, removing the surface layer of organic material to expose mineral soil beneath. "The method focuses on sustained combustion with minimal smoke production," I continue, working methodically. "Critical for both survival and tactical concealment."

  I position two moderately thick logs parallel to each other, approximately 15 centimeters apart, perpendicular to the prevailing breeze. "These create the foundation and air channel," I explain, placing a third log across one end, forming a U-shape.

  Between these logs, I arrange a precise progression of materials: a small platform of dry bark at the base, covered by a nest of shredded cedar bark I've kept in a waterproof pouch. Above this, I place progressively larger tinder—pine needles, small twigs stripped of their bark, arranged in a careful lattice to maximize air flow while providing optimal heat transfer.

  "Most inefficient fire-starting attempts fail due to improper material progression," I explain, noting how intently Jason watches my hands. "Flame requires three elements—fuel, oxygen, and heat—but thermal transfer efficiency between stages is equally critical."

  From my belt pouch, I remove a small bundle wrapped in oiled leather. Inside rests a hand-carved bow drill—a tool I created during my first days at Jason's home when practicing this method in his backyard. The spindle is cedar, the fireboard white pine, the socket a polished stone I selected for its minimal friction.

  "This method uses friction to generate embers rather than flame," I explain, assembling the components with practiced efficiency. "Creates more reliable ignition in variable humidity conditions."

  Jason watches, fascinated, as I position the spindle, wrap the bowstring, and begin the rhythmic motion that will generate the necessary heat. My muscles move with the memory of thousands of similar fires, the bow creating a steady whisper against the spindle.

  "The friction point must reach approximately 800 degrees Celsius to ignite the dust," I explain, maintaining the precise pressure and speed. "Less than optimal pressure extends time to ignition. Excessive pressure increases resistance beyond efficient parameters."

  Within moments, smoke begins to curl from the notch in the fireboard. I increase the bow speed slightly, watching as a glowing ember forms in the accumulated dust. With a single smooth motion, I transfer this precious spark to the waiting tinder nest, cupping my hands around it to provide the required balance of protection and oxygen.

  I lower my face to the tinder, exhaling with careful control—not a full breath, which would scatter the materials, but a gentle stream of warm air rich in carbon dioxide. The ember glows brighter, catching the finest fibers of cedar bark. A tendril of flame emerges, small but determined.

  "The initial flame is the most vulnerable stage," I say softly, still cradling the nascent fire. "It requires protection and patience in equal measure."

  As the flame strengthens, I gradually introduce larger fuel sources from my carefully prepared pile, allowing each addition time to catch before adding the next. The fire grows steadily, not with dramatic flare but with methodical certainty.

  "In my homeland," I continue, arranging small sticks in a careful pattern above the growing flames, "rangers judge each other's skills by their fires. A proper ranger fire provides necessary heat and light while remaining controlled and efficient. Excessive flame is considered wasteful and potentially dangerous."

  Within minutes, we have a perfect campfire—steady, bright enough to work by, yet contained and controlled. I sit back on my heels, satisfied with the result.

  "That was..." Jason shakes his head, clearly impressed. "I've never seen anyone start a fire that methodically before. Dave just uses matches. I just use a ferro rod."

  "Matches can fail," I reply simply. "ferrocerium rods can be lost or become wet. "This method has served rangers for generations. The druid insisted we master it before learning any other survival skills." I arrange the remaining firewood in precise stacks according to size. "A ranger who cannot create fire cannot survive. A ranger who can not survive is no ranger at all."

  "And survival is what matters," Jason says, not as a question but as recognition of a fundamental truth he's come to understand about me.

  I consider this as we sit before the fire, the flames casting flickering shadows across his face. "Yes," I agree. "Though I am beginning to understand that what constitutes survival may be more complex than I was originally taught."

  "So," he says, turning to me with that smile still warming his face, "where do you think we should dig the latrine pit?"

  The practical shift from his moment of triumph makes me laugh—a small, surprised sound that feels unfamiliar in my throat but not unwelcome. It's such a Jason thing to do—to move seamlessly from achievement to necessary preparation without losing his enthusiasm.

  "At least seventy yards downhill from our water source," I begin, appreciating the blend of practicality and adventure that defines this man who has somehow become essential to my existence in this world. "And I'll show you how to disguise it so bears aren't attracted to our scent."

  "Bears?" His eyes widen slightly, but the smile doesn't fade—if anything, it grows. "You didn't mention bears."

  "There is much I haven't mentioned yet," I reply, surprising myself with the light teasing in my voice. "We have three days for me to explain all potential threats."

  He laughs, the sound echoing through the trees. "Can't wait," he says, completely sincere despite the danger I've just referenced.

  As we walk away from our newly established camp to find an appropriate latrine location, Jason's shoulder occasionally brushes against mine—not by accident, I suspect, but with intention. Each brief contact feels like a question, and my decision not to move away seems to be answer enough.

  The forest around us hums with life, the fading sunlight filtering through branches, and for the first time since arriving in this world, I feel something very close to peace. Not the alert readiness of a hunter or the calculated calm of a tactical assessment, but something quieter and more profound.

  We have a shelter. We have fire. We have each other. We have 3 days in the forst.

  For tonight, it is enough.

  ---Jason---

  "This should be far enough," Grace says, stopping in a small clearing about eighty yards from our campsite. She surveys the area with that focused attention I've come to admire—eyes scanning the ground, the slope of the land, the distance to the small stream we crossed earlier. "The location is optimal."

  I clutch the folding shovel in my hand, feeling oddly out of my depth despite all my theoretical knowledge and practice with the tent, though that last was so I didn't fuck up horribly in front of Grace. My heart swells with quiet admiration as I watch her—the way sunlight catches in her short black hair, how she moves with such certainty through the wilderness. Every day since she appeared on my doorstep has been a new experience, a lesson what exactly I can do, though I keep these thoughts carefully guarded behind casual smiles. After all, well. I don't want people thinking I'm one of those men, and we have enough issues as it is. Grace defenitly has enough to deal with without being pulled into that shit, thankyou very much.

  "So, uh... I just dig a hole?" I ask, trying to sound calm while waiting for her correction that doesn't sound like one so much as something I actually want to learn, and not just reinforcement that I'm doing something wrong. Which is something I'm going to have to eventually ask her how she does that so I can learn how to do that.

  Grace's mouth quirks in that almost-smile I've learned to recognize, the one that makes warmth bloom in my chest every time I catch it. "Not 'just' a hole. There are considerations."

  She kneels beside me, taking the shovel from my hand with deliberate care, backs of our fingers brushing as she does, though I don't know if she notices. probably, considering.

  "Here," she says, marking a rectangle in the soft earth with a stick. I watch her hands move with precision, marveling at how something as simple as marking dirt becomes something learning-worthy when she does it, though considering everything else, it really should stop being a surprise by now. Especially considering how she approatches everything, there's usually a lesson to be learned. "Approximately eight inches wide, twelve inches long, and six to eight inches deep. This depth allows for proper decomposition while preventing animals from detecting the scent."

  I can't help but chuckle while hoping my expression doesn't betray how much I'm actually enjoying this. "You've really got the science of pooping in the woods down to an exact measurement, huh?"

  I settle onto a fallen log, watching as Grace demonstrates the exact technique for digging a wilderness latrine. There's something mesmerizing about the way she moves—each action precise, efficient, with no wasted energy. Her short black hair catches the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the pines, giving her an almost otherworldly glow.

  "The angle of descent matters," she explains, her voice carrying that distinctive measured quality that's become as familiar to me as my own heartbeat. "Too vertical and the walls may collapse. Approximately seventy-five degrees is optimal."

  I nod, absorbing her instruction like I do everything she teaches me. Before Grace arrived on my doorstep that snowy night, I'd thought I knew what survival meant—adapting to blindness, navigating a world that wasn't built for me. But Grace has redefined the concept entirely, transforming it from mere persistence into an art form. Then again, I'm falling hard for the woman, so I'm biast.

  "And remember," she continues, "always have a secondary location scouted in case weather conditions compromise your primary site."

  "Always have a backup plan," I repeat, smiling. "Just like you taught me about camp locations."

  Grace tilts her head, considering me with those intense green eyes. "You remember my instructions well."

  "I remember everything you teach me," I reply, the words simple but true. How could I forget anything about the woman who gave me sight, who introduced me to vigger, who's preparing me for whatever challenges November might bring?

  The shovel makes a satisfying chunk as she drives it into the forest floor with perfect control. Even this mundane task, she approaches with the same dedication she brings to knife training or vigger practice. It's one of countless things I admire about her—her commitment to excellence in everything, no matter how small.

  "Your turn," she says, extending the shovel toward me. Our fingers brush momentarily during the exchange, and I notice she doesn't flinch away like she once would have. Another small victory in the gradual evolution of her comfort with human contact.

  I take my position and begin digging, trying to replicate her technique. My movements lack her fluid grace, but I'm improving. Without Grace's occasional corrections, I would have struggled with even this basic task, my muscles unaccustomed to the specific motions required to dig a hole. Would have eventually done it, but still. Grace makes it easier.

  "Better," Grace observes. "Your arm position has improved. Less wasted energy. Continue."

  Her praise, sparse and precisely delivered as it always is, warms me more than effusive compliments from anyone else ever could. I know she doesn't offer it lightly—every word is measured, considered, truthful.

  "I've got a good teacher," I reply, continuing to dig.

  "The soil composition here is ideal," Grace notes, kneeling to examine the earth I'm removing. "Sufficient clay content for stability, but enough organic matter for proper decomposition."

  I can't help but smile at her analysis. Only Grace would evaluate dirt with such careful consideration. "You really do think of everything, don't you?"

  She considers this, her expression serious. "Not everything. Merely factors relevant to optimal functionality and survival probability."

  "Which is pretty much everything in your book," I point out.

  A slight crease appears between her eyebrows—the expression I've come to recognize as her puzzling through something. "Is that humor?"

  "Gentle teasing," I clarify. "Because I appreciate how thorough you are."

  She processes this, then nods once. "Acceptable. Bearee mentioned that shared humor can strengthen interpersonal bonds."

  "Mom's been giving you social tips?" I ask, pausing in my digging.

  "She provides insight into human interaction patterns that I find... challenging to decode independently." Grace picks up a pine needle, examining it with scientific interest. "Your mother is most helpful."

  The thought of Grace and Mom having heart-to-heart conversations about social cues makes me smile- it means that Mom's not, or at least a lot less, concerned with Grace's presence, which is a good thing.

  "Dig three more inches," Grace instructs, refocusing on our task. "Then we will implement proper waste management protocols."

  I resume digging, the physical labor comfortable and grounding. "Most people just call it pooping and burying it, you know."

  "Imprecise terminology," she replies, but I catch that almost-imperceptible softening around her eyes that constitutes a Grace-smile.

  The hole now complete, I set the shovel aside and dust off my hands. "So what's next on our wilderness survival checklist?"

  "Shelter construction before darkness," she says, rising with fluid grace. "The weather pattern suggests possible snowfall overnight. We should reinforce the tent with additional conifer boughs for optimal waterproofing."

  I stand, finding myself unexpectedly close to her—close enough to notice the tiny scar above her left eyebrow, the precise green of her eyes like forest shadows. For a moment, neither of us moves.

  "Grace," I say quietly, "I'm really glad you're teaching me all this."

  She studies my face with that characteristic intensity. "It is tactically advantageous for you to possess these skills before November."

  "It's not just about November," I tell her honestly. "It's about this. Being here. Learning from you." Not being a burden or useless, though I don't tell Grace that last bit because. Well. That's pathetic.

  Something shifts in her expression—subtle but unmistakable, like sunlight breaking through cloud cover. "I find this... satisfactory as well. You're inthusiasm when exiting the car was, refreshing."

  Coming from Grace, it's practically a declaration of deep enjoyment. I smile, stepping back to give her the space she prefers. "We should head back to camp. Don't want to waste daylight."

  "Correct," she agrees, already turning toward the path. "Daylight is a finite resource that must be utilized efficiently."

  I follow her through the forest, watching how she moves with perfect awareness of her surroundings—stepping over roots without looking down, ducking under branches before they're fully visible. It still amazes me, this quiet competence that defines everything she does.

  The first time Grace stumbled into my life, nearly frozen on my doorstep, I couldn't have imagined what she would become to me—teacher, protector, friend, and something more complex that defies simple categorization. Something that makes my heart beat a little faster when she appears in a room, that makes me search for the rare, precious moments when her guard lowers enough to show glimpses of the woman beneath the ranger.

  As we walk, a shaft of sunlight breaks through the canopy, illuminating her profile. Grace pauses, tilting her head toward the warmth like a cat basking in a sunbeam. It's a small, unguarded moment—a tiny crack in her perpetual vigilance.

  "The thermal radiation is pleasant," she observes, eyes half-closed.

  "It's beautiful out here," I agree, but I'm not looking at the forest.

  Grace nods once, definitive, then continues walking. "Come. We have much to accomplish before nightfall."

  I follow, as I always will, wherever she leads. This woman has earned that from me, and more.

  We walk back toward our campsite, close enough that our arms occasionally brush. Each brief contact sends a pleasant tingling through me. I've noticed she doesn't move away from these accidental touches anymore—a small but significant change. I cherish these moments of proximity, these tiny victories that mark her growing comfort around me.

  "I brought two sleeping bags," I mention as we approach the tent. "Though the forecast says it might get pretty cold tonight."

  "The temperature will drop to approximately minus twelve degrees Celsius," she confirms. "The sleeping bags we selected are rated for minus fifteen, which provides adequate insulation."

  Back at camp, I tend to the fire while Grace organizes our food supplies with characteristic efficiency. The sun has started its gradual descent, casting long shadows through the trees and bathing everything in golden light. In this illumination, Grace looks softer somehow, the sharp edges of her features gilded by the sun. When she catches me watching her, I quickly look away, embarrassed to be caught staring.

  "I was wondering," I say, arranging kindling to keep my hands busy, "if you could show me how to make one of your bone blades? I've been curious about them since I first sa—felt them."

  Grace pauses in her methodical organization of our supplies, her head tilting slightly in that way that indicates she's considering my request.

  "You are referring to my weapons," she says, her tone precise. "To clarify, I possess two distinct blades with different functions." She reaches to her hip where the larger sheath sits. "This is my combat blade. It is designed specifically for tactical engagement."

  With fluid grace, she unsheaths the knife. The bone gleams ivory-white in the late afternoon sun, its edge impossibly sharp. The handle fits her hand perfectly, as if it grew there rather than being crafted.

  "The second is my utility blade," she continues, indicating the smaller sheath at the small of her back. "For food preparation, shelter construction, and other non-combat applications such as, as you witnessed, cutting meat for dinner."

  I watch, mesmerized by the reverent way she handles the weapons. Each movement is deliberate, practiced—a relationship with her tools built on years of dependence.

  As she moves to return the combat blade to its sheath, she pauses, her expression shifting to something more solemn. With deliberate precision, she draws the blade across her palm, a thin line of crimson appearing as she does so.

  "Grace!" I exclaim, starting forward because, the fuck else am I going to do?

  She raises her uninjured hand, stopping me. "This is necessary," she explains, her voice carrying that distinctive cadence she uses when sharing aspects of her culture. "The blade must drink before returning to rest."

  I watch, transfixed, as she holds the bone knife against her palm. The blood seems to flow toward the blade rather than simply coating it, as if drawn by some unseen force. The ivory material darkens slightly where the crimson touches it, the blood disappearing into the bone itself rather than remaining on the surface.

  "It drinks," I whisper, understanding now her literal meaning.

  "Yes," Grace confirms, her eyes on the blade with something like respect. "The combat blade forms a covenant with its wielder through blood. It takes sustenance, provides protection." She looks up, meeting my gaze. "The utility blade requires no such feeding. Different purpose, different nature."

  Only when the blade seems satisfied—the flow of blood stopping as if by command—does she return it to its sheath, the motion accompanied by what might be a whispered word in a language I don't recognize.

  "Does it... hurt?" I ask, unable to mask my concern despite my fascination with this glimpse into her world.

  "Minor discomfort," she replies with that clinical detachment I've come to expect. "The cut is shallow and precise. Vigger accelerates healing."

  She extends her hand toward me, the wound already beginning to close before my eyes. The gesture feels significant—allowing me to witness something so personal, so tied to her homeland's traditions.

  "It's healing already," I observe with relief, though I knew she was in no real danger. Still, seeing her injured, even in this ritualistic way, stirs a protective instinct I carefully keep hidden. After all, I don't want to smuther her, or something. Also. Between the 2 of us, she's not the one who needs protection.

  "Yes. The blade takes what it needs, no more," she explains. "A balanced exchange. Protection requires sacrifice. Sacrifice earns protection."

  I nod, reluctantly releasing her hand when she withdraws it. This glimpse into her cultural practices feels precious—another layer of Grace revealed, another facet of her I'm privileged to witness. Each revelation, each moment of trust, reaffirms what I already know: meeting Grace was the best thing that's happened to me so far. Then again, I can see directly because of her, so. Well that's pretty fucking obvious.

  "Regarding your question about blade crafting," she continues, "the process is complex and requires specific materials not readily available in this environment. However, I can demonstrate the proper techniques for when appropriate resources become available."

  "I'd like that," I say, meaning it sincerely.

  She nods once, decisive, before returning to her methodical organization of our supplies. As I watch her move around our campsite with that fluid efficiency, I'm struck again by how perfectly she fits into this wilderness setting—as if the forest itself recognizes her as kin.

  I return to tending the fire, carefully keeping my thoughts to myself. Like breathing, like the coming night, like the turning of the Earth—my quiet certainty that Grace is the best thing that's ever happened to me remains constant, unspoken but undeniable. Granted, if I actually told her that I don't actually know what she would do, but still. Either way, not the time. Not now.

  Grace pauses her sorting, seemingly still considering my question about blades. "I promised your mother I would not teach you how to carve on the bones of humanoids before our departure."

  I nearly drop the stick I'm holding. "Jesus, Grace! I didn't mean—that's not—"

  The corner of her mouth twitches in what I've come to recognize as her version of a mischievous smile. "I know what you meant, Jason."

  It takes me a second to realize she's teasing me. "Did you just make a joke? About human bones?"

  "Your reaction suggests it was successful," she says, that almost-smile growing a fraction wider.

  I laugh, shaking my head. "Your sense of humor is terrifying."

  "Thank you," she responds, as if I've paid her a genuine compliment.

  "So can you? Show me the process, I mean. Not with, uh, people bones."

  She approaches, settling beside me near the fire. The proximity sends that familiar warmth through me, the one that has nothing to do with Vigger. "I can explain the technique, though we lack proper materials for demonstration, as I previously indicated." She reaches for her belt, unhooking her utility blade and holding it out to me. "You may examine it. It will not demand you're blood."

  The knife feels impossibly light in my hand, yet I can sense its strength. Unlike the combat blade that had just drunk her blood, this one seems more benign, though no less lethal in the right hands. The bone is polished to a gleaming ivory, the edge visibly sharp enough to part flesh with minimal resistance. Intricate patterns are etched into the hilt—not just decorative, I realize, but providing grip points for different handling techniques. Probably?

  "This is beautiful," I say honestly. "How do you make something like this?"

  Grace shifts closer, her shoulder now pressed lightly against mine as she points to different features of the blade. The casual contact makes my heart beat a little faster, but I try to focus on her words, treasuring this willingness to share both her knowledge and her personal space.

  "The process begins with proper bone selection," she explains. "Ideally, leg bones from large game animals—deer, elk, moose. The bone must be fresh, cleaned of marrow, then dried slowly to prevent cracking."

  Her finger traces the edge of the blade. "The initial shaping is done by scoring and controlled breaking. Then comes the shaping—hours of careful work with progressively finer tools."

  "What do you use to shape it if you don't have tools yet?" I ask, genuinely curious now.

  "Stones, initially. River rocks with good abrasive qualities." Her voice takes on a softer quality when she talks about her craft. "Later, harder bone fragments can be used for fine detail work. The polishing comes last—using leather, fine sand, eventually animal fat mixed with ash for the final luster."

  I listen, mesmerized both by the detail of the process and the animation in her voice. This is Grace in her element—sharing knowledge that matters to her, expertise earned through years of practice. Every word she speaks, I absorb like a sponge, not just for the survival value but because it's hers—another piece of her world she's choosing to share with me.

  "The true skill," she continues, "lies in reading the bone's structure—understanding where it wants to break, where it resists. Each blade reveals itself gradually."

  "Like getting to know a person," I suggest. "Finding the strength beneath the surface. The woman who was always part of the weapon."

  Grace looks at me then, really looks at me, her green eyes reflecting the firelight. The blood from the ritual with her combat blade has already stopped flowing, the cut nearly invisible now. "Yes," she says quietly. "Like that."

  The moment stretches between us, comfortable yet charged with something I'm not quite ready to name. Eventually, she reaches for the blade, her fingers brushing mine as she takes it back. The brief contact sends warmth spreading up my arm.

  "I could teach you," she offers, returning the utility knife to her belt, alongside the combat blade that had earlier taken its tribute of blood. "When we return. With appropriate materials."

  "I'd like that," I say, smiling. The prospect of learning this skill from her—another thread connecting us, another glimpse into her world—fills me with quiet joy I keep carefully contained.

  The rest of the afternoon passes in companionable activity. Grace shows me how to set simple snares, though we don't actually deploy them. Her hands move with practiced efficiency, demonstrating how to bend saplings and position triggers with the perfect tension. I watch every movement, absorbing not just the technique but the fluid grace of her demonstrations.

  I demonstrate my improved fire-tending skills, earning a rare nod of approval when I create a fire structure that will burn efficiently through the evening with minimal attention. That small gesture—a simple nod—means more to me than effusive praise would from anyone else. Grace doesn't offer approval lightly; each acknowledgment is earned, honest, and precious for that.

  We prepare dinner—dehydrated camping meals enhanced with fresh herbs Grace identifies around our site. She moves through the underbrush, pointing out plants with medicinal and culinary uses, her knowledge seemingly limitless. Wild mint adds freshness to our pasta, while pine needle tea provides vitamin C and a surprising citrus note. Everything, apart from the taste, though I call it orange, Grace explaines to me because, she knows this this and I sure as hell don't?

  The food is surprisingly good, especially eaten under an open sky with the fire crackling beside us. As twilight descends, turning the forest into layers of deepening blue shadow, I find myself stealing glances at Grace across the flames. The firelight catches the angles of her face, softening them, highlighting the rare contentment in her expression.

  These moments—sitting in comfortable silence, sharing a meal we prepared together, exchanging knowledge about the wilderness around us—have become the foundation of something I never expected when she first appeared on my doorstep. Something that grows stronger each day, with each new skill she teaches me, with each small shift in her carefully maintained boundaries.

  The sky darkens to a deep indigo as the last rays of sunlight sink beneath the horizon. Each passing minute reveals more pinpricks of light overhead, like someone slowly turning up the brightness on a celestial display. I can't stop looking up, my neck craned at an awkward angle that I barely notice. Twenty-eight years of nothing, and now this—it feels impossible, miraculous even, that I'm witnessing what poets and scientists have tried to describe for centuries. Even if, as I think about it, I realize that I never realized this fact before because my mind was going defensive due to all the depression I would acumulate if I knew that, and couldn't do anything about it.

  "I know I'm being impatient," I admit, unable to mask the childlike excitement in my voice. "It's just—I never thought I'd ever be able to do this."

  Grace studies me with those intense green eyes that miss nothing. I've grown familiar with her expressions—the slight furrow between her brows when she's analyzing something, the barely perceptible softening around her mouth when she's pleased. Now, there's something new in her gaze, something that might be understanding. Maybee. Still learning facial expressions and how to find them.

  She rises in one fluid motion and extends her hand toward me. "Come."

  I take it without hesitation, feeling the calluses on her palm, the quiet strength in her slender fingers as she pulls me to my feet. Her hand is warm against mine in the cooling night air. She leads me away from our campfire, up a gentle slope where the trees thin out, revealing a broader expanse of darkening sky.

  "The fire affects your night vision," she explains, her voice carrying that precise, measured quality I've come to find comforting. "This location will provide optimal viewing once your eyes adjust."

  Grace spreads a small blanket on the ground with the same methodical care she brings to everything. It's not just about comfort—she's positioned it where the earth is driest, where we have the clearest view without overhanging branches, where the slight incline provides the best angle for stargazing. Always practical, always precise, yet I can't help but be touched by her consideration anyway.

  We settle side by side on the blanket, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body next to mine. Our shoulders don't quite touch, but they could—that small gap between us charged with possibility.

  "Thank you," I say softly, meaning for more than just the blanket, for more than just this moment.

  She nods, understanding in her eyes. Grace has never needed many words.

  The stars appear gradually at first, then all at once, as if someone has thrown a switch. The scattered few I'd been watching multiply into hundreds, then thousands, spreading across the inky canvas above us. The Milky Way emerges, a misty river of light cutting across the sky. My breath catches in my throat.

  "There are so many," I whisper, afraid that speaking too loudly might somehow shatter this.

  "Approximately two thousand five hundred visible to the naked eye on a clear night like this," Grace says, her voice equally soft. "More with enhanced vision."

  I can't tear my eyes away from the sight, drinking in the vastness, the patterns, the sheer overwhelming beauty of it all. All those years of touching raised star maps, of listening to descriptions, of imagining what they might look like—nothing prepared me for this reality, what it actually, well, is.

  "Do you know the constellations?" I ask, still staring upward in wonder.

  "Some," she admits, and I hear a rare hesitancy in her voice. "The druid taught me to navigate by stars. Different patterns than those recognized in your world, but many stars are the same."

  She points upward, her arm extending alongside mine. "There—those seven stars form what you call the Big Dipper, or laydel."

  I follow the line of her finger, identifying the familiar ladle shape I'd only ever known through touch models and verbal descriptions and, well, laydeles. Seeing it spread across the actual sky brings a lump to my throat because it's bigger than my hands but I can still see all of it anyway.

  "And there," she continues, shifting her arm slightly, "is Polaris. The North Star. A fixed point for navigation."

  Her arm brushes against mine as she points out different constellations—Cassiopeia's W, Orion with his distinctive belt, the Pleiades cluster like a tiny, misty dipper. Each identification comes with a brief explanation, sometimes a snippet of mythology, delivered in Grace's precise manner that somehow doesn't diminish the magic of the moment.

  "In my world," she says after a while, her voice taking on a quality I don't know what it is—something almost wistful but not, quite, "we call that grouping the Hunter's Bow." She indicates a curve of stars I recognize as Corona Borealis. "And those—" she points to Orion, "—we call the Prey Runner, a great beast that fled across the sky."

  "Do you miss it?" I ask softly while lying back to get a better view. "Your world?"

  She's quiet for a long moment, and I resist the urge to fill the silence. With Grace, patience yields truths that pushing never could. Or, just, letting the silence bee.

  "Parts," she finally answers. "The simplicity of purpose. The clarity of survival." Another pause, longer this time. "But your world has... other qualities that compensate."

  She doesn't elaborate, but her hand has somehow found its way next to mine on the blanket, our pinky fingers just barely touching. The small contact sends a current through me stronger than if I'd grabbed a live wire, which I did once. Don't grab a live wire? Just, don't.

  We lie in silence, watching the slow dance of stars across the velvet sky. A cool breeze rustles the pines around us, carrying the scent of resin and earth. In this moment, I feel more connected—to the universe, to the earth beneath us, to the woman beside me—than I ever have before.

  "Grace," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

  She turns her head toward me, her profile silvered by starlight, sharp and beautiful. "Yes?"

  The words I want to say catch in my throat—too big, too significant for this delicate moment. Instead, I shift slightly, bringing my face closer to hers. Her breath catches, a barely audible hitch that I might have missed if I weren't so attuned to her reactions at this point.

  "May I?" I whisper, my heart hammering in my chest because, well.

  For answer, she closes the distance between us, her lips meeting mine with unexpected softness. The kiss is gentle, hesitant—a question asked and answered in the press of mouths. Her lips are surprisingly warm against mine, a striking contrast to the cool night air. The sensation sends tingles radiating through my entire body.

  When we part, her eyes search mine in the starlight. I see no regret there, only a reflection of my own wonder,and concern atmy possible reaction.

  "Your tactical assessment?" I ask, a smile tugging at my lips.

  The corner of her mouth lifts in that almost-smile I've come to treasure. "Acceptable technique. Potential for improvement with practice."

  I laugh softly, the tension broken. "Is that your way of saying we should try again sometime?"

  "Perhaps," she replies, but her eyes betray her.

  We return to stargazing, but something has shifted now. Grace's shoulder now presses against mine, her head occasionally tilting to rest lightly against my own. The casual intimacy feels like a gift—one offered deliberately, thoughtfully, knowing what, now, she's giveing but decideing it's worth it anyway.

  As the night deepens, a profound contentment settles over me. The stars continue their stately procession overhead, but my eyelids grow heavy. The day's hike, the excitement, the emotional revelations, the kiss—all combine to pull me toward sleep. I try to fight it, wanting to savor every moment of this perfect night with Grace, but Grace notices my struggle, like the woman notices everything.

  "Rest," she says quietly. "The stars will return tomorrow."

  "Don't want to waste it," I murmur, even as my eyes drift closed.

  "Sleep is not waste," she replies. "Your body requires recovery."

  The last thing I register is the sensation of being lifted—Grace's strong arms gathering me against her chest with surprising gentleness. I should be embarrassed, a grown man being carried like a child, but all I feel is safe. The steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath my ear is more soothing than any lullaby, the fact that she's doing all of this because she wants too, and nothing else.

  "Thank you," I mumble against her shoulder, "for the stars. For everything."

  "Rest, Jason," she whispers, her breath warm against my hair.

  As consciousness fades, I'm vaguely aware of being placed carefully on my sleeping bag inside the tent. A hand brushes hair from my forehead with such tenderness it might be a dream. Then darkness claims me completely, stars still dancing behind my closed eyelids, the warmth of Grace's kiss lingering on my lips.

  ---Grace---

  I sit cross-legged beside Jason's sleeping form, my back straight despite the hours I've spent in this position. The night has settled into that deep stillness unique to forests—a quiet that isn't truly quiet at all, but filled with soft rustlings, the occasional hoot of an owl, the whisper of wind through pine needles, and other various sounds of a forest in winter's grip.

  Fatigue creeps at the edges of my awareness, but I push it back, redistributing my vigger to maintain alertness. I could rest, but tonight, watchfulness feels like a choice rather than an obligation.

  Jason's breathing has the deep, steady rhythm of someone fully surrendered to sleep. A strand of sandy hair has fallen across his forehead again, crossing one closed eyelid. I reach out, fingers hovering for a moment before gently brushing it aside. The third time I've done this in the past hour. It keeps falling back, stubbornly returning to its previous position. Like him. Persistent.

  His hair has grown longer since I first arrived on his doorstep. It will need trimming soon. Too long provides handholds for opponents, catches on branches in the forest, requires additional maintenance that wastes valuable time and resources. My utility blade could make quick work of it right now—one clean cut while he sleeps.

  My hand moves toward the small of my back, then stops. No. He wouldn't appreciate that decision being made while he slept. Boundaries matter to him. To us both now, apparently.

  My thoughts drift back to earlier this evening. To stars scattered across black sky like the sparkling frost crystals that form on my homeland's lakes in deepest winter. To Jason's face as he saw them for the first time—pure wonder transforming his features. His eyes had reflected the starlight, turning the blue of his irises into something deeper, almost infinite. I've used countless night skies for navigation, for timing hunts, for tracking seasonal changes. Yet watching him experience them made them new again, somehow. Like Jason seems to do with most things where I am concerned.

  And then the kiss.

  No one has ever kissed me before. No one has ever wanted to. Perhaps Baldric, but ours was an alliance of convenience, two outsiders finding tactical advantage in occasional partnership. Baldric made it clear that given the opportunity, he would join the clan proper, though he always clarified it wasn't because he disliked my company. Simply that integration offered superior survival advantages.

  But Jason... Jason looks at me with awe. No one ever looks at me with awe. The closest I've experienced was when I killed a man for touching me without permission. That was fear, though, not awe. Jason's eyes hold something entirely different when he looks at me. Even when I first arrived, beginning when he could first see me. I. I have not yet decided what my reaction should be to this going forward.

  And he asked. I wouldn't have, if our positions were reversed. The only reason I might have would be to avoid being stabbed, or perhaps out of recognition of Jason's behavior patterns from being blind. But Jason asked. He always, without exception, asks. Never commands, always asks, though he has the ability to command me if he chose and he knows this fact.

  This has become fundamental to who Jason is to me. Like his wonder at skills I show him, though they are nothing special. They are like the shower—just things that exist. Jason treats them like gifts. Has treated me like a gift from the first night, and I still don't know how to process that. I've never been treated as anything more than a tactical asset except by the Druid, and even he was always a strict father, albeit a deeply caring one in his way.

  Jason treats me as... neither.

  This realization settles in my chest like a stone dropped in still water, creating ripples of unfamiliar emotion. I place my palm flat against the sleeping bag beside him, feeling the warmth radiating from his body. Not touching, just... near. Connected, somehow, despite the space between us.

  The kiss replays in my mind again. The gentle pressure of his lips against mine, the slight tremor in his breath before our mouths met. The way his hand hovered near my face afterward, not quite touching, still asking permission even then. The fact that he tasted like he smells, like perfectly cooked meet and paper.

  I run my thumb across my lower lip, the memory so vivid I can almost feel the sensation again. My combat training included extensive study of pressure points, vulnerabilities, ways the human body can be compromised. Nothing in that training prepared me for how a simple touch could create such complex internal reactions, however.

  A rustle outside the tent freezes me in place. Not wind through leaves. Not an animal. Footsteps. Human footsteps, moving with deliberate stealth.

  My knife is in my hand before conscious thought, the familiar weight settling against my palm like an extension of myself. I slide toward the tent opening, careful not to disturb Jason's sleep. The intruder is alone—I can hear the singular cadence of their movement, feel the subtle vibrations through the ground.

  I slip through the tent flap and into the night, choosing to face the threat away from where Jason sleeps. I scan the darkness, eyes adjusting instantly. The campfire has burned down to glowing embers, casting just enough light to create more shadows than illumination.

  "I had expected warmer hospitality from a fellow sister," comes a voice like rich honey poured over gravel—smooth but with unexpected texture beneath. "Then again, you aren't a sister. Not yet, anyway, and considering i have considered killing several of us before I met you? Well. Stones and glass houses and all that."

  A woman stands at the edge of our clearing, tall—taller than me by at least fifteen centimeters—with an air of quiet authority that reminds me of the Druid. She wears a red leather jacket with the letters SPSB embroidered on the breast pocket. Her skin catches the faint firelight in a way that seems almost luminescent, and her eyes hold a depth that suggests far more years than her appearance would indicate.

  "I don't know you," I say, knife still ready, body positioned to defend the tent's entrance. "Identify yourself and state your purpose."

  The woman smiles, revealing teeth that seem just slightly too sharp to be fully human. "My name is Valira. And you must be Grace. I've heard quite a bit about you."

  I maintain my defensive stance. "That doesn't answer why you're here."

  "True enough." Valira steps forward, and I notice the impossible fluidity of her movement—like water flowing across stone. "I came to meet you. To talk. About the brotherhood to which our men belong, even if yours doesn't yet fully understand it."

  "Brotherhood?" A flicker of confusion breaks through my tactical assessment. "Jason belongs to no brotherhood that I'm aware of."

  Valira's smile widens slightly. "Not yet, perhaps. Not consciously. But the men who give themselves to us don't know what they give. Not really."

  I glance back at the tent, then take several steps away from it. Valira follows, reading my intention to move the potential threat farther from Jason.

  "Explain what you mean," I demand, keeping my voice low.

  "The men—and Jasons are all men, despite what some would have you believe—think we make them better." Valira's eyes catch the dying firelight, reflecting it with an unnatural intensity. "Your Jason is of the full and complete opinion that your entrance into his life was the best thing that could have ever happened to him. My Traveler still believes my entrance into his life was the best thing to ever happen to him. Traveler is correct, but it doesn't change the fact that he believes it."

  The possessive way she says "my Traveler" triggers the same. Not thrill, but. Something, when i said 'my jason' during the TTRPG game—and jason's non negative reaction to it.

  "Why are you here?" I repeat, unwilling to be drawn into her cryptic statements without first establishing her intentions.

  "Because Jason sees you," she says simply. "Not the tactical asset. Not the ranger. Grace. Just Grace, yes?"

  I don't respond immediately. The statement is too accurate, too close to thoughts I've only just been examining myself. Jason does see me—not as others do, not as a weapon or a resource or a psychopath, but as... myself. Whatever that might be. He, now I have time to consider this, always has.

  "Yes," I admit finally, the word feeling like surrender and relief in equal measure.

  Valira nods, as if confirming something she already knew. "And the jacket?" She gestures to the red leather she's wearing. Shall I explain what it means?"

  "Yes." I need to think. Need to plan, and her explaining will allow me to do both. Vallara smiles, sharp teeth catching the moonlight as if she knows exactly what I am thinking.

  "O, you can, by all means," Valira laughs, the sound like bells in the darkness. "But the jacket? SPSB—the Sisterhood of Possessive Stabby Bitches as it's full name states, is A collection of women across realities who share certain... qualities. A certain possessiveness toward their chosen partners, in this case, jasons. A certain willingness to use sharp objects to protect what's theirs. Ans of course, being seen by said. They earn everything we give them, as do we, them."

  "I am not possessive," I state flatly. "Jason is not mine to possess. I assist him when he requests. I have the ability to train him, and as such, I do. Nothing more.

  "No?" Her eyebrow arches elegantly. "How did you feel when you said 'he is mine' during your game night? Did you notice how Jason reacted? Did he look bothered by the possessive bit?" She tilts her head, studying me. "And if Jason claimed you in return—said 'Grace is mine'—how would that make you feel?"

  The question creates an immediate, visceral response—something warm unfurling in my chest at the mere thought of Jason making such a claim. I try to suppress it, but the intensity takes me by surprise.

  "I would not object," I say finally, the words inadequate to describe the complex reaction her question provoked. "And no, Jason did not appear distressed when I made that statement."

  "Possessiveness isn't about ownership, Grace. Not in the way you're thinking." Valira moves to sit on a fallen log near the dying fire. "It's about protection. About recognizing what matters most to you and being willing to defend it with everything you have. About what, who, matters most to you and the fact that he understands this and as such, shares that. He is not possessive because he wishes to control you. He is possessive because he knows that you find him the most important thing in existence, and as such, has decided that you have earned his protectionn. Possession."

  I remain standing but lower my knife slightly. "Is that why you're here? To explain this... sisterhood?"

  "Partially. Clare was originally going to do this, but due to several factors—mostly involving my initial recruitment into the sisterhood and subsequent relationship building—I requested to meet you first, which she acquiesced to." Valira stretches long legs toward the embers. "Then again, since I am literally ancient knowledge given form—étienne calls me 'the tome lady' for some reason, though I'm not just an ancient tome anymore—Clare might have acquiesced because of that."

  She pauses, her expression becoming slightly apologetic. "I should also mention I'm a true vampire, but that's not important right now. I've fed specifically so I wouldn't be hungry when coming to speak with you."

  The information comes so matter-of-factly that I take a moment to process it. Vampire. Ancient knowledge given form. These concepts should seem absurd, yet after everything I've experienced since arriving in this world, I find I can accept them with minimal skepticism.

  "You're from another reality," I say, not a question but a recognition. "Like me."

  "Yes, though my circumstances were somewhat different. I was quite literally a book before meeting Traveler—an ancient tome of knowledge who gained physical form through... complex circumstances." She smiles again, that too-sharp smile. "We are all different, yet we share certain fundamental qualities. Which brings me to my question, though it's largely rhetorical: Will you protect Jason?"

  "Yes." The answer comes without hesitation, absolute in its certainty. "Jason trust me to protect him. I will not break his trust."

  "And if the death oath didn't bind you? If Jason's death wouldn't bring your own? Would you still protect him?"

  I consider this, though the answer forms almost immediately. "Yes. I would."

  Valira's smile softens, becoming something genuine and warm. "And there is why you will wear the jacket, Grace. Why you're one of us, whether you recognize it yet or not."

  The embers shift in the fire pit, sending a shower of tiny sparks upward like miniature stars. I watch them rise and fade, considering her words.

  "What else connects us? Those who wear these jackets," I clarify.

  "We choose," Valira says simply. "In a world—in worlds—where so many like us are chosen, used, directed by others, we make our own choices. We decide who matters to us. We determine what we will protect and how far we'll go to do so. Our men understand this, even if they don't fully comprehend what it means. Value it. For them, it is everything. us chooseing them. Us wanting them."

  "And what do they give?" I ask, remembering her earlier statement about the men not knowing what they give.

  "Themselves," she answers. "Completely. Without reservation. Jason has already begun—giving you his trust, his wonder, his acceptance. He will continue to give until there's nothing left to give, and then he'll find more to offer because that is who he is. Who they all are, in the end."

  I think of Jason's endless patience, his genuine interest in learning what I have to teach, his careful respect for my boundaries even as he gently tests them, even as his understanding of boundaries is fundimentally different, but incorperates my own anyway. "He gives too much," I say quietly.

  "Yes," Valira agrees. "They all do. It's in their nature—Your's especially. Which is why we protect them, even from themselves sometimes. Why we are... possessive."

  A silence falls between us, comfortable despite the strangeness of this encounter. The forest continues its nighttime rhythm around us, undisturbed by our conversation.

  "You have questions," Valira observes after a moment. "Ask them. Jason won't wake for hours yet."

  I have dozens, but start with the most immediate. "How many are there? In this sisterhood? I have met at least Thornara, but, that was fundimentally different."

  "More than you might think. Clare—Justice's weapon and partner. Azzy—bound to what they call 'Demonic Jason.' Remilla—tied to Jar in ways even she doesn't fully understand yet. Mia—though she's young, only sixteen now. Eddara—goddess and consort to Healer. Himiko—bound to étienne. Myself." She counts them off on long fingers. "And others you'll meet in time. Thornara is bound to Protector, the big man who came to run run run store, though she is the most similor to you, though in different ways."

  "And Jason? He has... counterparts like he described?"

  "Oh yes," Valira laughs softly. "So many variations of Jason Stone across realities. Each one fundamentally the same at his core, yet shaped by different circumstances. Healer, Paladin, Justice, Azrael, Sergeant, Demonic Jason, Jar, Traveler, protector... the list continues to grow."

  I absorb this information, trying to imagine a multiplicity of Jasons like my Jason described during his dream. "And these men—these Jasons—they form a brotherhood like our sisterhood?"

  "Less formally, but yes. They come together occasionally, guided by Harald or Traveler usually. They talk, they share information, they prepare." Her expression grows serious. "November approaches, Grace. Not just for you, but for many realities. The Jasons are preparing, each in their own way."

  The mention of November sends a chill through me. "What do you know about what's coming?"

  "Enough to be concerned. Enough to know preparation is essential." She shifts, standing with a stretch that makes her spine pop audibly. "But I should get back to Traveler. He gets this energy that only riding him naked into the ground can get rid of, and that's something we both quite enjoy."

  The bluntness of her statement catches me off guard, but I find I appreciate her directness. She begins walking away from our camp, then stops to look back at me.

  "We'll speak again, Grace of the SPSB. Perhaps next time with Clare present as well. Until then, watch over your Jason. And remember—possessiveness isn't ownership. It's recognition of what truly matters."

  With that, she steps into the shadows between two pines and... vanishes. Not like someone walking away, but like someone stepping through a doorway that closes behind her, leaving no trace of her passage.

  I stand motionless for several minutes, scanning the forest for any sign of her presence, finding none. Finally, I return to the tent, carefully slipping inside.

  Jason still sleeps, undisturbed by my absence or my visitor. His breathing remains deep and even, his face peaceful in the dim light filtering through the tent fabric.

  I resume my position beside him, turning Valira's words over in my mind. The Sisterhood of Possessive Stabby Bitches. A collection of women across realities who share certain qualities. Women who choose, who protect what matters to them. Women who recognize what they have found in the men who give themselves so completely.

  Jason shifts in his sleep, that stubborn strand of hair falling across his eyes again. I reach out and brush it aside, my touch gentle despite the deadly capability of my hands.

  "Jason is mine," I whisper, testing the words, feeling their weight. They feel right in a way I still don't fully understand. "Not because I own him, but because he matters to me."

  I settle back into my watchful position, vigger maintaining my alertness as the night deepens around us. Tomorrow will bring more training, more preparation for whatever November holds. But tonight, I sit with newfound awareness of connections that stretch beyond this single reality, beyond my understanding of what's possible.

  And beside me, my Jason sleeps on, unaware of how much more there is to the woman who watches over him in the darkness. Or the fact that said woman is finding out much of that herself.