---Kavuks---

  # the watch continues

  The storm screams across the landscape like it's beeing ridden by a particularly cuntish stormrider, wind screaming through trees that bend and crack under its fury. I watch from inside Durge's shadow—courtesy of the man himself—as Jason and Grace sleep in their blankets, bodies curled together against the cold. The cabin groans around them, wood protesting every gust, but holding, the chinking between the logs keeping out the killing chill.

  Reminds me of home, actually. My homeworld, Or, gets storms like this, though the similarity ends there. Back home storms bring ice worms—big things that tunnel up through frozen ground and freeze you solid before anyone realizes what's happening. Had a kid I knew before, lose half his leg to one once. We got him to medical but the limb shattered when the medic tried to touch it, just crumbled like ash. Dad crushed his skull soon thereafter. 1-legged boys can't be of use, and those who can't be of use die. Better a death with clan then without. I would know. Which, in the end, is why I'm here.

  This storm's just wind and snow and cold, though. Cold enough to kill, minus 12 degrees without the wind and snow, but.

  Mia lies in her blanket maybe fifteen feet away, wrapped in another pocket of shadow, though this one is hers, not Durge's or mine. Her breathing's even but I can see the tension in her shoulders even in sleep. The girl doesn't fully relax, ever. I've been watching her for weeks now and she sleeps like someone expecting an attack. Smart, given her history, but exhausting to maintain. I would know. It's why she kicked me in the head when the nightmares got too heavy when I was first assigned to Tyran Stone. Will? Fuck, time-travel is annoying and fucks with tenses.

  I shift my weight, feeling the familiar press of my cloak against my body—Dr. Thornwick's transformed skin, Hebrew characters carved into the pale leather by I suspect Traveler. The temperature inside the shadow's different from outside. Durge's magic does something to the air itself, makes it stable, controlled. Outside the cabin, now rapped in shadows, the storm rages. Inside it's maybe ten degrees. Comfortable enough that I'm not burning energy just staying warm. Comfortible enough that Jason and Grace will start sweating shortly.

  "Are you going to teach Mia how to take pain?"

  I direct the question at Paladin, who stands to my right. The man—variant, not descendant, Jason's equal not his offspring—radiates a faint luminescence even in the darkness. Not enough to see by normal standards but my hollow black eyes pick it up. He glows like embers in a dying fire, and smells, to me, like bakeing bread, meat, and honest sweat.

  Paladin doesn't answer immediately. His attention stays fixed on the sleeping forms of Jason and Grace, watching them with an intensity that makes me wonder what exactly he sees when he looks at this variant. He's been in the man's mind, or how ever takeing pain works, after all. The storm howls louder, rattling the cabin walls as iff it has opinions about this too. Which, hell, it might.

  The shadow around us flexes slightly and I feel the pressure change before I see Tyko shimmer into view. Durge opens a portion of the shadow—I can't see exactly how he does it, the manipulation's too subtle—and Tyko steps through.

  Full Praetorian armor, seven feet tall, eight hundred pounds of quantum-steel and enhanced biology. No helmet. The Blenderson himself, First Blade of House Astrid, Deathblade, the sword and not the unit strapped across his back—six feet of quantum-steel greatsword with a Warhound assault cannon integrated along the thick spine. The man moves like violence barely contained, each step deliberate and measured. Destroyer-grade augmentation makes him broader through the shoulders than any normal human, and he carries himself like someone who's forgotten what it means to be surprised. Still would lose against Protector, though the 2 men are surprisingly good friends.

  Tyko's eyes sweep the shadow, cataloging each of us in maybe two seconds before his gaze settles on Mia's sleeping form.

  "If," he says, jerking his chin toward Mia, "she doesn't get training from you," the chin jerks toward Paladin now, "and if she thinks it's important enough, she'll find someone who will teach her if you refuse."

  He grimaces then and I watch his hand come up to stroke the pommel of the greatsword across his back. The gesture looks unconscious, probably automatic. The armor and blade talk to him—not rumors, fact. Female voice in his head, warm and tactical, offering suggestions that saved his life multiple times. He's never told anyone official about it but the armor's never steered him wrong.

  "There are those who would enjoy that," Tyko finishes, and his expression darkens, large hand gripping the palmel of his sword.

  The temperature in the shadow doesn't drop physically—Durge's control is too precise for that—but the emotional weight shifts. I feel it in my chest, a cold flare of anger that boils up from somewhere deep and primal, a place I thought the first tripped out of me alongwith everything else. Mostly nightmares and screaming, but. Still.

  Tyran's influence. Not this variant but Traveler's Tyran. My candle in the darkness, my humanity willingly given, knowingly chosen. I'm still not quite sure why Traveler's Tyran chose it, chose to be the light that keeps me human when everything else about being deathborn tries to strip that away. But he did. That choice matters more than the reasons behind it.

  The fury they'd feel—both Tyrans, the one bound to me and the one walking around in this timeline—at the thought of someone hurting a child to teach them pain. It settles in my bones like ice and I have to consciously work to keep my breathing steady, to keep my fingers from reaching for the hammer at my belt, the pouch of nails directly next to it.

  Paladin shifts his weight and the faint glow around him intensifies slightly. When he speaks his voice carries the kind of careful control that comes from someone actively managing their own rage, though his is hot instead of cold.

  "I do not hurt children."

  Each word drops like a stone. Flat. Cold. Unyeelding.

  "Mia is a child. Showing her how to take pain—and I will not just show her how to force it without knowing how to take it, hell, I'm not even sure if I can even if I wanted to—would necessitate hurting the girl."

  I watch Jason and Grace as Paladin speaks. They're still sleeping, Grace's head tucked against Jason's shoulder, his arm around her waist. They look peaceful, young. Inocent, though both are adults. The storm continues its assault on the cabin but inside their little bubble of blankets they're untouched. Grace's training, and Jason's... Jason-ness? What ever that indefineable thing that Jason's just seem to have.

  "Mia is not a child."

  The words come out of my mouth before I fully decide to speak them. Three heads turn toward me and I feel the weight of their attention like a physical thing.

  I push forward anyway because Tyran's light burns steady in my chest, reminding me that truth matters even when it hurts. Because the silver-eyed girl with the glave had taught me better while I was trying to drink her soul after she woke me from nightmares of the needle and not being able to resist it.

  "Not innocent, despite the fact that I wish she was." My throat feels tight as I continue. "I altered her memories—Mia's memories—of killing the people, the other children, so she can know what it is to take a life without actually taking a life."

  The admission hangs in the air between us. I can feel Durge's attention sharpening though he already knew this, Paladin somehow understanding that I wouldn't do it without good reason, Tyko's hand tightening on his sword pommel though to his credit he trusts the other 2 men enough to know they have a reason for their non-reactions.

  "But Mia is not a child. As in, I can never return her to being a child without destroying what, who, she is."

  Tyko grunts, low sound of acknowledgment and understanding rolled together. He nods once, sharp and decisive. The movement makes his armor shift slightly, quantum-steel whispering against itself.

  The shadow shifts around us as Durge moves. I can't see him properly—he's part of the shadow itself when he wants to be, which is most of the time—but I feel his presence consolidate into something more solid.

  "For me," Durge's voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, "this is Mia's choice. Can, in the end, only be Mia's choice."

  A pause. The storm outside reaches a crescendo, wind shrieking like something dying from a gut-wound without clan or kin to make it quick.

  "However, I cannot train her in this."

  Paladin turns toward where Durge's voice originated. The glowing man's expression shifts through several emotions I can't quite read before settling on something that might be resignation mixed with determination.

  "Watch," Paladin says, and the word carries weight like a physical thing. "Teach Mia the justice that I, as a Paladin, cannot."

  The request fills the shadow-space with pressure. I can feel it pressing against my skin, the way the darkness seems to lean in, attentive. Durge doesn't answer immediately. Five seconds pass. Ten. The cabin groans under another gust, wood protesting the wind's assault.

  Then Durge nods.

  It's barely visible, just a denser patch of shadow shifting, but Paladin catches it. He nods back, the gesture formal, almost ceremonial. Two men who are the same man acknowledging a compact that will shape a child's future.

  Tyko straightens slightly and I watch his jaw work as he considers something. The hand on his sword pommel moves again, that same unconscious stroking gesture, seeking comfort or reassurance from the weapon that's more partner than tool.

  "I would ask to assist," he says, voice rough. "Not in the training, but—"

  Paladin cuts him off with a nod.

  "I could probably train you if you wish," Paladin says, and his tone shifts into something more instructive. "Durge can't learn it because he, due to circumstances that I will not go into, cannot take others' pain. Mia will have to learn to take pain before she can give it."

  He pauses and I watch his gaze return to Mia's sleeping form, studying the seven-year-old girl who's already been through more than most adults endure in a lifetime.

  "I'm not sure whether or not Mia can take pain. Not that she doesn't have the ability to, but because, well—"

  "We'll start now, then?"

  The voice comes from behind Paladin.

  I spin, hand going to the shortsword Traveler forged for me at my belt on pure instinct, Tyran's light flaring bright in my chest as combat protocols activate. Mia stands there fully awake, fully dressed, a knife already in motion toward Paladin's arm.

  The blade punches through his bicep with a wet sound that echoes in the shadow-space. Blood wells around the steel, dark and viscous in the dim light, running down his arm in rivulets that catch the faint glow he emits.

  Paladin looks down at the knife sticking out of his arm. His expression doesn't change—no pain, no surprise, nothing. Just calm assessment. He reaches up with his free hand, grips the handle, and pulls.

  The blade slides free with another wet sound. More blood follows it, painting his skin in dark streams. He examines the knife, turning it over in his hand like he's inspecting a piece of art, studying the craftsmanship.

  "Lucerna gets this," he says. "She likes eating things that hurt me. Likes setting people who hurt me on fire."

  The knife vanishes in a flash of light bright enough to make me blink despite my hollow eyes. When my vision adjusts the wound in Paladin's arm is already healing, flesh knitting together with visible speed. In ten seconds there's nothing left but blood on his skin, the injury erased like it never existed. Then the blood vanishes too, so within 20 seconds there's no evidence of anything haveing happened at all.

  "How much did you hear?" Paladin asks, stretching, his back giveing several loud popping sounds.

  Mia doesn't blink, doesn't flinch. Those dark brown eyes, almost black, holding depths that seem to absorb light. "Everything."

  Paladin's shoulders drop slightly and I recognize the gesture—someone accepting an inevitable burden, a weight they don't want but will carry anyway because it's necessary.

  "I don't like this," he says and his voice carries a heaviness it didn't have before, the weight of choices that will change a child forever. "Not because I don't think you're right. I, personally, as someone who's looked into this Jason's mind, don't believe that he would, or could, leave a child."

  He pauses and the weight of what comes next fills the space between them, pressing down on all of us.

  "But you were left."

  "I'm not a child."

  Paladin moves faster than I can track despite my own enhanced reflexes. One moment he's standing separate from Mia, the next his arms are around her, pulling her into a hug that envelops her small frame. The girl stiffens, every muscle in her compact body going rigid, combat instincts screaming at her to fight, to escape, to protect herself.

  Then slowly, so slowly I can count the heartbeats, she relaxes. Five seconds. Ten. Her small hands come up to grip his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like she's anchoring herself to something solid. Or, perhaps, she's a child who just wants to be held, close and warm and safe, even if for only a few moments.

  I see the flash of steel before the knife appears against Paladin's throat. Mia had it hidden somewhere, secreated away in a shadow pocket I'd been teaching her. The blade rests against his jugular, sharp edge dimpling the skin, one quick slash away from opening his throat. Weather or not that would actually do anything I don't know, but the point remains.

  Paladin doesn't react. Doesn't tense, doesn't pull away, doesn't even acknowledge the weapon threatening his life.

  "You're not going to push the knife," he says, voice calm as still water. "I know that. You know that. The knife knows that."

  His arms tighten around her, gentle but secure, protective without being constraining.

  I watch Mia's face work through several expressions—anger at being held, frustration at being seen through, something that might be grief for the childhood she'll never get back—before settling on a kind of exhausted acceptance. The knife disappears with no flash of light this time, just there one moment and gone the next, slipping back into whatever shadow-pocket she stores her weapons.

  Paladin ruffles her hair, the gesture so at odds with everything else about him that I almost laugh. His hand lingers there for a moment, fingers gentle on her dark, tangled strands, before he steps back.

  "Training will start after everyone goes home," he says, and it's both promise and warning. "Also—you want Jason to see you? Talk to him. Interact with him, and not just through the TTRPG game."

  Mia's expression closes down instantly, walls slamming into place behind her eyes like blast doors sealing. The seven-year-old who was just accepting comfort vanishes, replaced by the tactical mind that's kept her alive this long. But she nods, the sharp movement that acknowledges the order even if she doesn't like it.

  Paladin nods back then steps away. His form begins to glow brighter, the light building in intensity until I have to look away despite my hollow eyes being designed to handle extreme visual input. When I glance back he's gone, transformed into a beam of light that shoots upward through the shadow and vanishes into the storm above.

  Tyko shimmers. It's the only word for it—his outline blurs and fragments, seven feet of armored warrior breaking apart into nothing, quantum-steel and enhanced flesh dispersing into motes of light that fade into darkness. Then he's gone too, leaving only the faint scent of ozone and the whisper of displaced air.

  The shadow-space feels emptier with them gone, quieter. I shift my weight, feeling the press of my cloak against my shoulders, Dr. Thornwick's transformed consciousness wrapped around me like a protective second skin. The Hebrew characters carved into the pale leather seem to pulse against my back, reminding me of their presence.

  Durge's presence consolidates again, shadow taking on a more solid form near Mia. I can almost see his outline now, tall and lean and patient, mathematical certainty given humanoid shape.

  "Have you been enjoying the TTRPG game?"

  The question catches me off guard. It's so normal, so casual, after everything that just happened—after knives and blood and commitments to train a child in supernatural pain manipulation. But that's Durge. The man—being—whatever he is—has a way of cutting through tension with simple directness.

  Mia considers the question and I watch her face as she thinks, seeing the calculation behind her eyes. She's weighing how much to reveal, how honest to be, what might be safe to admit. The silence stretches maybe twenty seconds before she speaks.

  "Yes."

  Another pause. The storm outside has diminished slightly, wind dropping from a scream to a howl, snow hammering the cabin walls in steady rhythm.

  "I didn't think I would. I thought it would just be a stupid waste of time. But..."

  She trails off, looking down at her hands. I follow her gaze and notice for the first time that her knuckles are scarred, old wounds healed wrong. The kind you get from hitting things repeatedly, from fighting when you're too small to fight properly but doing it anyway because the alternative is worse.

  "I'm enjoying myself," she continues, and there's something almost vulnerable in her voice, like she's admitting to a weakness. "Playing as a retainer, just, being someone different, deciding who I want to be."

  Durge nods, the shadow-form shifting in a way that suggests approval, perhaps even pride.

  "I am happy that you did not attempt to play a deathblade or a justicar."

  Mia's head comes up sharply and I catch a flash of something in her eyes—consideration, maybe calculation, definitely awareness that she's being evaluated. She's thinking about why she didn't choose those options, why Durge is glad she avoided them. Good.

  "Ocien was cold," she says after a moment, and her hand comes up to her chest unconsciously, fingers pressing against her sternum. "Not something I wanted to be."

  Durge nods again, deeper this time, more satisfied.

  I watch Mia's mouth open, close, then open again. She's gathering courage for something, working up to a confession or admission that costs her to make.

  "I considered House Redblade, but..."

  Her fingers press harder against her chest and I can see the tension in her small shoulders, the way she's bracing herself.

  "Mom. Himiko's katas gave me peace. Meditation gave me..."

  She searches for the word, brow furrowing in concentration, trying to name something she doesn't have vocabulary for yet.

  "Control?"

  The question mark at the end makes it vulnerable, uncertain. Like she's not sure if she's naming the feeling correctly, if the word fits what she's trying to express.

  Durge nods and I can hear the approval in the gesture even without seeing a face, the shadow-form pulsing with what might be satisfaction.

  Mia nods back, sharper, more decisive, shoulders straightening like she's accepted his validation. Then she takes a breath.

  "I'm going for a walk."

  She steps into a shadow—not Durge's but one of her own making, the darkness responding to her developing abilities—and vanishes. The displacement of air is barely noticeable, just a slight shift in pressure that makes the candle flames flicker.

  The shadow-space falls silent except for the muffled sound of the storm outside. I can still hear Jason and Grace breathing in their sleep, the soft rhythm of two people comfortable with each other, trusting enough to rest deeply.

  Durge's presence shifts, consolidating into something that feels like attention focused directly on me. The mathematical certainty that defines him sharpens, calculations running behind those empty-looking blue eyes.

  "Why are you here?"

  The question isn't hostile, just curious. But it carries an edge of knowing that makes my hollow eyes narrow. Durge isn't asking for information he doesn't have. He's asking why I'm admitting to information he does have, why I'm here instead of any of the others who could handle this assignment. Eshen has more experience with broken things. Kate, Kate is Kate. Tyran, Demonic Jason's varient, the man who brought Eshen into the first, would have taken this assignment. I am the youngest. Least experienced

  I consider how to answer. Several responses cycle through my mind, filtered through Tyran's influence, weighed against the light he provides. I settle on honesty because Tyran taught me that truth matters, that hiding from reality only makes the darkness stronger. Also. DUrge has earned, not my trust, but my respect.

  "I am a deathborn," I start, and the words feel heavy in my mouth. "Mia, despite everything, is a child. Someone who is at risk of becoming a deathborn candidate."

  I pause, making sure he's following, though I know he is. The shadow-form shifts slightly—acknowledgment, invitation to continue.

  "I was sent here to ensure that didn't happen."

  The admission hangs in the air between us, settling into the shadow-space like sediment in still water. I watch the darkness that is Durge, waiting for the follow-up I know is coming. After all, any other deathborn agent on this world could have been sent. I am still the youngest. Still the least experienced. Durge is aware of all of this.

  "Eshen could have been here," Durge says, voice still coming from everywhere and nowhere, filling the shadow without seeming to originate from any specific point. "Kate could have been here. Hell, Rolf could have been here."

  A pause heavy with implication, with the weight of choices made and questions unasked.

  "Why you?"

  There it is. The real question, the one that cuts to the heart of why I specifically requested this assignment when any deathborn could have handled it, when there were people better suited, people with more experience dealing with traumatized children who haven't fully transformed yet.

  I take a breath, feeling Tyran's light steady in my chest, his humanity anchoring mine. The weight of what I'm about to say settles in my bones like Or's deepest winter.

  "Mia will end my becoming."

  The words fall into the shadow-space like stones into deep water. I can feel the ripple of their impact, the way Durge's attention sharpens to a razor edge, mathematical certainty focusing on the implications.

  A becoming. For a deathborn that word has weight beyond what normal people can understand. It's not just a word, not a process or a formula. It's identity, the culmination of everything you are and everything you're meant to be, the final transformation that makes you a deathborn, takeing you from a child and then breaking you so badly that you can only become a deathborn or die. Every deathborn, no matter which corpse, has one. To speak of it with outsiders is, rare.

  Durge knows this. Of all the men who call themselves Jason, of all my uncles—technically uncles since Yog is my father and Yog is a Jason, sort of, in the complicated way that variants work—Durge understands the word "becoming" in ways most people can't. He's mathematical certainty made flesh, divine justice given human form. He knows what it means to be defined by purpose. Furthermore, he knows what it means to be taken from a child, stripped down, and then rebuilt into an instrument.

  "I don't know how," I continue, needing to explain even though part of me knows Durge probably already understands, that his calculations have already processed every variable. "étienne sealed my memories of exactly how, when, where."

  My hand comes up to my temple without conscious thought, fingers pressing against the skull where those memories are locked away behind barriers I will not break. Doing so would affect Mia's timeline, and she's been through enough. I can feel them sometimes like pressure behind my eyes though, knowledge just out of reach, truth that would answer questions I can barely formulate. A girl with silver hair and silver eyes takeing the needle's contents for a week streight. A giant furry creature being carried away by a woman with black hair and cat-ears after 3 seconds of attempting to do so. Traveler as a skeleton.

  "However, she did," I finish, and the certainty in my voice surprises me. "That is enough."

  Durge doesn't respond immediately. The shadow-space remains quiet except for the storm and the breathing of sleeping people and the distant creak of wood under wind. I count thirty seconds, watching the darkness shift and flow, before the wooden logs of the cabin flicker.

  It's subtle, just a slight shimmer in the wood grain like heat haze, but I've seen enough magic to recognize this particular varient of it. Protector steps out of the wall like he's walking through a doorway, materializing fully formed in the space beside us, solid and massive where a moment before there was only timber.

  "Where is Mia?"

  Protector's voice carries urgency without panic, concern balanced with control. He's worried but not frantic, the way you'd expect from someone whose name is literally his purpose, whose entire existence centers on protecting Jason and those Jason cares about. The fact that are multiple varients doesn't matter to him.

  "She went for a walk," I answer, keeping my voice neutral.

  Protector nods, tension easing slightly from his shoulders. He turns toward where Durge's presence is strongest, shadow coalescing in response to attention.

  "Paladin will train Mia," Durge reports, voice level. "If she can learn."

  Protector nods again, this one more thoughtful, slower. I watch his expression shift through several considerations—tactical assessment, emotional evaluation, protective calculation—before settling on determination mixed with resignation.

  "I'll go speak with Paladin. I would also ask to watch but I'll talk with Paladin about that, and Mia. Kid should have a choice in this, and she might not want me there for what-ever reason." He shrugs shoulders larger then my torso.

  Durge's shadow-form shifts in acknowledgment, darkness pulsing once in agreement.

  Protector nods one final time then steps backward into the wooden wall of the cabin. He doesn't shimmer or fade, doesn't transform into light or shadow. He just steps into the wood and vanishes like the wall is a door only he can see, like reality itself opens for him when he asks.

  The shadow-space feels emptier with him gone, the absence of his presence creating a void that the darkness doesn't quite fill. I shift my weight, feeling the press of my cloak against my ribs, the weight of the hammer at my belt, the constant awareness of the nails in their pouch waiting to be used.

  "I will not watch," I say, breaking the silence that's settled over us like a blanket.

  Durge's presence shifts slightly—a question without words, calculation seeking data.

  "I doubt Mia would allow me," I continue, and the words taste like admission. "My interactions with her have been kicking her awake when she had nightmares and needed to spar."

  The memory surfaces unbidden, sharp and clear. Third night after I was assigned to watch her. She'd been thrashing in her sleep, caught in some nightmare I couldn't see, small body writhing in the blanket like she was fighting invisible enemies. I'd made the mistake of trying to shake her awake.

  She'd come up with a knife in hand—I still don't know where she'd hidden it—and tried to slit my throat. Granted, considering when the girl with silver eyes had done the same thing, I'd tried to eat her soul?

  Took her maybe ten seconds to recognize me. Another five to lower the knife, though she didn't put it away. Just held it ready while she stared at me, assessing whether I was a threat, whether she needed to run or fight.

  We'd sparred for an hour after that, working through whatever demons the nightmare had woken. She'd been calmer afterward, more settled, the violence burning off whatever terror had gripped her. But I'd learned my lesson. Kicking works better than shaking. Gives her time to wake up and recognize the threat as friendly before she's in striking range, before combat instincts override rational thought. Lets her just try to kill for a few seconds before she calms down.

  "Next time move faster, Al."

  Mia's voice comes from behind me.

  I spin, hand going to my belt, but she's already visible, stepping out of a shadow near the cabin wall. Her expression is neutral but I catch the ghost of amusement in her dark eyes, a flicker of satisfaction at having snuck up on me.

  She'd been watching. Probably heard the entire conversation, listened to us discuss her future like she wasn't there. Testing us maybe, seeing what we'd say when we thought she couldn't hear. Smart girl.

  I consider pointing out that moving faster when waking someone with PTSD is generally a bad idea, that giving her time to process is safer for both of us. But I know what she means. She's telling me that if I'm going to kick her awake I should do it and then get the hell out of range before she's fully conscious, before those combat instincts kick in and she tries to kill me on reflex. I do that already, but. She knows that too.

  Fair enough. The girl's got a point.

  I nod acknowledgment.

  Mia turns, steps into another shadow, and vanishes again. The displacement of air is even less noticeable this time, her control improving with each use.

  I wait five seconds to make sure she's actually gone this time, counting heartbeats in the silence, before turning back toward Durge's presence.

  "I have work to do," I say.

  Durge's shadow-form shifts in what might be dismissal or acknowledgment. Hard to tell with him sometimes.

  I reach for the hammer at my belt, fingers finding the familiar weight of the handle. The weapon responds to my touch, Dr. Thornwick's consciousness in the cloak recognizing the tool, approving its purpose. I feel the subtle vibration that means it's ready, eager almost. I mentally check the supply of nails, confirming they're topped up, enough for what I need to do tonight.

  Several pedophiles need crucifying. The list has been building for weeks—names and addresses, patterns of behavior, confirmed victims. Need to find them, nail them to crosses, then leave those crosses outside their houses where neighbors will find them come morning. Let the local authorities deal with taking them down. Let their neighbors see what they are, what they've been doing while pretending to be normal.

  The deathborn justice system is pretty straightforward about certain crimes. You hurt kids, you get dead. Just the way you get dead depends on the corpse you pissed off. Slaughterhounds, Rolf's people will normally just eat you? Us? We like being, more direct. Simple, clean, effective. Tyran's light burns steady in my chest, approving the work, the protection, the justice that comes from putting predators where everyone can see them.

  Most don't survive the night anyway. Either from blood loss or exposure or shock. The human body isn't designed to hang from nails for hours. The few that do usually wish they hadn't, waking up to sirens and cameras and the hatred of everyone they've ever known.

  I turn toward the nearest shadow, feeling for the connection that will let me step through, that will take me from this cabin to the city where my targets sleep. Mia's gotten better at shadow-walking but she's still learning. I can feel the difference between her passages and the natural shadows, the way she disturbs the darkness, leaving traces of her passage.

  This is a natural shadow, deep and untouched, perfect for traveling without leaving evidence.

  At least Mia won't see this, I think as I step forward, Tyran's light steady in my chest, keeping me human even as I do inhuman things for human reasons. She's been through enough. Doesn't need to watch me work, doesn't need to see what justice looks like when it's delivered by someone who stopped being fully human a long time ago.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The shadow wraps around me like cold water, and I let myself fall into the space between spaces, into the darkness that connects all shadows. The hammer grows heavier in my hand, anticipating use. The nails whisper against each other in their pouch, eager for flesh and wood and the screaming that will come.

  Perhaps Grace will be able to assist the girl. Maybe she'll be what Mia needs—someone who understands trauma without being consumed by it, someone who's fought her own darkness and won. Someone who can show Mia that you can be broken and still be whole, that you can know violence and still choose peace.

  Jason though? I'm not sure about him yet. He's good with Grace, patient and kind and present in ways that matter, ways that show he cares without smothering. But Mia's different. Mia's broken in ways that require expertise Jason doesn't have, understanding he hasn't earned yet. The gap between knowing someone was hurt and knowing how to help them heal—that gap swallows good intentions whole. Also, the fact that Mia's particular trauma involves, if not this Jason then a Jason? That doesn't help either.

  Then again, I've been wrong before. Tyran chose to be my light when I was convinced I'd lost all my humanity. That choice still surprises me some days. A girl with silver hair and crome eyes chose to take the pain of a boy she'd never met when everyone around her couldn't. A woman, Grace, someone who'd been trained from before she could walk to be a predator rescued a small kitten from a box when she should have left the creature. A man, with compleate power over said woman refuses to use that power, and in doing so, earned something he could have never gotten otherwise. Yeah. My track-record's not exactly been steller, has it?

  The shadow spits me out three blocks from my first target's house. The storm is weaker here, just snow and wind without the apocalyptic fury it had at the cabin. Temperature's maybe -5 degrees Celsius, cold enough to be uncomfortable but not dangerous. The kind of cold that makes people stay inside, close their curtains, mind their own business.

  Perfect weather for my work.

  I check my hammer one more time, confirming the enchantments are active, the Hebrew characters on my cloak pulsing in response. Dr. Thornwick's consciousness offers tactical data—sight lines, patrol routes, optimal approach vectors. The weapon glows faintly in my hand, pale light that barely penetrates the darkness, eager for its work.

  Time to get started. Time to make sure these predators never hurt another child. Time to be the monster that protects the innocent, the darkness that guards the light.

  Tyran burns steady in my chest, my candle in the darkness, my humanity willingly given and knowingly chosen.

  I step into the snow and the night swallows me whole.

  ---Jason---

  # Watching

  I sit cross-legged on the rough wooden floor of the cabin, listening to the wind howl around us like the ghosts of forgotten travelers. The storm arrived faster than even Grace predicted, which is saying something considering she can practically smell barometric changes. The snowflakes that started as gentle dancers are now angry swarms, pelting the windows with increasing urgency.

  Grace sleeps on the makeshift bed, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm so precise you could set a metronome to it. Even in sleep, she's efficient. I wonder if she dreams of her homeland, of frost wyrms and ranger battalions, or if her mind simply processes tactical advantages while her body recharges.

  Is it weird that I'm watching her sleep? Probably. But she asked me to take this watch—her word, not mine—while she rested. After pulling me from that lake, finding this cabin, and dealing with whatever the hell those "Fifth Corpse" people were, she finally conceded to human necessity. Two hours, she said. Then we'd switch. I check my watch: she's been out for an hour and forty-three minutes. Grace will wake up exactly when she intends to, I've learned. Her internal clock is just one more impossible thing about her.

  The fire pops and shifts, sending orange light dancing across her features. It softens her somehow, turning the sharp planes of her face into something almost vulnerable. I've never seen her look vulnerable before. I'm not sure she even knows how.

  Without Grace, I wouldn't be here. Not just in this cabin as the wind screams like a wounded animal. I mean I wouldn't be *here*—camping in February, miles from civilization, watching snow pile up outside windows while interdimensional beings pop in and out of floorboards. I wouldn't have suggested it. Wouldn't have thought I could do it.

  Before Grace crash-landed in my life, I was... what? Tired? Apathetic? Whatever the word, I'd folded in on myself like origami gone wrong. Failed so many times that failure became my default setting. Don't try, don't fail. Simple equation. When your whole life is navigating a world you can't see, you get used to people telling you what you can't do. Eventually, you start telling yourself. That's... Nialism, right? Think that's what it's called. Or, more acuritly I think that's what Nialism is. Was, now.

  Then Grace shows up with her bone knives and her vigger and her absolute certainty that I can do things I've never even considered attempting. She doesn't hope I can manage. She doesn't think I might succeed. She *knows* I will—states it like it's already happened. "You will learn this, Jason." Not "try to learn this" or "attempt this." Will. She speaks survival into reality through sheer force of will.

  The crazy thing is, when Grace says I can do something, I do it. Like her certainty is contagious. Like her belief in me is this tangible thing I can grab onto and pull myself up with.

  She didn't have to stay after those first few days. Once she got her legs under her, figured out Toronto, learned to drive (in three days, which still blows my mind), she could have gone anywhere. She told Mom she'd live in a creek bed if asked to leave. She would have, too. Grace doesn't say things she doesn't mean.

  But why stay at all? I've wanted to ask a dozen times. "Hey Grace, why exactly are you still here?" But what if the question makes her realize there's no reason? What if she looks around, calculates some tactical equation, and concludes that Jason Stone is no longer a necessary variable?

  So I don't ask. Instead, I watch her breathe in perfect rhythm and try not to think about how the world seems more vivid with her in it, like she's somehow calibrated my vision better than any doctor could.

  Grace shifts slightly in her sleep, her hand moving to where her bone knife would be if she weren't temporarily allowing herself rest. Even unconscious, she's ready. I wonder what she's like when she's not vigilant. If such a version of Grace even exists.

  I add another log to the fire, careful to position it for optimal burn efficiency the way she taught me. The wood is dry and catches quickly, sending up a small shower of sparks. Outside, the snow continues to accumulate. We'll be stuck here at least another day, maybe two. Just Grace and me and whatever those death children decide to share about marble legions and interdimensional complications.

  It should terrify me. All of it—the apocalypse coming in November, the revelation that there are multiple versions of me across realities, the fact that I'm apparently important enough to have dream-talks with ancient druids. Instead, I feel strangely calm. Like Grace's certainty has infected that part of me too.

  "You will survive, Jason." Another absolute from her lips. And somehow, despite everything, I believe her.

  Grace's eyes open suddenly—no gradual waking, no drowsy transition. One moment asleep, the next fully alert. Her gaze finds mine immediately.

  "Your watch has concluded," she says, sitting up in one fluid motion. "You should rest now."

  I nod, oddly disappointed that her vulnerability has vanished so quickly. "The fire's good for another hour at least. I added wood at the angle you showed me."

  Something flickers across her face—surprise? approval?—before she masks it with her usual neutral expression. "Good tactical awareness. The storm intensity has increased seventeen percent since I fell asleep."

  "Yeah, it's really coming down out there. Guess we're stuck here for a while."

  "Affirmative. Current precipitation patterns and accumulation rates suggest at minimum twenty-six additional hours before safe travel conditions return." She rises, stretching in a way that reminds me of a cat—controlled and precise. "You should sleep. Your body is still recovering from thermal stress."

  "I'm fine," I protest automatically, though my eyelids feel like they've got lead weights attached. "I can stay up a bit longer."

  Grace fixes me with that ranger stare—the one that makes me feel like she's scanning my internal organs for tactical weaknesses. "Unnecessary. I have rested sufficiently. Sleep is not negotiable, Jason."

  I laugh despite my exhaustion. "Has anyone ever told you that you have terrible bedside manner?"

  "Bedside manner serves no tactical purpose," she responds, but I catch the slight softening around her eyes that I've come to recognize as her version of amusement. "Sleep. I will maintain watch."

  I move to the makeshift bed, still warm from her body heat. The blankets smell faintly of pine and something uniquely Grace—like mountain air and thunderstorms. I settle in, suddenly aware of how tired I really am.

  "Grace?" I say, my voice already getting fuzzy around the edges.

  "Yes?"

  "Thank you. For watching over me."

  She's silent for a moment, and I'm already drifting when I hear her reply, softer than usual:

  "You watched over me first, Jason."

  As sleep claims me, I think I see something in her eyes I've never noticed before—something that looks almost like tenderness. But that can't be right. Grace doesn't do tender.

  Does she?

  ---Bearee---

  # The Unexpected Hatchet Training

  The wind howls against the windows, rattling the glass in a way that makes my stomach tighten with each gust. I've checked the weather radar seventeen times in the last hour, watching the massive storm system swallow our region in angry swirls of blue and purple. Somewhere out there, my son and Grace are caught in it. The rational part of my brain—the clinical psychologist who understands anxiety and catastrophizing—knows they're probably fine. Grace is literally from another dimension where survival skills aren't just hobbies but necessities. But the mother in me keeps picturing Jason, blue-lipped and shivering, trapped in some makeshift shelter as snow piles higher and higher.

  I press my palm against the cold window glass, tracing the pattern of frost forming along the edges. The meteorologist called it the worst February storm in decades – over a meter of snow expected, with wind chills approaching minus thirty. When Grace called earlier, her voice clinical and detached as always, she mentioned Jason falling into water. Water. In February. In Canada.

  My phone sits silent on the coffee table. No new messages, no updates. Grace assured me they'd found shelter—some abandoned hunter's cabin with a working fireplace—but the reception would likely disappear as the storm worsened.

  "They'll be fine," I whisper to myself, the words creating a small fog patch on the window. "Grace would walk through fire to protect him."

  Dawson whines softly from his spot on the rug, his head tilting with that peculiar canine intuition that always seems to know when something's wrong. His ears prick forward suddenly, head turning toward the living room entrance seconds before I hear anything.

  "Smart boy," I murmur, running a hand through my hair and trying to project calm. "What do you hear?"

  The answer comes in the form of footsteps—heavy, deliberate, and entirely unfamiliar. Not Magnen's measured stride or Mike's careful tread on the basement stairs. These footsteps carry weight, purpose, and something else—a subtle rhythm that seems almost militaristic.

  I turn from the window to see a man standing in my living room doorway, and my breath catches in my throat.

  He's enormous—easily two meters tall, with shoulders so broad they nearly fill the door frame. His face is a study in controlled violence, handsome in a brutal sort of way, with a meticulously maintained mustache that does nothing to soften his harsh features. A red jacket hugs his massive frame, the letters "SPSB" are embroidered over his heart, though I have no idea what they might stand for.

  Most unsettling are his eyes—flinty gray and utterly calm, assessing my living room with the detached precision of someone cataloging potential weapons and exits. When those eyes settle on me, I feel physically pinned in place, like a butterfly on a collector's board.

  My hand inches toward my phone, but before I can reach it, the mountain of a man does something utterly unexpected. He crouches down, extends a massive hand palm-up toward Dawson, and speaks in a voice like gravel wrapped in velvet.

  "Bonjour, petit guerrier," he rumbles, his French accent thick but clear. "You guard your human well, yes?"

  Dawson, who granted normally approaches strangers like every one of them wants to pet him, trots over immediately as if greeting an old friend. He nuzzles the man's outstretched hand, tail wagging with unmistakable enthusiasm.

  Even more shocking though is Kitten—Grace's fiercely independent cat who tolerates most humans with aristocratic disdain apart from Grace herself and Jason—emerges from under the sofa and approaches the stranger without hesitation. After a brief assessment, the little orange cat scales the man's massive frame like a mountain climber, eventually settling around his neck like a living scarf.

  "Ah, les animaux," the man says with a slight smile that transforms his face into something slightly less terrifying. "They always know who can be trusted, n'est-ce pas?"

  I find my voice, though it emerges higher than I intend. "Who are you, and how did you get into my house?"

  He straightens to his full height, dislodging neither cat nor dog's affection. "étienne Tremblay," he announces with a small, formal nod. "Deathblade of Frontanaq. I entered through your back door. The lock requires attention—too simple to defeat."

  My mind races to process this information. étienne. Grace has mentioned him— the man who somehow knows Mike and helped him get to find tha twearhouse before he and Sarah came to live with us. A Deathblade, whatever that might be. From Frontanaq, a place I've never heard of.

  "That doesn't explain why you're here," I manage, noting with professional detachment the slight tremor in my own voice.

  étienne scans the room again. "Where is Magnen? It would be useful for him to be present, given the circumstances."

  "My husband is downstairs with Mike," I reply automatically, my training as a therapist kicking in despite the absurdity of the situation. Establish facts. Maintain dialogue. Assess intentions. "I can call them if you'd like."

  "No need," étienne says with a dismissive wave of his hand. The movement sends light cascading across what I now notice is a pair of wicked-looking hatchets hanging from his belt. "They will join us soon enough. The work they do below calls to a close."

  As if summoned by his words, I hear footsteps on the basement stairs—the familiar pattern of Magnen's gait, followed by Mike's lighter tread. They appear in the doorway, Magnen freezing mid-step when he spots our visitor. Mike just grumbles something about birds and machine-guns.

  "étienne," Magnen says, his voice carefully neutral. "This is unexpected."

  Mike stands slightly behind him, his expression flickering between wariness and what appears to be respect. "Hey," he offers simply, nodding toward the giant.

  "Why are you here?" Magnen asks, moving to stand beside me, his hand finding mine in a subtle protective gesture.

  étienne strokes Kitten with one massive finger, the tiny cat purring loudly against his neck. "I am here to train Bearee in hatchet combat," he announces with the same casual tone one might use to discuss the weather.

  The room falls silent. I exchange a glance with Magnen, whose expression suggests he's as baffled as I am.

  "I'm sorry," I say carefully, "but I think there's been a misunderstanding. I don't need combat training."

  étienne's gray eyes fix on mine with unsettling intensity. "You misunderstand, Bearee Stone. It is not a matter of need but of preparation. November approaches. Your son and his ranger are trapped in a blizzard. The world shifts beneath your feet, whether you feel it or not."

  "How do you know about Jason and Grace?" I ask, my concern sharpening while decideing to leave the 'you're son and his ranger' comment for another time.

  "The same way I know that Grace saved your son's life when he choked on ice," étienne replies calmly. "The same way I know that you have been having dreams of darkness, of a world changed beyond recognition. The world has patterns, Bearee Stone. I merely read them."

  A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the storm outside. I have been having dreams—nightmares, really—of darkness swallowing our city, of strange creatures prowling familiar streets. I've told no one, not even Magnen, dismissing them as stress responses to Grace's apocalyptic warnings.

  "What does hatchet training have to do with any of this?" Magnen asks, his engineer's mind focusing on the practical rather than the impossible.

  étienne finally dislodges Kitten, gently placing the cat on a nearby shelf before turning his attention to us fully. "When November comes, the world will change. Systems will fail. New rules will emerge. Those who cannot adapt will perish. Those who can defend themselves and others will survive."

  He reaches toward his belt, and I tense involuntarily. With fluid grace that seems impossible for someone so large, he removes a hatchet and holds it flat across his palms.

  "This is not just a weapon," he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that somehow fills the room. "It is an extension of will. Of purpose. In the hands of someone without training, it is merely steel and wood. In the hands of someone who understands its true nature..." He flicks his wrist, and suddenly the hatchet is spinning in the air, catching light from the overhead fixtures before landing back in his palm with a soft smack. "...it becomes something more."

  "Why me?" I ask, unable to tear my eyes from the weapon. "Why not just train Magnen or Mike?"

  "Because," étienne says with unexpected gentleness, "when the world changes, it will not ask if you are ready. It will not care if you prefer counseling to combat. It will simply change, and you will either adapt or you will not."

  He turns to Magnen. "You will also train. You must be her sparring partner, as I cannot fulfill this role myself."

  "Why not?" Mike asks, speaking up for the first time, his curiosity overcoming his usual reticence.

  étienne's mouth quirks in what might be amusement. "Because I would kill her, even holding back. My control is... imperfect when it comes to combat training."

  The casual way he says this—as if accidentally killing me during practice is a minor inconvenience—sends another chill through me.

  "I don't think this is necessary," Magnen begins, his protective instincts clearly roused.

  étienne cuts him off with a sharp gesture. "It is not a matter of necessity but of preparation." The light from the window catches his profile, highlighting a brutal scar running along his jawline. "Your ranger prepares your son. I prepare you both. Others prepare others. This is how we face what comes."

  "And if I refuse?" I ask, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.

  étienne regards me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Then I leave, and you face November with words as your only weapons." He pauses, those gray eyes boring into mine. "Tell me, counselor—when your nightmares walk in daylight, will words be enough?"

  The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implications I'm not sure I fully understand. But beneath the fear and confusion, I feel something else stirring—a determination that surprises me with its intensity. Grace has been preparing Jason. Magnen and Mike have been retrofitting our basement, stockpiling supplies. Everyone seems to be taking concrete action except me.

  "Fine," I hear myself say. "Show me."

  Magnen looks at me sharply. "Bearee, you don't have to do this."

  I squeeze his hand. "Maybe not. But I want to." I meet étienne's gaze directly. "If what Grace says is coming actually arrives, I won't be helpless. I won't be someone who needs protecting."

  A rare smile crosses étienne's face, transforming his features into something almost approachable. "Good. We begin now."

  With economical movements, he clears space in our living room, pushing furniture against walls with casual strength that makes heavy pieces look weightless. From a bag I hadn't noticed before, he produces two wooden hatchets—training weapons, I realize with some relief.

  "First," he says, standing in the center of the newly created space, "you must understand the foundation. The hatchet is not a sword. It is not a knife. It is a tool of both precision and overwhelming force, combined in perfect balance."

  He demonstrates a stance—feet shoulder-width apart, weight centered, knees slightly bent. His massive frame somehow looks both immovable and dangerously fluid.

  "The base stance," he explains, motioning for me to mimic him. "From here, all movement flows. All protection emerges."

  I feel ridiculous as I attempt to copy his posture, my body unused to such deliberate positioning. Magnen joins reluctantly, his movement stiff with tension.

  "No," étienne says, approaching me. "Your weight is wrong. May I correct your position?"

  I nod, and his hands—surprisingly gentle for their size—adjust my shoulders, my hips, the angle of my feet.

  "The power comes from the earth," he explains, his accent thickening as he demonstrates. "Up through your legs, through your core, into your shoulders, down your arm, into the hatchet. A continuous flow, like water through a river. Not forced. Channeled."

  He demonstrates a simple strike—a diagonal chop that ends with sudden, shocking precision. The movement looks deceptively simple, fluid yet devastating in its efficiency.

  "Again," he instructs, watching as I attempt to mimic the motion. "No. Your body fights itself. Your shoulders and hips must work together, not against each other."

  For the next twenty minutes, he drills us on this single movement—the foundation, he calls it. His instructions are precise, sometimes brutally direct, but never cruel. When my arm begins to ache from repeated movement, he notices immediately.

  "Pain is information," he says matter-of-factly. "Not to be ignored, but understood. It tells you where weakness lives in your body, where attention must be paid."

  He takes the wooden training hatchet from my hand, examining it critically. "This weight is wrong for you. One moment."

  From his bag, he produces another training weapon—slightly smaller, balanced differently. "Try this. The weight must match your frame, your strength."

  The new hatchet feels immediately better in my hand, more like an extension than a tool. When I execute the movement again, étienne nods in approval.

  "Better. Now we add the footwork."

  He demonstrates a simple advance—right foot forward, weight shifting, hatchet striking in perfect coordination with the step. The movement looks almost dance-like in its precision.

  "Timing is everything," he explains as we practice. "Strike too early, momentum is lost. Strike too late, the target moves. Body and weapon must become one thought, one intention."

  Magnen picks up the rhythm more quickly than I do, his physicle-focused mind breaking down the movement into engineering components, analyzing and reassembling them with precise understanding. I find myself struggling with the coordination, my body stubbornly refusing to flow as étienne's does.

  "You think too much," étienne observes, watching me with those penetrating eyes. "The body knows. The mind interferes."

  "I'm a psychologist," I remind him, frustration creeping into my voice. "Thinking is what I do."

  "And in your work, does thinking alone solve problems?" he asks: "or does understanding lead to action?"

  The question catches me off guard. Of course understanding isn't enough—it's merely the foundation for change, for healing. My clients don't improve just by understanding their trauma; they improve by taking action based on that understanding.

  Something shifts in my approach. Instead of trying to think through each component of the movement, I focus on the intention—protect, strike, return to ready. My body begins to find the rhythm that my mind couldn't force. Well, I think. Could still be wrong, though.

  "Yes," étienne says, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Now you begin to understand."

  The training continues, moving from single strikes to combinations—advance and strike, retreat and guard, side-step and counter. With each sequence, I feel something awakening in my muscles, a memory I didn't know my body possessed.

  "The body remembers what the mind forgets," étienne comments, as if reading my thoughts. "Humans fought to survive long before they built cities and created comfort."

  After what must be nearly an hour, he calls a halt. I'm surprised to find myself breathing hard, a sheen of sweat making my clothing cling uncomfortably. Magnen looks similarly affected, though there's a new light in his eyes—something between concern and pride as he watches me.

  "Good," étienne says, retrieving the training weapons. "We have established the foundation. Now we build upon it."

  From his bag, he produces two real hatchets—smaller than his own massive weapons, but unmistakably lethal with their gleaming edges and balanced design. He hands one to me, one to Magnen, his expression deadly serious.

  "These are yours now," he says simply. "They must become part of you. Sleep with them near. Carry them when possible. Let your hands learn their weight, their balance, their voice."

  I stare at the weapon in my hand, feeling its solid weight, the cool smoothness of the handle. "Their voice?"

  étienne nods. "Every weapon speaks, if you learn to listen. Some scream for blood. Others whisper of protection. These..." he gestures to the hatchets, "these speak of home. Of family. Of lines that must not be crossed."

  Something in his words resonates with me on a level I hadn't expected. I think of Jason, out there in the storm. Of Grace, with her bone knives and her strange, otherworldly determination. Of the dreams that have been haunting me—darkness swallowing our world, changing everything familiar into something alien and threatening.

  "How often will we train?" I ask, surprising myself with the question.

  étienne's mouth quirks in that not-quite-smile. "Twice each week, until November. More frequently as the time approaches." He glances at Magnen. "You must practice together between our sessions. The movements must become as natural as breathing."

  "And after November?" Magnen asks, the question we've all been avoiding.

  étienne's expression grows distant. "After November, training will serve different purposes. But first, we must reach November alive."

  He begins packing his things with the same economic precision that characterizes all his movements. "Same time in two days," he says, not a question but a statement. "Wear clothing that allows movement. We will work more intensively."

  As he shoulders his bag, he pauses, those gray eyes sweeping over us once more. "You did well today," he says, and somehow I know praise from this man is rare indeed. "Better than expected. There is strength in you, Bearee Stone. Not the obvious kind, but perhaps the more important kind."

  With that cryptic comment, he moves toward the door, Dawson following him like an old friend. At the threshold, he pauses, turning back with a final observation.

  "Your son is safe," he says with absolute certainty. "Grace would burn the world to ash before allowing harm to come to him. And the Fifth Corpse protects them both, though they may not yet understand why."

  Before I can ask what he means—what the Fifth Corpse might be—he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds final, like a period at the end of a very significant sentence.

  Magnen and I stand in silence for a moment, the rearranged living room a testament to the surreal experience we've just shared. Outside, the storm howls against the windows, snow piling higher against the glass. Somewhere out there, Jason and Grace are waiting it out, just as we are, though in very different circumstances.

  I look down at the hatchet in my hand—my hatchet now, according to étienne. Its weight feels strange yet increasingly familiar, like a truth I've always known but never acknowledged.

  "Are you okay?" Magnen asks softly, concern evident in his voice.

  I consider the question carefully, taking stock of my physical and emotional state with professional detachment. My muscles ache in unfamiliar places. My heart rate remains slightly elevated. My mind buzzes with new information, new patterns of movement, new possibilities.

  "I think I am," I say, surprising myself with the honesty of the answer. "Not comfortable, exactly. But... ready. Or at least, beginning to be."

  Magnen's hand finds mine again, warm and solid. "That's my Bearee," he says with quiet pride. "Always adapting, always growing."

  I squeeze his hand, drawing strength from his unwavering support. "November is coming," I say, giving voice to the fear we've all been avoiding. "And whatever it brings, we'll face it together. All of us."

  Outside, the storm rages on, blanketing the world in white. Inside, something new has awakened—a readiness, a determination, a quiet certainty that whatever changes November brings, we will meet them not with fear, but with preparation.

  I hang the hatchet on the wall near the doorway, where it will be within easy reach. Its presence should feel strange, unsettling in this space dedicated to healing and family. Instead, it looks oddly right—a guardian watching over us all, a promise of protection when words alone might not be enough.

  "Same time in two days," I repeat étienne's words, already mentally rearranging my client schedule to accommodate this new priority. "We'll be ready."

  Magnen nods, his eyes reflecting a mixture of concern and determination that mirrors my own feelings. "We will," he agrees. "For Jason. For all of us."

  The wind howls louder, rattling the windows in their frames, but somehow its threat seems diminished now. We have work to do, preparations to make, skills to master. And somewhere out there in the storm, Jason and Grace are doing the same—finding their way through the blizzard, growing stronger together, preparing for whatever November might bring.

  I run my fingers across my hatchet's handle one more time, feeling the grain of the wood, the perfect balance of the weapon. "We'll be ready," I repeat, this time with certainty. "Whatever comes, we'll be ready."

  ---Grace---

  I stare into the dark corners of the cabin, where shadows collect like secrets. The fire has burned low, painting the rough timber walls in amber and charcoal. Outside, the storm howls, a primal thing desperate to find its way in though it will not. The structure is secure. Snow piles against the windows, transforming them into frosted portals to nowhere.

  Jason sleeps beside me on the platform, his breathing deep and even. The rhythm is almost hypnotic—in, out, in, out—a metronome marking the passage of time in this isolated pocket of warmth. His face has softened in sleep, the worried furrow between his brows smoothed away. Even his perpetual self-deprecation seems to have temporarily abandoned him, leaving behind something younger, more vulnerable.

  I find my attention returning to him despite my tactical sweep of our shelter. My gaze traces the line of his jaw, the sweep of eyelashes against his cheeks, the stubborn strand of hair that keeps falling across his forehead. I reach out to brush it back, my fingers hovering just above his skin before completing the motion.

  It feels strange, this watching. For twenty-eight years, he existed in a world where no one's gaze could touch him without permission—his blindness creating a barrier that had to be deliberately crossed through touch or voice. Now my eyes can move over him freely while he sleeps, observing details he has no way of controlling. There's an intimacy to it that makes something tighten in my chest—not unpleasant, but unfamiliar.

  The broth from Eshen seems to have worked effectively. Jason's color is normal now, the blue tinge gone from his lips, his shivering subsided. Just a few hours ago he was soaked and freezing, core temperature dropping to dangerous levels. The memory sparks an unfamiliar tightness in my throat—fear, perhaps, though not for myself.

  "You can't die," I whisper, so softly that not even the cabin's shadows can catch the words. "It would be tactically unsound."

  The words feel insufficient, a weak translation of the fierce heat that surges through me at the thought of losing him. If Jason died, I would follow—the death oath ensures that. But my concern isn't for my own survival. The thought of a world without Jason in it creates a hollow space behind my ribs that no tactical calculation can fill.

  I shift my position, easing stiffness from muscles held too long in one position. The wooden floor creaks beneath me despite my careful movement. Jason stirs slightly, mumbling something incoherent before settling again. His hand rests palm-up on the blanket, fingers slightly curled as if holding something invisible. Then something falls out of his pack. Perhaps it was jostled from movement, or perhaps it simply was always going to fall out of his pack.

  "What are you dreaming about?" I wonder aloud, keeping my voice below the threshold of human hearing. Does he dream of the Druid again? Of marble entities or dying gods? Or perhaps something ordinary—teaching at Northern Edge, playing games with Dave and the others, walking Dawson in the morning frost? Reaching out, I pick up the small book. It's. It's made of bark. Smells like pine, like turned earth, like ancient forests. The same book that Mia was reading during the games.

  The floorboards directly across from me begin to shift, rising unnaturally as if pushed from below. I'm on my feet instantly, knife in hand, positioning myself between the disturbance and Jason's sleeping form, the book vanishing into my ranger's cloak. The Fifth Corpse members emerge exactly as before—first Rolf, then Eshen with her scarred cheek, finally Merek with his burn-marked arms.

  "Temperature's dropping fast outside," Rolf observes conversationally, as if emerging through solid wood is the most natural form of entrance. "Storm's hitting harder than expected."

  Eshen nods toward Jason. "How's the human Popsicle doing?"

  "His core temperature has stabilized," I inform them, maintaining my defensive stance. "The broth was effective."

  "Told you," Eshen says with a hint of satisfaction. "Old family recipe. Well, not my family. A family. From a long time ago."

  Merek opens his mouth to speak, but a sharp crack splits the air—reality itself tearing open beside them. Two figures step through the rift, moving with unnatural speed. They wear identical black uniforms with no insignia, faces obscured by sleek helmets with mirrored visors. Before anyone can react, one of them seizes Merek by the arm.

  "Narrative breach detected," states the figure in a voice like static over broken glass. "Subject containment protocol initiated."

  Merek's eyes widen in recognition. "Wait—"

  The second figure raises something that resembles a gun but isn't quite—too angular, too reflective, as if made from folded space rather than metal. A nearly silent pulse of energy erupts from the weapon, striking Merek in the throat. He collapses instantly, neither blood nor wound visible, yet clearly incapacitated.

  "Contractual violation: imminent information disclosure," announces the first figure, already dragging Merek toward the reality rift. "Classified narrative elements protected."

  Both figures step back through the tear with Merek's limp form, the rift sealing behind them with a sound like paper being torn in reverse. The entire encounter lasts less than eight seconds.

  Silence falls over the cabin, broken only by the crackling fire and Jason's continued steady breathing. He hasn't stirred—the exchange happened too quickly, too quietly to disturb human sleep.

  "What just happened?" I demand, tracking the now-empty space where the rift had been.

  Rolf and Eshen exchange glances, a wordless communication passing between them.

  "Spooks," Eshen says finally, her scarred face grim. "Twentieth Corpse. They do that sometimes."

  "Explain," I insist, knife still ready. "Why take your companion?"

  Rolf sighs, settling onto a stool that wasn't there moments before. "Merek was about to say something he shouldn't. Something the Spooks consider... restricted information."

  "Narrative contamination," Eshen adds, her voice carrying a bitterness that suggests personal experience. "Merek's always had trouble keeping his mouth shut about the bigger picture."

  "What bigger picture?" I press, calculating threat assessments. The appearance of these "Spooks" introduces new variables I cannot properly evaluate without additional information.

  "That's exactly what we can't tell you," Rolf says with a thin smile. "Unless you want the Spooks coming for us next. Trust me, you don't want that headache. Literally—they can make your brain feel like it's trying to escape through your eye sockets."

  "Merek will be fine," Eshen assures me, though her expression suggests limited confidence in this statement. "Probably. Twentieth Corpse is... extreme in their methods, but not usually lethal to allies. Usually."

  "Usually," Rolf echoes with a grimace.

  I process this information, assessing tactical implications. "These Spooks—they enforce information control?"

  "Something like that," Eshen acknowledges. "They deal with... let's call it existential information management. Things most minds aren't equipped to handle."

  "Like that 'Legion' you mentioned," I suggest, watching their reactions closely.

  Another exchanged glance between them. Rolf clears his throat. "We probably shouldn't discuss that further without clearance. Though I'm surprised they haven't intervened about that already."

  "The Marble Legion is common knowledge across enough realities that basic acknowledgment is permitted," Eshen explains to Rolf, her tone suggesting she's reciting official policy. "It's the origins and capabilities that are restricted."

  I maintain my defensive position, still processing this new information. The storm continues to howl outside, snow building against the windows. The world beyond our shelter has vanished into white nothingness, isolating us more completely than before.

  "You can't leave until the storm passes," Rolf observes, following my gaze to the window. "The Spooks know that too. That's probably why they moved so quickly—contained the situation before Merek could say something truly problematic during our extended stay together."

  "You're safe," Eshen adds, noting my continued vigilance. "From us, at least. We have no quarrel with you or your sleeping friend. Our mission here is observation and occasional intervention when children are at risk. You two are just... unexpected visitors."

  I consider their words, evaluating sincerity against observed behavior. They've had multiple opportunities to attack if that was their intention. The broth they provided helped Jason rather than harmed him. Still, I do not fully lower my guard. Jason, after all, is mine. I protect what, and who, is mine.

  "The Twentieth Corpse," I say carefully. "What is their specific function within your organization?"

  "They manage information," Rolf replies after a brief hesitation. "Specifically, knowledge that could... break certain fundamental understandings. Make people start reeing at the sky. That sort of thing."

  "They're paranoid bastards," Eshen adds bluntly. "But necessary ones. Some information really can damage minds unprepared for it."

  "Like what?" I push, seeking tactical advantage through intelligence gathering.

  "If we knew that, we wouldn't be having this conversation," Rolf points out with a wry smile. "We'd be getting dragged through reality tears too."

  Jason stirs again on the platform, drawing my attention instantly. His breathing pattern has changed slightly—still asleep, but perhaps entering a different sleep phase. The firelight plays across his face, highlighting the curve of his cheek, the slope of his nose. Something warm and fierce pulses beneath my ribs as I watch him, haveing nothing to do with the tempreture of the air around me.

  Eshen follows my gaze, her scarred face softening almost imperceptibly. "How long have you two been together?"

  The question catches me off-guard. "We are not... together. Not in the manner you imply."

  Both Eshen and Rolf raise their eyebrows in identical expressions of disbelief.

  "Right," Eshen says dryly. "And I'm not actually dead. Just taking a really long nap."

  "My relationship status is hardly tactical information," I reply, uncomfortable with their scrutiny.

  "You'd be surprised," Rolf murmurs, almost too quietly to hear.

  I turn my attention back to Jason, monitoring the steady rise and fall of his chest. The rational part of my mind knows he's safe now, his body temperature stabilized, the hypothermia risk addressed. Yet I cannot seem to fully shift my focus away from him for more than a few moments at a time. This fixation serves no immediate tactical purpose, yet persists despite my attempts to compartmentalize it.

  "He's important to you," Eshen observes. Not a question.

  I consider my response carefully. "Yes."

  "But not together," Rolf adds with poorly concealed amusement.

  I feel something unfamiliar heat my face—blood rushing to the surface capillaries, a physiological response I rarely experience that Bearee, upon seeing it previously called a blush. "Our relationship is... complex."

  "Relationships usually are," Eshen says, her voice softening slightly. "Especially when death is involved."

  "Explain." I say, the statement catching my attention.

  "We're Deathborn," she replies simply. "Death is our constant companion. Our beginning. Sometimes our end. We understand its presence in relationships better than most."

  "The death oath," Rolf adds, his expression turning more serious. "We know about those. Different dimensions, different mechanisms, but similar principles. Life bound to life. Will bound to will."

  I feel my muscles tense involuntarily. "How do you—"

  "We observe," Eshen interrupts gently. "It's what Fifth Corpse does best. We've seen variations of your situation before. Different Jasons. Different Graces."

  The implications of this statement create a cascade of questions, but I focus on the most tactically relevant. "You've observed other... versions of us?"

  "Across different realities," Rolf confirms. "Some similar to yours, others wildly different. The parallels are fascinating, especially certain recurring patterns."

  "Like what?" I ask, curiosity overriding caution momentarily.

  Eshen smiles—a genuine expression that transforms her scarred face. "Like the way you look at him when you think no one's watching. Like he's the most fascinating puzzle you've ever encountered."

  The unexpected accuracy of her observation creates another unfamiliar heat in my face. I try to refocus on tactical concerns. "These other versions—are they relevant to our situation here? To the systems apocalypse in November?"

  Rolf shifts uncomfortably. "That's starting to edge into Spook territory again. Let's just say different versions face different challenges, but certain themes... recur."

  "Like?" I press.

  "Like you two finding each other," Eshen states. "Against astronomically unlikely odds, across dimensions, despite vastly different circumstances. Like you changing each other in ways neither of you fully understand yet."

  I glance back at Jason. In sleep, the lines of his face reflect nothing of the burden he's chosen to bear—training for an apocalypse, adapting to sudden sight after lifelong blindness, accommodating a ranger from another reality with all my peculiarities and tactical considerations. Yet he does it not just without complaint, but with enthusiasm. With joy, even.

  "He says I'm the best thing that's happened to him," I find myself saying, the words emerging before tactical assessment can intervene. "It makes no logical sense."

  "Doesn't it?" Rolf asks quietly.

  I consider this question more deeply than perhaps intended. From Jason's perspective, my arrival brought vision after 28 years of blindness, introduced vigger training that expanded his capabilities, provided protection against threats he never knew existed. Objectively, these represent significant advantages.

  Yet I know that's not primarily what Jason meant. When he calls me "the best thing," he seems to be referring to something beyond tactical benefit—something about my presence itself, my particular way of existing in his world.

  "You should get some rest," Eshen suggests, interrupting my thoughts. "We'll keep watch for a while."

  "I do not require sleep at this time," I reply automatically.

  "Yes, you do," Rolf counters. "Your circadian rhythm is disrupted by stress and the rapid deployment of vigger resources earlier. You're operating at approximately 64% efficiency right now."

  The accuracy of his assessment is irritating. "You cannot calculate my efficiency."

  "Fifth Corpse," Eshen reminds me with a tap to her temple. "We're very good at observation and very bad at minding our own business."

  I hesitate, weighing options. Tactically, true rest would be advisable after the day's expenditures. The hypothermia crisis, exposure to unknown entities, and constant vigilance have indeed depleted my resources. If these Fifth Corpse members intended harm, they've had ample opportunity to act already.

  "Very well," I concede finally. "I will rest for two hours. Any change in environmental conditions or in Jason's status will require immediate notification."

  "Scout's honor," Rolf says, raising three fingers in what I recognize as a gesture from this world's scouting organizations that I found during my trip to the library.

  "You were never a scout," Eshen snorts.

  "Died before I got the chance," he admits with a shrug. "But I've watched enough of them to know the basic principles."

  I move to the far side of the platform where Jason sleeps, maintaining proper distance while still allowing for efficient heat conservation. As I settle onto the blankets, I note that they've been arranged to create a comfortable resting space while still providing clear sightlines to the cabin's entrance and windows.

  "We'll wake you if anything changes," Eshen promises, settling into a watchful position near the door.

  I allow my eyes to close, though my awareness remains partly engaged with my surroundings. The last thing I register before allowing sleep to engage is the sound of Jason's breathing beside me, steady and reassuring in the firelit darkness.

  My final thought, drifting through my consciousness like a leaf on water: He is mine to protect. And perhaps, in ways I'm still learning to understand, I am his.