I set a brutal rhythm through the ice-rim forests, the kind of pace designed to test limits, to separate the capable from the merely confident. Long stretches without breaks, paths that require both endurance and agility, terrain that shifts from rocky scrambles to deep snow without warning. It’s the pace I’d set for a Mountain Cat warrior, not a healer from the integrated territories.
Lyra doesn’t complain. Doesn’t slow. Doesn’t even breathe hard enough for me to justify offering a rest.
It’s... unsettling.
My snow leopard, on the other hand, is practically purring with satisfaction. Every time I glance back to check her progress—which is far too often—she’s there, moving with that fluid grace that makes something tighten in my chest. Her eyes take in everything: the forest, the sky, the subtle signs I’m following. She observes like a hunter, not like prey.
The temperature dropped steadily through the morning, frost forming on the pine needles around us. I watch from thecorner of my eye as she adjusts her cloak, notes how she places her feet to avoid ice patches without me warning her. Storm Eagle training, she’d said. Used to thin air and harsh conditions. I’m beginning to believe it.
“Here,” I say, stopping at a creek crossing where tracks mar the snow. “Tell me what you see.”
It’s a test, though I’m not entirely sure why I’m giving it. Maybe I want proof she’s still just a healer, out of her depth, or maybe I want reassurance that my doubts about her are justified. Or maybe, deep down, I just want an excuse to watch the way she crouches beside me, close enough that her scent fills my lungs with a mixture of storm-rain and herbs undertone.
She studies the tracks with focused intensity, head tilted slightly. A strand of auburn hair escapes her hood, that silver streak catching the filtered sunlight. I have to force myself to look at the tracks instead of her.
“Elk,” she says after a moment. “A herd, maybe twelve or thirteen. Passed through...” she examines the edges where snow has begun to fill the impressions, “eight hours ago? Maybe ten?”
“Good. What else?”
She leans closer to the tracks, and now she’s close enough that I can feel her warmth despite the cold air. My leopard wants to close the distance, wants to know if she’d feel as soft as she looks. I lock the urge down hard.
“The lead doe is injured,” she says quietly, pointing to a specific set of prints. “Left hind leg. See how the stride length is shortened here? And the weight distribution is off because she’s favoring it, pushing more onto her right side when she lands.”
I stare at her. She’s absolutely right. It took me years of training to read injuries in tracks that subtle.
“How do you know that?”
She glances up at me, and for a moment we’re close enough that I can see the silver threads in her eyes, like lightning frozenin time. “Healer training includes recognizing injury patterns in movement. The body tells stories whether it’s standing in front of you or leaving prints in snow. Same principles, different medium.”
She stands, brushing snow from her knees. “Plus, Storm Eagles hunt from above. We learn to read movement patterns from aerial views. It’s... a different perspective.”
Different. That word doesn’t begin to cover what she is. My assumptions crack a little more, fault lines spreading through my certainty about soft civilized healers.
“They’ll stay low in the valley,” she continues, looking toward the tree line. “With her injury, the doe won’t risk the ridge crossing. Too exposed, too demanding. They’ll follow the water source, look for sheltered grazing.”
“You hunt?” I can’t keep the surprise from my voice.
“I observe,” she corrects. “Healers need to understand predator and prey patterns. Hard to treat hunting injuries if you don’t understand how they happen.”
Logical. Practical. And yet the way she said it, the way her eyes tracked the forest like she was seeing possibilities and paths, I was sure that wasn’t just academic knowledge. That was experience.
We continue through the morning, and I find myself hyperaware of her presence. The soft sound of her breathing, the way she matches my stride without effort, how she automatically adjusts for my longer legs without complaint. My leopard is fascinated by every detail, cataloging them like treasures.
The sun reaches its zenith when we encounter the hawk.
It’s lying in our path, wing bent at an unnatural angle, breathing shallow and rapid, pure animal fear in its eyes. In the mountain, injured animals either heal or feed something else. It’s the way of things.
But Lyra drops to her knees immediately, her hands already glowing with that silver-blue light.
“Easy, beautiful,” she murmurs, voice dropping to something soft and soothing. “I know it hurts. Let me help.”
The hawk should flee or attack. Instead, it stills under her voice, as if recognizing something in her that transcends species. She examines the wing with gentle fingers, her healing light pulsing brighter.
“Clean break,” she says, though I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or the bird. “Lucky, really. Could have been much worse.”
She works with swift efficiency, pulling supplies from her pack with one hand while the other maintains contact with the hawk. I watch, transfixed, as she mixes some kind of salve, her movements precise and confident. The light from her hands seems to sink into the bird’s body, and I can actually see the moment its pain eases, and the bird’s breathing slows, its eyes become less wild.
“There,” she says, fashioning a tiny splint from twigs and soft leather strips. “That should hold until you can heal properly.”
