She produces something from her pack—dried meat, it looks like—and feeds it to the hawk with the patience of someone who has all the time in the world. The bird takes it from her fingers with surprising gentleness.
“You’ll be flying again within the week,” she tells it, standing carefully. The hawk regards her for a long moment, then hops awkwardly into the underbrush, cradling its splinted wing.
She turns to find me staring at her.
“What?” she asks, brushing dirt from her knees.
“That was...” I search for words. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“No,” she agrees. “But I could, so I did.”
Simple. Matter-of-fact. And yet the compassion in her actions, the skill in her hands, the way even wild creaturestrusted her, and my leopard is practically rolling over in my mind, completely charmed.
We continue walking, but something has shifted. The silence between us feels less wary, more... companionable.
As evening approaches, I find us a campsite. It is a small clearing protected by rock formations, with good sight lines and fresh water nearby. Lyra sets up her own shelter without being asked, movements efficient and practical. She builds a fire using flint and technique rather than magic, conserving energy like someone who understands survival isn’t about power but about intelligence.
I handle my own setup, trying not to watch the way firelight plays across her features as she works. Trying not to notice how at home she looks in the wilderness, how the forest seems to embrace her as one of its own.
We eat in silence at first, munching on travel rations, nothing elaborate. But the quiet becomes too heavy, too full of things unsaid.
“Do Mountain Cats ever smile?” she asks suddenly, looking at me across the flames.
The question surprises me. “When something is worth smiling about.”
“And I haven’t given you reason?” There’s something in her tone, not flirtation exactly, but challenge maybe.
“You’ve kept up,” I admit.
“Such high praise,” she says dryly. “I’m overwhelmed by your enthusiasm.”
Despite myself, I feel my mouth twitch. “You want enthusiasm? You matched a pace designed to break trained warriors. You read tracks most hunters would miss. You heal wild creatures with your bare hands.” I meet her eyes across the fire. “You’re not what I expected.”
“You said that before. What did you expect?”
“Someone soft. Someone who would need protection. Someone...” I pause, searching for words that won’t reveal too much. “Someone less.”
“Less?” Her eyebrow arches.
“Less capable. Less observant. Less...”Less magnificent, my leopard supplies unhelpfully. “Less surprising,” I finish.
She’s quiet for a moment, studying me. “You know, for someone who doesn’t smile, you almost just did.”
“Did I?”
“Mm-hmm. Right here.” She touches the corner of her own mouth, and I find myself staring at her lips. They’re soft-looking, pink from the cold, and my leopard wonders what they’d feel like against?—
I jerk my gaze back to the fire.
“Three days of me matching your deliberately punishing pace,” she continues, her voice carrying a note of amusement now. “If that’s not worth a smile, your standards are unreasonably high.”
The tiniest quirk of my mouth escapes before I can stop it. Not quite a smile, but close.
“There,” she says, satisfaction clear in her voice. “Was that so hard?”
The temperature feels suddenly warmer, though the fire hasn’t grown. She’s looking at me with something that might be approval, might be interest, might be?—
“We should rest,” I say abruptly. “Tomorrow will be harder.”
