A massive firebird dropped into the canyon. Larger than the others, scarred and ancient. The alpha. It landed between us and the exit, wings spread to block escape.
Its eyes fixed on Lexa.
She didn't hesitate. She charged straight at it, knife ready, no fear in her movements.
The alpha's beak snapped at her. She ducked under it, drove her blade up into the soft tissue beneath its jaw. The knife sank deep, buried to the hilt.
The firebird reared back. Lexa tried to hold on, tried to keep her grip on the weapon.
The creature's weight was too much. It yanked away, taking the knife with it.
Lexa stumbled, caught herself. Reached for the blade still embedded in the alpha's throat.
The hilt snapped.
The sound was small. A crack of metal and leather. But in the chaos of the fight, I heard it clearly.
Lexa stood there holding half a knife. The blade was still lodged in the firebird's throat, useless to her now. She stared at the broken hilt in her hand, at the jagged edge where metal had sheared away.
The alpha lunged.
I was moving before conscious thought. Crossed the distance, my blade finding the firebird's eye socket. I drove it deep, twisted, felt the creature go limp.
It collapsed. Dead weight hitting stone with enough force to crack it.
The remaining firebirds scattered. Their alpha was dead, their coordinated attack broken. They fled up and out of the canyon, screeches fading into the distance.
Silence fell.
I turned to Lexa. She was still standing in the same spot, still staring at the broken knife in her hand. Blood covered her from head to toe, none of it hers as far as I could tell. Her chest heaved with exertion.
"Lexa."
She didn't respond. Just kept looking at the broken hilt.
I crossed to her, careful not to startle her. My hand found her shoulder. She flinched at the contact, then seemed to register my presence.
"I've had that knife for eight years," she said. Her voice was flat. Empty. "I carried it through basic training, three deployments, the journey on the Nostos."
I looked at the broken hilt in her hand. The leather wrapping was worn smooth from years of use, shaped to her grip. The metal showed scratches and nicks, evidence of hard use and careful maintenance.
A piece of her past. A connection to the life she'd left behind when the ship crashed.
Gone.
She closed her fist around the broken hilt. Knuckles white with pressure.
Then she shoved it into her belt. The movement was sharp, angry. She turned away from me, surveyed the canyon full of firebird corpses.
"We should move," she said. "The blood will draw scavengers."
Always practical. Always focused on the next threat, the next problem to solve. Never stopping long enough to process what she'd lost.
I wanted to pull her against me. Wanted to wrap my wings around her and let her grieve in private. Wanted to promise I'd replace everything this planet had taken from her.
But she was already moving. Already packing up her bedroll, checking her remaining weapons, preparing to leave.
Separate. Distant. Untouchable.
