I sit opposite fire, gathering cloak around broad shoulders. The cut from lynx burns; I dab salve. She eyes wound. “May I?”
“Already coated.”
“My salve numbs flame scars.” She produces small crystal vial green as sea glass.
I extend arm. She removes glove, fingers cool as river stones. She squeezes one drop, works it across tear. Burn sting fades instantly, replaced by tingle. Ambrosial scent of moonwort wafts.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Consider it repayment for claws to the rescue.” A ghost smile.
I study her face in firelight: cheekbones reflecting amber, lashes casting long fans across moon-pale skin. Crystal on throat gleams like starlight caught in ice. I respect how she fought—fearless, precise, despite body betraying her.
“You could have hid while I fought,” I say.
“And leave you to burn your jaw on molten hide? Rude.” She bundles cloak tighter. “Besides, two hands finish trouble faster than one.”
I huff laughter. “Pack logic.”
“Wisdom older than wolf packs, Alpha.”
A comfortable hush settles. Fire pops, sparks rising into chilled sky. Aurora fringes horizon, painting clouds with emerald ink. The mountain breathes deep below.
Yet inside me, thoughts churn. Shard, brand, child lost. Protect her. Purge shard. Save pack. I cycle the litany until it beats time with heart.
Carmilla interrupts cycle. “You recite something inward. Your eyes flick on each beat.”
“Counts help me plan.”
“Counts?” She tilts head.
“First priority: protect traveling companion.” I gesture at her collar. “Second: destroy anchor stone harvesting pack grief. Third: return pack to safety.” I leave unsaid a fourth: carve Crimson Dawn to ribbons.
She touches ribbon bracelet pup gifted her; in firelight it looks like woven gold. “Your list aligns with my own, though wording differs.”
“Humor me.”
“First: reach shrine intact. Second: decipher binding law. Third: survive long enough to teach others.”
“Which includes the pack.”
“Which includes you.” She meets my gaze, earnest.
Heat climbs my neck—not shard now but emotion raw. I clear throat, poke fire viciously. Sparks snow upward.
Minutes pass. Snow resumes drifting beyond rune shield, falling thicker as wind veers. Distant ridge rumbles—avalanche somewhere behind us.
I rise, scan perimeter. Lynx carcass lies beyond runes, cooling. Already frost crust forms over brand. We cannot leave evidence for carrion or cult. I stride over, dig pit with shifted claws. Quick work. Carmilla approaches, offers handful of dried juniper. I mix it with carcass, ignite with torch. Smoke rises, smelling like charred spice and singed fur.
Flames reflect in her eyes. “Each corrupted beast is a wound. Sometimes burning is the only suture.” Her tone mournful, not cold.
We return to fire, pack gear. Moon climbs high, bleeding pale light over cliff. Carmilla mutters rune to douse blue sand—protects trail from trackers. My respect deepens; she operates with soldier precision despite her fragile threads.
“Trail grows steeper,” I warn. “Ice shelves bridge chasms. Your harness rope hooks to mine—no heroic leaps.”
She chuckles softly. “I despise falling. Agreed.”
We shoulder packs. The shard, now mute, rides inside mine again, cushioned by wolf pelt. Its silence unnerves me; dead quiet can shatter without warning.
