Moab was at the hearth, kneeling in front of the small fire. He turned when I stirred, face half-lit by the flames, beard shadowed in a way that made him look older, or else more dangerous than I remembered. He watched me with that samemeasuring silence, a balance of caution and care that always left me uncertain which way he’d tip.
I tried to speak, but my voice stuck. I coughed again, swallowed, and finally managed, “How long?”
He rose, moved to my side, and knelt without a word. He pressed the back of his hand to my cheek, then my brow, his touch clinical but gentle. His fingers were cold as the window glass. After a moment, he said, “Three days.”
The weight of it sank into my bones. I remembered fragments of heat, voices, the world flickering between nightmare and the haze of sleep. Once, I’d dreamed Moab left and never returned. Another time, I thought I saw him sitting at the end of the pallet, teeth bared in a rictus that was not a smile.
“Three days?” I said, voice smaller than I liked.
He nodded. “You nearly didn’t come back.” He didn’t say it with reproach. Just fact.
My stomach growled, loud enough for both of us to hear. The shame of it made me laugh, though the sound was brittle. “I suppose the world didn’t stop turning while I was gone.”
He didn’t laugh. Instead, he stood and rummaged through a battered sack by the door, returning with a handful of withered roots and two berries so shriveled they looked like the eyes of a dead bird.
“Eat,” he said, handing them over.
The roots tasted of earth and bitterness, but I chewed them anyway, grateful for anything real. The berries were so sour they made my jaw ache, but I ate those too.
“Nothing else?” I asked, not wanting to sound ungrateful.
Moab shook his head. “We’re out of time.” He glanced at the window, then back at me. “If you can move, we should leave.”
I tried to sit up. The world swam, but I forced myself upright, bracing with my arms. I wrapped the fur tighter around myshoulders, the smell of smoke and animal skin clinging to me like a memory. “Where?”
He was already lacing his boots, jaw clenched with purpose. “South. There’s a ravine. If we keep low, we can reach the river before they double back.”
I eyed the sack, then the empty room. “You said we’re out of time. And food.”
He nodded. “I’ll hunt.”
I blinked at the simplicity of it. “With what? The men took every blade when they searched. There’s no bow, no spear.”
He shrugged, and for a moment I saw a flash of something in his eyes, a brightness that startled me. It was gone before I could name it.
“I’ll manage,” he said, as if the world owed him a meal.
A shiver ran through me, not from the cold but from the way he spoke. I tried to push aside the memory of his hands, the way they had pressed my wound, the strength in them. There was a story old Nan used to tell, about wolves that walked as men, about hunger that could never be sated. I shook my head, telling myself not to be a fool.
We packed quickly for the hunt. He tore a strip from his shirt and fashioned a sling for my ankle, winding the cloth with more care than I would have guessed. When he touched my foot, he was gentle, but the pulse in his wrist beat so fast I could see the vein jump.
“You’re not afraid?” I asked, meaning more than the hunt.
He looked up, a flicker of surprise on his face. “Of what?”
“Of me slowing you down,” I said, because it was easier than the truth.
He grunted, almost a laugh. “I’ve carried heavier.”
The sun had risen fully by the time we stepped outside. The air was sharp, cutting through the fur and wool like knives. I limped behind him, the world spinning only a little. The snowwas crusted over, footprints clear as writing. The men had been through here, and recently.
We kept to the trees, branches snagging at my hair. I tried to keep pace, but each step set my teeth on edge. Moab glanced back every so often, eyes narrowed, the amber flecks in his irises catching the morning light. Once, when I stumbled, he caught me under the arm, his grip hard enough to bruise. He did not apologize, just steadied me and pressed on.
When we reached the edge of the ravine, he stopped. The wind howled up from the hollow, bringing with it the smell of rot and something wilder, an animal scent I could not place.
He turned to me, voice lower now, almost intimate. “Wait here. I’ll be back before dark.”
I wanted to protest, to insist that he would need my help, but the look on his face told me it was not up for debate.
