“The ice retreated just enough for us to return to the surface. Lakes form—blue and green, so clear they look like fractured crystals scattered across the world. For a short time, Crytharia is beautiful.”
“That sounds… kind of amazing,” she said softly.
“It is,” he agreed. “And it’s the only time we can hunt fresh meat, gather what little plant life survives. We work constantly. Everything we take must last through the next Cold Season.”
“And the danger?” she asked.
He met her gaze then. “The Warm Season brings the most blood.”
Mara stiffened.
“The storms fade. The skies clear. Which means we are visible.” His jaw tightened. “Hunters on open ice are easy targets. Pirates. Rival clans. Enemy ships. Without the Cold Season to hide us, we are exposed.”
“So when it’s warm enough to live…” she said slowly, “…it’s also when you’re most likely to die.”
“Yes.”
“Why haven’t you asked the Galactic Nations for assistance, especially against the constant attacks from pirates?”
“You have to be recognized and accepted by the Galactic Nations for them to offer help.”
“Is that why you joined in the games? To get Crytharia recognized?"
“Yes. With recognition comes protection and possible trade. It would give more resources to my people so that we can improve our lives. As a clan leader, they are my responsibility.”
They ate in silence for a few moments after that.
She thought about it. He was used to planning for survival, not comfort. He would think in seasons—what would come next, not what felt good now.
“That explains a lot about you,” Mara said finally.
Vaelor glanced at her. “My turn.”
Mara leaned back on her pack. “Shoot.”
Chapter 14
Vaelor
“I don’t have a weapon like that,” Vaelor said carefully, “and I would never use it on you.”
Mara blinked, then smiled, the tension easing from her shoulders. “It’s just an Earth saying. It means… go ahead.”
He relaxed a fraction, the rigid line of his posture softening.
“Go ahead and ask me your questions,” she prompted, nudging her food pouch closer to the fire.
He hesitated, weighing how much truth was too much. “Why did your father allow you to face the danger of the Games alone?”
Mara stiffened instantly, her spine straightening. “My father doesn’t make decisions for me,” she said, defensiveness sharpening her voice. “I’m my own person.”
“A father should never allow his child to enter such danger,” Vaelor said. He couldn’t stop himself. The words came from instinct, from memory. “It is his duty to protect you.”
“He doesn’t know!” she burst out.
The force of it startled him. Not only the words, but the emotion behind them—raw, unguarded. Mara rarely lost control. She inhaled sharply, then pressed her lips together, staring into the fire as if gathering herself.
“My father is sick,” she said quietly. “He’s been in the hospital for weeks. I applied for the Games because the prize money will pay for his cure.”
