“No,” she protested immediately. “I can walk. I won’t be a burden.”
He turned to face her fully, his expression serious. “This isn’t a discussion about burdens, Gessa. It’s about facts. Creating a stable Ley tunnel is one of the most draining things a Wayfinder can do. What you did... that wasn’t a tunnel. You tore a raw, unstable hole through reality. The backlash should have killed you. Most Wayfinders would be unconscious for a week, if they woke up at all. Your weakness isn’t a failing; it’s a testament to the fact that you have more raw power than anyone I’ve ever seen. But it has a cost. And you will pay it by conserving what little strength you have left.”
Humbled, and finally understanding the true severity of her exhaustion, she could only nod. Ky turned to his soul-beast, who had been watching the exchange with unsettling intelligence. They shared a look that needed no words. Night let out a low, rumbling sigh of assent and took a step forward, deliberately lowering his powerful body to the ground, making himself less intimidating.
He was still a mountain of dark fur and muscle. Ky helped her onto the massive lynx’s back, his hands firm and impersonal at her waist. She settled onto the warm, solid expanse of Night’s back. The coat was impossibly thick, and she had to fight a sudden, childish urge to lean forward and bury her face in that deep, living velvet. She was struck by the feeling of the powerful muscles moving beneath her and the strange, disorienting intimacy of the act.
As they traveled, Gessa, from her vantage point, had a clear view of Ky. He winced with every step, his limp worsening on theuneven ground. His pride prevented him from complaining, but she saw the truth of his struggle. Guilt gnawed at her. Here she was, riding like a lady on a hunt, while he suffered with every step. She was the reason they were in this mess, and he was the one paying the price. The feeling of helplessness was infuriating.
They stopped for a brief rest by a stream that cut through the forest floor. Ky sagged against a rock, his face pale and slick with a sweat that had nothing to do with the cool air. He dragged himself to the water’s edge, splashing the icy liquid on his face before cupping his hands and drinking deeply, greedily.
Gessa slid off Night’s back and knelt beside him, doing the same. The shock of the cold water was a welcome jolt to her system. As she drank, her eyes scanned the stream bank, a habit from her own past. She spotted a patch of familiar plants with broad, velvety leaves. She knew them. They wouldn’t cure anything, but mashed into a paste, they had a cooling, soothing quality that could ease the fire of an aching muscle.
Seeing him subtly trying to rub his injured thigh, she made a decision. She gathered a handful of the leaves, crushing them between two flat stones until they released a fragrant, green paste.
“Let me see your leg,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.
His head snapped up, his eyes flashing with a proud, defensive anger. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” she countered, her own voice surprising her with its steadiness. “I’m not a Healer, but I know herbs. This will help.”
He stared at her for a long moment, his pride warring with the clear, undeniable pain in his eyes. He finally gave a short, clipped nod of assent. The act of him relenting felt like a quiet earthquake.
“May I have your knife?” she asked, her voice steady.
Without a word, he pulled the blade from the sheath on his belt and offered it to her, hilt first. The gesture was an unspoken transfer of trust. She took it, the weight of it solid and serious in her hand, then reached down to the hem of her thin undershirt and cut two long strips from the bottom. She handed the knife back to him, hilt first, and met his wary gaze.
“It’s the thigh, isn’t it?” she stated, her voice quiet but firm. “I saw how you were favoring it in the mud. The poultice needs to go on the muscle.”
With stiff, reluctant movements, he unlaced the side of his breeches and pushed the fabric aside. He exposed the long, powerful muscle of his thigh, and the intimacy of the gesture hung in the air between them, sharp and sudden. The skin was marred by a network of pale, silvery scars that radiated out from the main injury site higher on his leg—dangerously close to his groin. It was a silent testament to an old agony. Night lay a few feet away, a silent, powerful guardian, his blue eyes tracking her every move, not with menace, but with an unwavering scrutiny.
Kneeling before him, Gessa hesitated for only a heartbeat, her throat suddenly dry. She forced herself to be clinical, focusing on the task. She gently applied the cool paste, and the contact of her cool fingers on his warm, tense skin sent a jolt through them both. The muscle beneath her hand clenched like stone, and she heard his breath catch in a hiss. The sound, she realized with a jolt, was not just one of pain. It was something else, something tighter and more raw, though she couldn’t begin to name it.
She kept her eyes down, her focus on the circular motion of her hand, pretending not to notice the sudden, charged tension in the air. When the poultice was applied, she used the strips of her undershirt to bind it carefully in place. It was the first time she had ever cared for him, the first time she had touched a manin years without fear, and the sheer novelty of it all made her own hands tremble.
She tied off the final knot and quickly drew her hands back, her heart hammering against her ribs. Ky watched her for a beat, his expression unreadable, before he adjusted his clothing with a stiff, deliberate motion. “Thank you,” he said, the words quiet and rough. He pushed himself to his feet, his gaze already scanning the path ahead, the instructor once more in command. “We’ve lost enough light.”
They had barely set off again when the weather turned. The sky, which had been a flat, grey sheet, darkened to the color of a bruise. A cold wind whipped through the trees, and the first fat, icy drops of rain began to fall. Within minutes, it was a downpour, a cold, driving rain that soaked them instantly.
The sudden, icy shock of the water was brutal. Gessa, already at the very edge of her endurance, felt her last reserves of strength leach away. Her body began to tremble uncontrollably, and a wave of black dizziness washed over her. She swayed on Night’s back, her grip on his thick fur slackening.
“Gessa!” Ky’s voice was a command. He reached out instantly, his hand clamping onto her arm, his grip strong and steadying. He held her upright until the dizziness passed, his face a mask of grim concern. “Stay with me. Don’t you dare fall.”
She could only nod, her teeth chattering, shame and gratitude warring within her. He let go, but moved closer, walking beside Night’s flank, his presence a solid, reassuring wall against the storm. It was then that the trail turned to slick, treacherous mud.
Ky, who had been managing on the dry ground, now struggled badly. His bad leg couldn’t find purchase in the slick mud, and Gessa saw him slip, his entire limb giving way. He caught himself with a pained grunt, his hand braced against a tree. Night immediately moved to his side, pointedly brushinghis thick, muscular body against his master’s injured leg. Gessa saw Ky shove the lynx away with a gruff, silent gesture.
Night ignored it, pressing back with a low rumble that was both insistent and deeply concerned. For a long moment, man and soul-beast were locked in a silent, stubborn argument of wills. Finally, with a barely perceptible sigh of defeat, Ky relented, placing a hand on the lynx’s powerful shoulder and leaning a fraction of his weight on his companion.
“We need shelter!” Ky yelled over the roar of the rain, his voice tight with pain.
Seeing him finally accept help spurred Gessa into action. From her higher position on Night’s back, she scanned the surrounding area desperately.
“There!” she shouted, pointing to a dark slash in a rock outcropping a hundred yards away. A shallow cave.
Ky nodded grimly. The hundred yards to the cave were a special kind of hell. The driving rain came in blinding sheets, turning the world into a wash of grey and green. The ground, now a sucking mire, fought for every step. Gessa had to cling to Night’s thick fur with a desperate strength she didn’t know she possessed, every lurch of the powerful lynx threatening to unseat her.
The cold seeped into her bones, a deep, dangerous chill. Beside them, Ky fought his own battle. He leaned heavily on Night, his good leg sinking into the mud while his bad one dragged, and she could hear his pained, guttural breaths even over the storm. It was a slow, agonizing procession, a three-part team bound by desperation: Gessa as the eyes, Ky as the will, and Night as the unwavering, patient strength that moved them all forward.
