The ache between us has not gone away. He has been careful since our awkward night and worse morning. Too careful. Thoughtful in ways that land like distance. Food keeps appearing. Water waits for me. The better wraps are set closer when the air cools. He notices everything. But he has stepped back with his body. Given me room because he thinks room is what I need.
I understand that now. Understanding does not make it hurt less.
I dress in the low morning light and tie back my hair with fingers that remain too aware of what is missing from the tent. Warmth. Pressure. The easy dangerous certainty of him close.
Outside, the camp is already stirring. The sky is pale but hazed in a way I cannot quite place. Not clouded. Not clear either. Just washed strangely thin near the horizon. The air feels drier than yesterday. The wind brushes my face in short restless passes and then drops, as if it cannot decide which direction it wants.
I notice all of it. Then dismiss it because I do not know what any of it means.
That is the problem. This world keeps speaking in signs I cannot read yet.
At the morning fire, Oshara is sharper than usual. Not angry. More brisk. The Maira move faster. Baskets are checked twice. Water skins topped off. A pair of boys sent running for extra cloth wraps. One of the older women mutters something in Tigris while glancing toward the eastern horizon, and another answers with a sound that feels half agreement, half annoyance.
I catch none of the meaning. Only the rhythm. Something is different. The women know it.
Work continues anyway. That too is the rasha.
The first task of the morning is food sorting, then dividing the dried stores, then deciding what fresh gathering can be done before the day turns. I listen hard, hoping for enough English to catch the shape of what is happening. I get pieces only. Roots. Bitter greens. Fast work. Closer fields.
Closer fields.
That much I understand.
Oshara looks toward one of the younger women and says something clipped. Then, with a glance at me, adds in English, “You go with them. Gather quickly. No wandering.”
I nod at once.
The opportunity matters. That is what no one here fully understands yet, maybe not even Kaiven. Every task is more than a task to me right now. Every basket carried, root dug, wrap folded, child handed a cup, herb sorted correctly. All of it feels like proof I am trying to become something more than a female being kept.
Not because I despise being kept safe. Because safety alone can feel too much like passivity if I let it.
I do not want to become a soft useless thing in the center of Kaiven’s protection. I do not want the women to look at me and see only Kai’s human Sahri, who eats his food, sleeps in his furs, and contributes nothing but the future hope of children.
So when Oshara sends me with the gathering women, I feel relief sharper than caution.
We leave camp in a group of five women and one young male guard. Not the fully guarded ring of the predator day. This is a shorter run. A nearby patch. Lower risk.
I tell myself that matters.
The land beyond camp is familiar enough now to be less frightening at first glance. Tall grass. Low stone outcroppings. Tough ground with pockets of growth where roots and edible plants cluster if you know where to look. The morning light stays strangely thin, though, and the wind keeps changing. One minute it brushes warm over my bare hands. The next it cools sharply and raises the fine hairs at the back of my neck.
A younger woman named Retha, who has been less cold to me than most, hands me a digging blade and points toward a patch near a line of rocks.
“There. Deep roots. Twist, not pull.”
I nod and kneel where shown.
The work is good because it keeps my body busy. Blade in. Turn. Loosen the soil. Pull the root whole if possible. Brush offexcess dirt. Drop it in the basket. I am slower than the others, but not useless. Not today. The roots come free with satisfying resistance, and after a while I fall into the task enough that the silence between me and Kaiven blurs a little at the edges.
That is another reason I cling to work now. It gives me somewhere to put myself besides missing him or being wounded by him.
The women speak around me as they move down the line. Short phrases. Calls to shift positions. Occasional corrections. At one point Retha tosses me a strip of cloth to wrap around the root stems so the cut ends do not dry too fast. Another woman gestures for me to move left, where the growth is thicker. These small things matter. Every practical inclusion matters.
I keep going.
After a while I notice the light has changed again.
The sun is there, but the color is wrong. Dimmer without cloud cover. Flatter somehow. The horizon to the east looks pale and dirty instead of bright. The wind dies for several breaths, and in the quiet the whole world feels as though it is listening.
