He nods, chews on something unsaid for a moment. “That thing causes problems, he's out. You understand?”
“He won't cause problems.”
His eyes slide to Kovren, still in the doorway. “What is he to you?”
I consider the question. Oath-bound protector. Dying stranger I pulled from a ditch. A giant who held a screaming man still while I set a bone and didn't jar the leg once.
“He's with me,” I say. “That's all you need to know.”
Harren doesn't look satisfied, but he doesn't push.
Kovren looks down at me when I reach the doorway. His face is that careful blank mask, but something flickers in his eyes when they meet mine.
“The child will live,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Because of you.”
“Because I happened to be here. Because I had the right herbs. Because luck was on our side for once.” I duck under his arm, step out into the street. “It's never just one thing.”
“You. Not luck. You.”
I don't answer. My hand brushes his arm as I duck past him into the street, and I don't pull it back as fast as I should.
We eat. The tavern keeper brings stew and bread. He doesn't charge us, which I suspect has more to do with Harren's orders than goodwill. Kovren eats carefully, breaking the bread into pieces, using the spoon with a grip that looks practiced. Calibrated. Everything he does with his hands looks like that.
The fever has eased since last night. Not gone but dulled. His color is better. My stitches are holding.
“You should rest,” I tell him. “Real rest. Same as last night.”
“Same arrangement?”
“Same arrangement.”
He almost smiles. I'm learning the shape of it now, the way it barely moves his mouth but changes everything around his eyes.
We go upstairs. He takes his corner. I sit beside him, close enough to touch if I wanted to, and start talking. The patients I'll see tomorrow. What Harren didn't mention but I noticed: the well water smells wrong, slightly sulfuric, and half the village is probably drinking bad water. What I'd do about it if I had the supplies.
His breathing deepens. His body relaxes against the wall. I keep talking until I run out of things to say, and then I just sit, listening to him breathe, watching the fire burn down.
Hours pass. The village goes quiet outside. I'm half-asleep myself, head tipped against the wall, when the scream rips through the night.
Not human.
Not animal.
A sound that used to be a voice and became something else.
Kovren is on his feet before I can draw breath, his whole body vibrating with sudden tension. His eyes have gone gold again, the way they did in the ditch. But the expression behind them isn't rage.
It's fear.
“It's here.” The words come out low. “It found us.”
“The thing you've been hunting.”
He's already moving toward the door. Each step deliberate, controlled, the kind of precision that only comes from holding something back.
