The fever is gone. Not beaten back, not smoldering. Gone, as if the berserker rage burned through whatever was left of the infection and incinerated it along with everything else.
I don't ask about the words the creature used.
Brother, it called him. Deserter. Oath-breaker.
Whatever he's been hunting, it's not just a monster.
It's family.
And that makes everything more complicated.
KOVREN
She saved my life twice in four days. Saw the berserker and didn't run.
I don't understand her. The not-understanding has become a constant ache, like the wounds on my chest, like the years of hunting that live in my bones.
We left Gorvani at dawn, slipping out through the back gate while the village was still cleaning up the wreckage from last night. Harren watched us go with relief written plain across his face. He didn't say goodbye. Didn't thank her for the lives she saved. Just watched the monster leave and probably prayed we'd never come back.
I can't blame him. I'd pray the same thing.
The road unwinds through farmland gone wild, fields that haven't been tended in years slowly being reclaimed by forest. The sky is gray and low, threatening rain, and the wind carries the smell of coming winter.
She walks beside me. Not behind, not ahead. Beside. We've found our pace over the last five days, her two strides to each of mine, and she doesn't ask me to slow down. Just keeps moving, that stubborn set to her jaw that I'm beginning to recognize asthe way she looks when she's decided something and won't be argued out of it.
My cloak is wrapped around her shoulders, knotted at her waist to keep the extra length from tangling her legs. She's belted her pack over the top of it, the straps pulling the wool taut across her chest. It looks ridiculous. She doesn't seem to care.
I feel different this morning. Lighter. The fever burned itself out during the fight, and my body is fully mine again. No infection dragging at my blood, no heat blurring my thoughts. My wounds ache, but it's a clean ache. Healing, not festering.
She did that. All of it. And paid for it. There's a bruise darkening along her jaw from where the creature threw her, and she's favoring her left shoulder after she hit the ground. She hasn't mentioned it. Hasn't slowed down.
I steal a glance at her. She barely comes up to my ribs. I could lose her in a crowd, lose sight of her entirely if I wasn't paying attention.
My chest clenches.
“You're staring.”
I look away. “Apologies.”
“Don't apologize. Just ask.”
“Ask what?”
“Whatever you're trying to figure out by looking at me.” She adjusts her pack, winces at the way the fresh supplies from Gorvani dig into her shoulders. Bandages, herbs, two new bottles of alcohol, food for two. “I can practically hear you thinking.”
“Brother,” I say. “Last night. It called me brother.”
“I heard.”
“You want to know the story.”
“Only if you want to tell it.” She keeps walking, her eyes on the road ahead. “You don't owe me your history just because I stitched you up a few times.”
“I owe you more than history.” The words come out before I can stop them. “I owe you my life. Twice. And you're still here, walking beside me toward something that wants to kill us both. The least I can give you is the truth.”
She's quiet for a moment. Then she nods, a small motion, and waits.
The words are there, all of them, pressed into me like scar tissue, and I don't know where to start.
