Serriana—or Serra, as she preferred—was no stranger to strange men. She’d met wandering mystics, would-be heroes, and even a dragon in disguise once. But Brass? He was something else entirely.

  Timid yet brash. Calcuted, but reckless. A paradox in motion, constantly stumbling forward like fate itself had pushed him off a cliff and dared him to fly. He reminded her of Sir Avery, a knight she’d met in her youth—foolish, fearless, and hopelessly honest. She’d admired that kind of heart. Still did, apparently.

  Just moments ago they had been walking side by side under the cloak of night, enjoying the rare peace of a moonless sky. The hills were quiet, the crickets a soft hum beneath the wind, and she’d almost allowed herself to rex—until he vanished. One blink. One gust of dispced wind. And he was gone.

  “Damn it, Brass…” she muttered, already jogging after him, her boots crunching against the dry grass and brittle shale.

  The clouds overhead bnketed the world in shadow, hiding the stars and moon behind a curtain of grey. Her feet slipped more than once on loose stones, and shriveled shrubs snagged her leggings like jealous hands, but she pushed forward. Each step was a gamble. Each breath a whisper of mana threading through the air, ced with tension.

  Then came the cry.

  A sound that didn’t belong in this world. Not completely.

  A shrill, soul-deep screech that cwed at the edges of reality and made her blood freeze in her veins. Her arms broke out in gooseflesh, and every instinct screamed at her to turn around.

  Instead, she stood still, heart hammering in her chest.

  The air had changed. It was heavier now, like wading through smoke and sorrow. Her breath came out in clouds she could see, even without the cold. The darkness here wasn’t just a ck of light—it was alive, seeping into her bones.

  Serra closed her eyes. Focus. Center. Breathe.

  A flicker of warmth lit in her chest as she summoned her mana—her spirit responding like an old friend. Fire-aspected energy surged through her veins, coiling beneath her skin like a protective cloak. She didn’t ignite a fme, not yet, but the ember of courage burned bright inside her heart.

  “Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s find out what you’ve gotten yourself into this time.”

  Despite herself, she smiled. Brass had only been in her life a short while, but he already had a way of dragging her into chaos. And she didn’t hate it. In fact, there was something… exhirating about him. The way he looked at the world like it was both a threat and a promise. And gods help her, he was easy on the eyes too—broad shoulders, those wolfish red eyes, and a stubbornness that made her want to sp him or kiss him depending on the day.

  She pinched her cheek. “Focus, Serra.”

  She snorted softly under her breath, but the suffocating dread ahead reminded her this wasn’t the time for wandering thoughts. Still, they had helped, grounding her enough to push forward with renewed purpose. Her footsteps softened, her movements precise. She began channeling mana into her hands, ready to cast at the first sign of danger.

  Then she reached the clearing—and the breath caught in her throat.

  There they were: Brass, transformed into his lycan form, a primal force of fur and fury; the hill giant from earlier, barreling forward with blind, thundering rage; and opposite them, a figure cloaked in regal darkness, face obscured beneath enchanted folds of deep violet. The robes shimmered unnaturally, warping light and swallowing sound. Even her aura sense barely registered him—like trying to read a riddle carved into smoke.

  But she felt him.

  Oh gods, she felt him.

  The air around him crackled with mana—twisted, heavy, wrong. A pressure so intense it made her stomach lurch and her knees buckle. Her hands shook, her fire aspect flickering like a candle in a storm.

  She colpsed to one knee, gasping.

  She tried to stand. Couldn’t.

  Then her eyes met Brass’s.

  His red gaze, still fierce but now ced with something that chilled her more than the air: fear.

  He didn’t speak, but she felt it—somehow. The desperation. Run.

  Her breath caught in her chest as the battle surged. The giant lunged, roaring in unfiltered rage, swinging his club with mountain-breaking force. The cloaked man moved like water, like shadow—bending low, gliding under the strike, and then rising with a single, effortless motion that ended in a thunderous blow to the giant’s chest.

  The hill giant flew.

  He crashed into the hillside like a comet, stone and soil erupting in a spray of debris. Serra shielded her eyes, coughing as dust choked the air.

  The sound was sickening. Serra flinched.

  but then Brass moved—vanished, really—reappearing in a burst of momentum that left the very grass fttened beneath his feet. Serra’s heart lurched, a quiet gasp escaping her lips as he darted at the cloaked man once more, cws drawn and eyes burning with desperation.

  But she knew it already. She had seen it in his eyes.

  He wasn’t attacking for victory. He was buying time.

  “No—Brass!” she tried to yell, but her voice was strangled by the pressure bnketing the clearing. The mana flooding from the cloaked figure weighed on her shoulders like invisible chains, pinning her to the earth.

  The man barely moved. His hand shot up in a zy, almost uninterested arc, and Brass’s attack was effortlessly countered. The impact of their csh split the air with a concussive boom—then Brass went tumbling back again, bones cracking under the strain.

  Serra could only watch, trembling with helpless frustration. Her own mana, though vibrant within her chest, refused to respond. It felt like trying to light a fire beneath the weight of an avanche.

  And then he looked at her.

  His crimson eyes found hers across the chaos. The pain twisted into them, the agony, the stubborn defiance—but behind all of that was something softer, something that made her chest clench tight.

  He shook his head. Once. Firmly.

  Run.

  Serra’s breath caught. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision just as the cloaked figure raised one hand.

  She screamed.

  A burst of bck-purple energy fred like a miniature sun in the gloom. The spell didn’t crackle like lightning—it whispered, cruel and ancient, like the breath of a god no longer worshipped.

  Then came the thud.

  Brass staggered, his body already shifting down from lycan form. The impact had driven a perfect, cauterized hole through his chest—his ribs cracked open like a broken shield.

  “No…” she whispered, too te, too far away.

  Brass colpsed to one knee, then to his side, his hand still clutching the wound as blood poured between his fingers. His lips moved one st time. Silent.

  Run.

  Serra screamed again, this time raw and choked with rage and heartbreak, as she surged to her feet, fire blooming at st in her veins, mana answering her fury.

  The man turned.

  A single hand raised. Purple-bck mana coalesced around it, humming with malice.

  A pulse.A sound like cracking gss—sharp and wrong, like the world itself was fracturing.

  Then the air behind the cloaked man splintered.Not figuratively—literally. A spiderweb of jagged cracks spidered out through empty space, light leaking through the fractures like pale moonlight through shattered stained gss. Reality bent inward, the fabric of the world buckling in protest.

  From the center of this spiraling fracture, a hole ripped open—a clean, circur void that pulsed like a wound in the sky. And through it stepped a woman.

  The clearing, once filled with death and desperation, now held something worse: purpose.

  She was cd in deep violet armor, its surface a fluid metal that shimmered between amethyst and ink-bck depending on how the light touched it. Razor-edged accents curled like thorns along the shoulders and gauntlets, each curve of the armor elegant, dangerous, and unmistakably regal. Her boots clicked softly against the ground, and each step seemed to echo louder than the st—an arrival that needed no announcement.

  Her beauty was terrible to behold.

  Not because it was marred—but because it was perfect. Unnaturally so. Her skin was pale like polished marble, smooth and cold. High cheekbones framed a face sculpted with aristocratic precision, lips full and dark as ripe fruit, parted just slightly in a look of eternal disdain. Her arched eyebrows drew upward as her gaze surveyed the field, and then—

  Her eyes.

  They were voids. Not simply bck, but alive with darkness. A swirling abyss of depthless shadow, each eye centered by a single sphere of molten crimson, like a blood moon trapped in eternal orbit. Her gaze cut through Serra, stripping her bare with a gnce.

  As she stepped fully into the world, the suffocating aura the man had cloaked the battlefield in vanished. It didn’t flee—it paused, like the world itself was holding its breath.

  Serra gasped as the weight lifted from her chest, her lungs flooding with air as if she’d just been dragged out from underwater.

  The woman didn’t look at her. She barely acknowledged Brass’s broken body. Her eyes settled instead on the magician.

  She spoke.

  Her voice was smooth, aristocratic, ced with a high gothic accent that dragged each sylble out like a wine connoisseur describing a disappointing vintage. And yet, every word struck with precision, honed and effortless.

  “What is the holdup, Cassius?” she said, her tone one of weary impatience. “I was promised you would retrieve the relic and return before the next phase of the ritual was complete. And yet…” Her lip curled slightly. “I find you here. Pying with the mortals.”

  She drew out the word mortals like it was filth on her tongue, like someone had shoved rotting meat beneath her nose.

  Cassius, unfazed, turned his hooded head toward her. There was a subtle shift in his posture—still rexed, but more respectful, like two soldiers exchanging gnces on a battlefield. His voice came out like silk over stone, smooth but with weight behind it.

  “My apologies, Lady Hannya,” he said. “A family of hill giants had taken up residence in the ruins. I suspect they tampered with the relic—possibly even handed it off to a nearby mortal settlement.” His tone was ced with polite annoyance. “I was in the process of… rectifying the situation when you stepped in.”

  Serra, still kneeling in the grass, felt like her ears were stuffed with wool. Her heart pounded in her throat, her hands trembling as she tried to keep hold of her mana. The pressure was back, different this time—more refined, like being caught between the ptes of two shifting mountains. It wasn’t meant to crush her. It simply was, and she was too small to stand beneath it.

  Her vision blurred.

  She fought for breath, teeth clenched.

  Hannya turned away from Cassius, arms folding in a zy, imperial gesture. “It matters not,” she said, her voice now tinged with irritation. “The st blood crystal has shattered. We’ll need to prepare more. The Master desires higher purity this time.”

  Cassius gave a slow nod. No further words. He understood.

  Together, the two stepped into the still-shimmering rift—one flowing like silk, the other like shadow given form.

  Just as Serra thought she could colpse in peace, Cassius paused.

  He looked back.

  Though his face remained hidden beneath that dark hood, she could feel his eyes lock onto hers. For a heartbeat, all sound faded—only the rustle of wind through the grass, the crackle of dying mana fields around them.

  Then, slowly, deliberately, he raised one hand—and held a single finger to where his lips should be.

  A gesture of silence.

  A warning.

  Then the portal closed with a quiet shhhk, like a bde sliding home into its sheath. And they were gone.

  Serra was left alone in the clearing, gasping beside the broken body of a man she didn’t yet understand, but somehow already mourned.

  A hiccuping cry yanked Serra’s attention back to the present.

  The sound was small, broken—like a whimper buried under yers of fear—and it struck something deep in her chest. She turned toward the source, and the sight that met her eyes twisted her stomach into knots.

  The mother giant, slumped weakly against the slope of a shattered tree trunk, cradled her child to her chest with trembling arms. Her skin—tough and grayish with the mottled texture of stone—had taken on a paler hue, blood seeping steadily from a long, jagged gash across her ribs. Her breath came in short gasps, each one shallower than the st, and the child’s wailing cry was the only proof of life between them.

  Serra’s gaze flicked toward the massive hill giant still embedded in the hillside—his limbs twisted unnaturally, debris clinging to his bulk like leaves to a fallen statue. She wasn’t sure if he was dead or just unconscious, but either way, his silence was heavy and grim.

  She clenched her fists.Damn it all.

  Why hadn’t she ever bothered to learn even a single healing spell? She’d spent so long chasing fire—its beauty, its raw destructive potential—that she’d neglected the gentler magicks. Her affinity made fire as natural to her as breathing, but right now, fme couldn’t stitch wounds or stop bleeding. It couldn’t cradle a child or revive a fading mother.

  She cursed under her breath.

  Looking in her bag she saw she only had two high-grade healing potions and three lesser potions. The lesser potions would do nothing in this situation. The other potions were the rare kind. The expensive kind. The kind that took weeks of saving or bartering just to afford. And yet… what use were potions if not to save lives?

  With a heavy sigh, she shook her head.There was no real decision to be made—not for her.

  She stepped forward, heart pounding, trying to ignore the pang of grief building in her throat. Her eyes flicked—against her better judgment—back to where Brass had fallen.

  And that’s when she heard it.A crackling, splintering noise like dry cy fracturing in the heat of a kiln.

  Her breath hitched.

  She turned fully toward the source—and her blood turned cold.

  Brass’s body was… breaking down. His flesh, once hardened and monstrous in his lycan form, had begun to dissolve. Cracks spread across his limbs and chest like lines in brittle porcein. The blood pooling beneath him dried to dust, and piece by piece, he crumbled—fking away into fine gray ash that scattered with the breeze.

  “No…”

  For a heartbeat, her legs refused to move. Her mind bnked.

  Then—click. Memory.

  He had told her. He’d spoken of death—of how it didn’t mean the same thing for him anymore.He’d called it a reset.

  “If I die, don’t panic. I’ll just return to the crypt. It’s like… being pulled home. Messy, sure, but not permanent.”

  The weight on her chest lifted—just slightly. Enough for her to breathe again. Enough to move.

  She turned her back to the vanishing form and refocused on what she could save.

  Crossing the clearing, she retrieved one of the vials from her satchel—its gss dark, etched with faint runes that shimmered red under the night’s light. The liquid inside swirled like vender gold ced with flecks of stardust. A high-tier potion, meant for adventurers in the deepest dungeons.

  She knelt by the mother giant, who had finally slipped into unconsciousness. Her massive chest rose in faint, shallow rhythms. The child, still clutched tightly in her arms, continued to cry, hiccuping and shaking, its tiny stone-like fingers grasping at the air.

  Gently, Serra reached up and parted the mother’s lips—careful not to jostle her—and tilted the vial. A third of the potion flowed into the giantess’s mouth, glowing briefly as it made contact with her tongue. Her body gave a faint twitch, a breath caught somewhere between life and death.

  Serra then turned to the infant, heart aching.

  She let a few precious drops fall into its mouth, the potion glimmering as it slid past its tiny fangs. The child blinked, the hiccups fading slowly into soft sniffles, eyes fluttering with exhaustion.

  She let out a long, shaking breath.

  They were safe. For now.

  And even though her limbs felt like lead and the magical aftershocks still echoed through the air like distant thunder, she managed a small, exhausted smile.

  “You’re lucky,” she murmured to the child, brushing a lock of its coarse hair aside. “He saved more than just me tonight.”

  Once she was sure the mother and child were out of immediate danger, Serra rose to her feet with a grunt, brushing ash and dried leaves from her cloak. Her legs trembled with the aftershock of spent mana, and a faint headache pulsed at her temples like the echo of some distant war drum. Still, she pressed on, turning toward the st figure lying half-buried in the hillside.

  The male giant—the father, she assumed—was beginning to stir.

  Loose soil crumbled around his massive shoulders as his chest rose with a ragged breath. The sheer size of him was enough to set her nerves on edge again. She took several cautious steps back, keeping herself at a non-threatening distance, and lowered her staff carefully to the ground, its silver tip resting in the grass.

  No sudden movements. No hostile aura.

  Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

  Serra had no real experience dealing with giants—at least, not peacefully. Most encounters with their kind ended in fmes and ruin. Her missions in the past had been hunting parties: giants who’d wandered too close to civilization, maddened by hunger or grief, driven into rages that left trails of shattered homes and broken bodies. She knew, academically at least, that not all giants were monsters. That they had their own ancient customs, isoted vilges, even trade routes with those brave or stubborn enough to earn their trust.

  But all that history didn’t mean much when a thirty-foot warrior sat up with murder in his eyes.

  Please, please let him speak common, she thought, swallowing the lump in her throat.

  The giant’s hand twitched. Then he shifted—slowly at first—his massive fingers curling against the dirt, pushing himself upright with a low, guttural groan. Earth and stone slid from his back like falling shingles. His wounds were severe—deep cerations along his arms and chest, a dark bruise spreading down his side where he’d smmed into the hill—but pain didn’t seem to register in his wild, enraged eyes.

  He let out a guttural roar, raw and full of confusion and fury. The sound punched through the air like a shockwave, sending birds scattering from nearby trees. Serra instinctively flinched but stayed grounded, hands raised in a peaceful gesture, palms outward.

  “I’m not your enemy,” she said, slowly and clearly, her voice shaking despite herself. “The danger is gone. You’re safe.”

  The hill giant’s head snapped toward her.

  He bellowed again—closer this time—and the sound hit her like a physical force, hot breath carrying the iron stench of blood and raw emotion. She tasted panic on the back of her tongue, but refused to run.

  Instead, she dropped to one knee, keeping her eyes low—trying not to appear threatening—and reached slowly into her satchel. Her fingers closed around the half-used potion bottle.

  With careful, exaggerated motions, she held it up and pointed toward the resting forms of the mother and child behind her. She mimed drinking, then pced a hand over her heart and gave a slow, deliberate nod.

  “I helped them. The little one… they’re alive.”

  She didn’t know if he understood a word she said. Giants had their own dialects, deep and guttural, tied to the flow of ancient mana that ced their blood. She barely knew two words of it. And yet—

  The giant paused.

  His wide, dirt-streaked chest heaved with the rhythm of someone caught between rage and reason. Blood dripped from his wounds, thick and dark, soaking into the cracked soil beneath him. Then his gaze shifted—past her—to where his family y.

  For a heartbeat, nothing moved.

  Then his expression cracked. Just slightly.

  The roar that had threatened to split the night faded into a low, rumbling groan—half sob, half breath. He slumped forward on one arm, the fury in his face giving way to pain. Not physical, but something older. Something heavier.

  Grief. Helplessness. A father who hadn’t been able to protect the ones he loved.

  Serra swallowed, tension knotting in her throat, and stood slowly—careful not to make any sudden movements. Her knees ached from kneeling too long on the rocky hillside, and the mana she’d been suppressing still buzzed faintly beneath her skin, a warning she wasn’t entirely out of danger yet.

  The giant didn’t seem to notice her rise.

  With a groan like distant thunder, the massive figure pushed himself up, movements stiff with injury. Dirt and blood clung to his skin like war paint. He took a halting step forward, then another, and slowly approached the unconscious forms of his mate and child. Wordlessly, reverently, he knelt and gathered them into his arms, cradling them with a tenderness that caught Serra off guard.

  So much power… yet so much care.

  The child gave a sleepy hiccup as he lifted them, clinging instinctively to the warmth of its mother’s body. The giant shifted his grip and straightened to his full, towering height, his shadow washing over Serra like a slow-moving eclipse.

  He turned to go.

  Serra didn’t stop him—didn’t even know what she could say. Her voice caught in her throat as she watched the hulking figure walk away, his enormous back slowly shrinking against the moonlit horizon. She felt like a leaf watching a mountain move.

  Then, after a few steps, the giant paused.

  He turned, the lines of his massive, mud-caked face unreadable. With one hand, still stained with blood and bruises, he raised a single gesture—an open palm, and then a curl of fingers beckoning her forward.

  Serra blinked.

  He wants me to follow?Well… refusing a thirty-foot wall of emotional muscle sounds like a poor life decision.

  She took off after him, quickening her stride. Even with the giant moving cautiously to avoid disturbing his fragile cargo, his steps covered so much ground that Serra found herself almost jogging to keep pace. The terrain didn’t help—loose stones and root-covered paths made each step a careful calcution. Her calves burned, and more than once she had to catch herself from tripping over uneven ground.

  Hours passed.The moon shifted in the sky, slipping behind banks of misty cloud. The night grew colder. Her breath puffed in soft clouds before her, and her fire-aspected mana flickered quietly beneath her skin, just enough to keep the chill from settling in her bones.

  Eventually, they crested the st of the foothills—and there, nestled in the craggy rise of stone and moss, was a structure that made her stop in awe.

  It looked like a cottage—simple in design, with a sloped roof, thick wooden beams, and smoke curling from a chimney—but everything was massive. Logs the width of tree trunks formed the walls, and windows the size of tavern doors were shuttered tight against the wind. The hinges on the double-wide door groaned under the strain as the giant nudged them open, nearly tearing them off in his haste.

  Serra followed, cautiously approaching the steps that led to the entrance. Each step was nearly as tall as her waist. She groaned and scrambled upward, hands pressed to wood damp with dew and moss, using her staff like a walking stick.

  By the time she reached the top, she was panting, her arms sore and her breathing uneven.

  Leaning on her staff, she peered through the entry.

  The giant’s home was warm with a faint golden glow from embers still burning in a stone-lined hearth. Everything was scaled far beyond her size—massive wooden furniture, a table like a festival stage, and a bearskin rug rger than a merchant’s tent. Despite the crude proportions, it was… homey. She could smell herbs hanging from the beams, the faint scent of honeyed oats, and something earthy—wildroot, maybe.

  The giant moved with surprising grace, even inside. He crossed to a bedding mat of straw and furs and gently id his unconscious mate down. With immense care, he uncurled her arms and took the child into his hands. The infant stirred at the change in warmth and began to wail, the high-pitched cry echoing like a bird trapped in a canyon

  The sound made Serra’s heart ache.

  She stepped inside slowly, boots clicking softly against the thick, polished wood. She remained near the doorway, watching.

  The giant sat with the child in his arms, his expression unreadable—torn between relief and lingering rage, between grief and love.

  Serra didn’t say a word. She simply stood there, trying to take in the enormity of what had just happened, of what they had all survived.

  And yet… Brass didn’t.

  The thought hit her like a dagger between the ribs.

  Still, she said nothing. For now, this wasn’t about her. It was about the family that had nearly been destroyed… and somehow endured

  Serra lingered near the threshold, unsure if stepping further in would be seen as boldness or disrespect. The warmth of the cottage contrasted sharply with the cold air outside, and for a brief moment, she just stood there, letting it wrap around her like a bnket. It smelled lived-in—woodsmoke and resin, dried herbs and earth. Faintly, beneath it all, was the metallic tang of blood.

  The hill giant sat down heavily near the hearth, every movement echoing with the weight of exhaustion. He rocked the child gently in his arms, humming a low, guttural tune that resonated in his chest more than it did in the air. It was rough, ancient, and somehow soothing. The baby began to calm, its tiny hands curling in on themselves, the cries tapering to soft hiccups.

  Serra’s fingers tightened around her staff. Do I say something? Wait for him to speak? She cleared her throat lightly. “Um… I hope she recovers,” she said, motioning carefully toward the unconscious giantess. “The potion should help, but she’ll need rest.”

  The giant turned his head slowly to look at her. His eyes were a deep, gcial blue—filled with pain, confusion, and something else… maybe gratitude. Maybe grief.

  He opened his mouth and spoke, voice gravelly and low, like two boulders grinding together. “You… help.” The words were thick with an accent, but intelligible. He tapped his chest with one massive hand. “Borek. Name. Borek.”

  Serra blinked, then nodded quickly, relief loosening the knot in her shoulders. “Serra,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest. “Serriana, but… Serra is fine.”

  Borek tilted his head, repeating the name under his breath as if testing its shape in his mouth. “Serra. Fire woman… kind. Brave.”

  She chuckled, more out of nerves than anything else. “Fire woman, huh? I suppose that’s accurate.” Her mana still hummed under her skin, flickering warm at the edges. “But I wasn’t brave. I just… couldn’t let them die.”

  Borek turned back toward the hearth, shifting his body to shield his mate and child from the draft. He set the baby down in a nest of furs beside them and looked at Serra again. “You fight. You heal. You stay.” He gestured to a giant-sized stool beside the fire, not much more than a carved log for someone his size—but for Serra, it was a climbable bench.

  She hesitated, then made her way over and perched carefully on the edge, her legs swinging just above the floor. The radiant heat from the hearth seeped into her bones, easing the tension that had knotted in her back since she’d first felt that crushing aura hours ago.

  Borek sat in silence for a while, staring into the fmes. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter—more contemptive.

  “Wife… called Vasha. Strong. Wise. Took me many season to win her.” He gave a heavy sigh, the kind that rumbled like an avanche. “Daughter… little fme. We name her Telli.”

  Serra felt her chest tighten again. “They’re both beautiful. I’m gd I was able to help, even a little.”

  Borek nodded slowly. “Enemy… dark man. Hurt many. You know him?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. He’s… strong. Too strong. My friend—Brass—he fought him. Didn’t stand a chance.”

  Borek made a deep, rumbling sound—something like disapproval mixed with sorrow. “Many strong. Few wise. Your friend, he strong in spirit. Maybe not dead.”

  Serra looked up sharply. “You think so?”

  The giant tilted his head. “You smell of fire and… him. Like ashes, but not cold. Maybe spirit still warm.”

  Serra blinked. She never heard of giants having true magic, they had the ability to maniputed the elements, but not magic—yet something about the way Borek said it made her wonder. Giants were old. Ancient, some said. Maybe they knew things people didn’t.

  She looked into the fire for a long time, letting her thoughts settle like dust in a sunbeam. Borek didn’t speak again, content to sit with his family and tend to their needs.

  Eventually, Serra’s eyes grew heavy, her body aching from exhaustion. The day had stretched far too long, and her stamina was nearly depleted. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to ask for a pce to sleep.

  As if sensing her hesitation, Borek gently pointed toward a thick pile of wool and moss id out like a bedroll near the hearth. “You rest. Morning comes fast in hills. Safe here. You save mine. I protect yours.”

  Serra gave a tired smile and nodded, her heart lighter than it had been in hours.

  “Thank you… Borek.”

  Soon she wept, then she slept.