Chapter 22 — Firelight

Morning crept slow into the ravine, mist burning away to show the carcass half-picked beside the stream. I'd cut more strips, smoked what I could manage over the fire, wrapped them in scraps of hide. Merlin had eaten enough to wag his tail when I spoke his name. His chest glowed faint once in his sleep, steady as a pulse.

I was gathering stones when I heard it: not claws, not bandits, but a voice.

Humming.

A tune carried down the ravine, clear and careless, like someone walking without fear. I froze, hand on my club, body taut. Merlin stirred, ears pricking.

The figure appeared around the bend: a woman, tall, wrapped in a patchwork cloak, a basket slung at her side. She had hair bound in a long braid and boots worn smooth by miles. When she saw me, she stopped mid-step, eyebrows raised.

"Well," she said lightly, "you don't look like a bandit. And that's not a wolf."

Her eyes flicked to Merlin, who let out a tired rumble but didn't rise. She crouched slowly, set her basket down, and drew out a bundle of roots and flatbread. She held it out, palms open.

"No tricks," she said. "Hungry?"

The smell hit me—bread, spiced root, something clean. My throat tightened.

I didn't move. I kept the club in my hands, shoulders tight.

But Merlin did.

He struggled up, paws shaky, chest dimly glowing, and walked the few steps between us. She held her hand low, steady. He sniffed, then licked her palm once, tail giving a faint wag.

She smiled, soft and sure. "Smart beast. Knows who means no harm."

I still didn't lower the club. But Merlin pressed against her leg as though he'd known her forever, and for the first time I wondered if my mistrust was the weaker instinct.

Maybe, just maybe, this world held more than enemies.

— Ninth day, morning, meeting Elira —