Chapter 23 — Bread and Names

She lowered herself onto a flat stone by the stream as though she'd been invited. Merlin flopped down beside her, muzzle on her knee, tail brushing once against the dirt.

Her eyes went to the carcass, half-smoked over my small fire. She let out a short, surprised laugh. "By the gods—you brought down a grask. With a stick?"

She looked at my club lying by the fire and shook her head. "Most hunters won't go near them alone. Nasty tempers, harder hides than they look. And you—" her eyes flicked from me to Merlin—"you survived one here in a ravine."

Merlin thumped his tail again as if pleased.

She reached for her basket and set out flatbread and roots, breaking a piece in half and holding it to me across the fire. "Name's Elira," she said easily. "Herbalist. Trader when I can be. Fool for wandering where I shouldn't."

I took the bread but said nothing, chewing slow, watching her eyes.

Unbothered, she went on. "I follow the valleys, collect what grows, sell what heals. Sometimes stumble on folk in need." She ruffled Merlin's fur with one hand. "Sometimes beasts, too."

Her voice stayed light, casual, but her eyes kept sliding back to me, measuring.

"And you," she said at last, not a question but an invitation.

I stayed silent, gaze steady.

Merlin answered for me, pressing closer against her side, tongue lolling, as if to declare his judgment final.

She laughed again, softer this time, and tore another piece of bread for him. "Fair enough," she said. "A man's secrets are his own. For now."

We ate in the thin light of the ravine, the smoke of grask meat curling upward. She hummed a tune between mouthfuls, the same one I'd heard before, as though danger had never been near.

I stayed quiet. Merlin trusted her. I didn't. But for the first time, it didn't feel like we were alone.

— Ninth day, afternoon, sharing food and stories —