Moss presses damp and cool along her spine while the forest holds its breath. Somewhere beyond the cedars, water threads the silence — rushing low.

  Undoing the strap at her leather vambrace and tugging it back slightly, Amia lies still and places two fingers on her pulse, counting its rhythm.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  The numbers come slow.

  Artemis’ breath is close, just behind her ear. Just a thread over the noise. The scent of wet leather and fur. The tension of a body braced to break if she needs to.

  Amia leans back against the boulder and shuts her eyes.

  For a heartbeat, the world slips.

  Cold rushes in — the wrong kind — the kind that isn’t in the air, but in memory.

  Stone scraping at her hip. Water hammering her ribs in hard, stupid fists. A hand finding the strap across her chest like it’s done it before — like it already knows where to grab.

  Not gentle. Not cruel.

  Efficient.

  Her body rolls because that hand made it roll. Leather bites, then shifts. Her shoulder jerks. Her head clips something hard — wood, rock, she never knows — and her lungs flare like something caught.

  Air tears in.

  She coughs once — violent — and black freckles the edge of her sight.

  When she opens her eyes, she’s still here — still pressed to stone, still alive.

  But the strap across her chest suddenly feels like an enclosed cage.

  Her fingers go to it without thinking.

  She digs under the wet leather, finding the strap.

  Pulls.

  The first release comes with a dull snap, and pain blooms around her sternum where the leader’s strike left its mark. She bites it back.

  Another strap.

  Another tug.

  The chest-less leather cuirass loosens enough to breathe, and she drags it off herself inch by inch, peeling it away from bruised skin like it’s stuck there.

  Artemis shifts behind her — closer, ready hands hovering, not taking control unless Amia fails.

  Amia doesn’t shift her focus.

  She just keeps unfastening, stripping the armor off like it’s the only way to prove her body still belongs to her.

  Light-headedness and the darkness that has been rimming at the edge of her vision begin to close in — Amia blacks out.

  An unknown amount of time passes. What felt like a short moment of blackness and nothingness where there was nothing on her mind.

  The ache in her jaw and the break in the cloud above her jolts her awake.

  Amia’s eyes snap open.

  Her breath catches first. Then the ache answers.

  It sits under her ribs like a thumb pressed into a bruise that never learned to fade. She doesn’t flinch — not fully. She presses her palm over the sore place below her breast through damp fabric.

  Not to soothe it.

  But to measure it.

  Still breathing.

  Still hers.

  The copper taste behind her tongue hasn’t gone, but it’s thinner now. Less fresh. Like blood that’s been swallowed too late and turned bitter. She swallows anyway.

  The taste and the feeling scrapes at the back of her throat.

  She shifts her weight and the ground reminds her where she is — grit in her hair, cold seeping through her hip, stone biting the back of her thigh. Her bodice clings wrongly along her side — stiff where river-water dried, heavier where someone else’s blood had soaked and set. Her leather armour she just removed lies nearby in a dark heap.

  Her eyes track the clearing, fast.

  No movement.

  No boots.

  No voices.

  Only the water.

  The stream ticks at the edge of hearing — soft, insistent, indifferent. A contrast of constant against the chaos that came before.

  Artemis is there.

  Not at her side the way a person sits when they want company. Not hovering like she often did — Artemis is positioned — as if the clearing is a room and she has chosen the only corner that gives her access to all doors.

  Back to a tree. One knee up. Long blade laid within reach, sheath angled so it can leave without snagging. Her cloak is damp along the hem. Her hair darker with moisture, and her eyes fixed beyond the mist as if she can see through it.

  And she looks awake.

  Fully.

  Amia pushes herself up onto one elbow. Pain blooms. Hot and sharp at first — then it settles into its familiar pressure, a reminder that it will be there whether she acknowledges it or not.

  Artemis’ gaze shifts to her immediately.

  Not startled.

  Neither relieved.

  Ready.

  “You’re awake,” Artemis says.

  Her voice is low. Controlled. The kind of voice that doesn’t waste sound.

  Amia almost laughs. It comes out as a breath that hurts.

  “Obvious,” she mutters.

  Artemis doesn’t react to the response. She only studies Amia’s face for the things Amia won’t say.

  “How long has it been. I passed out?” Amia asks.

  Artemis glances at the light above the canopy. The way it sits. Trying to decipher the angle of the sun through branches.

  “Not too long.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  That can mean anything. Artemis doesn’t pad truth with comfort.

  Amia exhales and leans back again for a heartbeat, letting her head touch the boulder. The stone is colder than her skin. It should feel grounding.

  Instead, cold tries to become memory.

  Bridge-water, and its weight around her.

  A strap across her chest being grabbed like a handle. Her lungs lighting on fire as she’s hauled up.

  She blinks hard until the clearing returns.

  Mist. Stream. Artemis.

  Not the bridge.

  Not the capital.

  Not the bell.

  Neither the shrine.

  Amia’s hand finds the edge of her bodice and pulls it away from her chest so she can breathe without it sticking.

  The bruise beneath is ugly. She doesn’t need to look to know that. She can smell it.

  Heated flesh, blood under skin, the faint chemical sting of her own body trying to repair what got crushed.

  She inhales.

  Pine. Wet bark. Old ash.

  And under it — thin, stale — something she’s been tracking since pre-Vialre. Not close. Not sharp. A residue dragged and diluted by wind.

  Raze.

  Old now. A ghost of it. But still there.

  Amia’s jaw tightens.

  “You feel it in the air too?” Artemis asks.

  Amia’s eyes flick to her.

  Artemis’ gaze doesn’t waver.

  “Just smell,” Amia corrects her as she shifts her shoulders.

  So she has learned. Or she always knew and just didn’t have words before.

  “It’s faint,” Amia says. “South— no. It’s folding. Like it’s curling around something.”

  Artemis nods once as if that confirms what she already suspected.

  Amia pushes herself upright again, slower this time. She swings her legs under her, boots sinking slightly into damp soil. Her body complains in a dozen small places. She ignores all of them.

  She glances at Artemis’ shoulder.

  There’s a shallow cut there — stone or splinter. Not deep. But it’s real.

  “Did you get hit?” Amia asks.

  Artemis looks down at it like she forgot it existed.

  A small grunt escapes her.

  “Oh, that’s nothing.”

  “That’s what you said about your other shoulder at the inn,” Amia mutters.

  A pause.

  Artemis’ mouth shifts — barely. Not a smile. Something quieter.

  Amia hates how that small expression does something to the air.

  She reaches for her armor pile, fingers curling around wet leather. It’s heavier now. Harder to lift. Her shoulder protests. Her ribs answer.

  Artemis stands.

  Amia stiffens automatically.

  “I didn’t ask—”

  “I know,” Artemis says. And then, “May I?”

  Amia freezes for half a beat at the question.

  Not because of the words.

  But because of what they mean.

  She doesn’t like how quickly her chest tightens — how fast something in her wants to say yes just so she doesn’t have to keep fighting alone.

  She swallows.

  “Just…don’t treat me like I’m dying.”

  Artemis steps in, precise. She doesn’t touch Amia immediately. She lifts the leather armor first, checks the straps, finds where it’s chipped and damaged, where it’s soaked. Her fingers move like she’s repairing a weapon, not handling someone’s skin.

  Then she sets it aside.

  “Good,” Artemis says. “You’re not.”

  Amia huffs. It hurts.

  She hides it.

  Artemis crouches near the stream and dips her hands into the water. The cold doesn’t make her flinch. She wrings out a strip of cloth — torn from somewhere, maybe her own cloak — and returns.

  “This will sting,” she says.

  Amia gives her a look.

  “Everything stings.”

  Artemis presses the cloth gently to Amia’s bruised chest. Her breasts almost swallowing the large firm hand in between.

  Cold bites first. Then relief crawls in behind it.

  Amia’s throat tightens.

  Not from pain.

  But from the fact that Artemis is careful.

  Artemis is always careful with her. Even when she throws herself into blasts. Even when she drags her out of water like prey stolen from a current.

  It’s the same kind of care.

  The kind that doesn’t ask permission from the world.

  Only from Amia.

  Amia looks away towards the stream, because if she keeps staring at Artemis’ hands she might say something she doesn’t mean. Or worse — something she does.

  Artemis releases the cloth and stands.

  “We can’t stay exposed.”

  “We won’t be,” Amia replies. “This clearing is surrounded by forest, and the winds are not strong enough to not be able to smell through.”

  Artemis scans the tree line once more before turning to Amia.

  “Okay.”

  Amia was right, the clearing is open enough only to be seen from above. The mist adds that little bit of extra insurance.

  Artemis moves without hesitation.

  She collects fallen branches — deadwood, not green. Breaks them silently against her thigh. Stacks them where the boulder shields wind. She pulls her cloak free and uses it as a ground layer, then adds pine needles over it. A bed, not comfortable but not stupid.

  Amia watches her work.

  It’s strange, seeing Artemis do something that isn’t killing, blocking, or standing still like a statue.

  This is stillness with purpose.

  Campcraft with the same discipline she uses in combat.

  Amia forces herself to stand and help, because if she doesn’t, she’ll start feeling like she owes something.

  Her legs wobble once.

  Artemis’ hand appears at her elbow instantly.

  Not gripping.

  Hovering.

  Amia steadies herself.

  “Don’t,” she snaps out of reflex.

  Artemis lowers her hand.

  But she stays close.

  Amia grabs a fistful of dry grass and drags it toward the growing bed. Her ribs pinch. She breathes through it. Her fingers shake when she tries to tie a strap back around her waist.

  Artemis notices.

  But says nothing.

  Just steps in and finishes the knot with one clean pull.

  Amia’s jaw clenches again, but she doesn’t argue.

  It’s done.

  The fire comes last.

  Artemis builds it low and shielded. Not a beacon. Just enough to warm hands, dry cloth, keep the damp from crawling into bone. She strikes flint and a small spark catches. Smoke rises thin and cautious.

  Amia stares at the flame for a moment longer than she should.

  The world has been burning for days.

  This one is controlled.

  A difference that matters.

  Artemis sits near the edge of the firelight, keeping her eyes on the trees.

  Amia lowers herself onto the bed with slow care. The bruised place under her ribs throbs, but the cold cloth helps. The fire helps. The fact that the bell isn’t ringing helps.

  She exhales.

  Artemis’ voice reaches her through the hush.

  “Sleep,” she says.

  Amia’s eyes narrow.

  “I’m not—”

  “You are shaking.”

  Amia opens her mouth to deny it.

  She doesn’t.

  Because she is.

  Not fear. Not exactly.

  Exhaustion. Blood loss. Adrenaline coming down.

  The kind of shaking you don’t control.

  She turns her face slightly, enough to see Artemis in the half-light. Tall. Watchful. Scarred by ash and battle and silence that’s finally broken.

  “How are we supposed to find them?” Amia asks quietly, meaning Maya and Nikolai, even if she doesn’t like admitting it.

  Artemis’ gaze stays on the trees.

  “We don’t,” she says. “Not tonight.”

  A pause.

  Then, softer.

  “We survive tonight, and tomorrow. Then we move.”

  Amia lets her mind process the sentence while the words settle in between them.

  It’s not comfort.

  It’s strategy.

  And somehow that is more calming than comfort would be.

  Her eyes drift toward the stream again. Water threading through stone. A steady sound she can anchor to.

  Amia’s hand rests over her bruise.

  Still painful.

  Still real.

  Still hers.

  “Fine,” she whispers.

  Artemis doesn’t answer.

  But her posture eases by a fraction — like the word was permission enough.

  The fire crackles low.

  The mist holds.

  And the forest closes in around them — not like a trap.

  Like cover.

  For now.