It was a nice night. The family let me carry Runica to bed and tuck her in. Her mother hinted that she would be okay with me staying the night, but she understood what I needed to do.

  The walk back with Kolm–it was the most I had ever spoken to him, after a life of quick greetings whenever I would go meet Runica.

  He explained to me that his other uncle—Kilnor—had gone with a few of the Blessed to see Saela and her family, and make sure some “reparations” were assured for my household. As I had been told, Kilnor in particular, had made many friends among the Blessed and he had long been preparing, shoring up “social defenses” just in case Veyrith or anyone like him decided to do something stupid again.

  I didn’t really know Kilnor, since he was more of a blacksmith as opposed to a hunter, but the thought made me happy… Especially knowing that Runica’s family had my back more than I thought. If only I had been more social before remembering my past life…

  On this night, I thanked Kolm sincerely. I thanked him for protecting me while I was still trying to figure out what it was that I could do myself.

  He thanked me for bludgeoning Veyrith with a club without a second thought.

  And that was it. He recommended I visit tomorrow. I promised I would, and then went into the house I lived in as Set.

  It was quiet, dark, and nostalgic, with a few more holes in the wall than I remembered. Nervous, I just went down the shabby hall, went into my room, and left the door open. Then, I just sat on my bed, illuminated by Lantern Shroom light.

  I heard her wheels echo through the wood-and-mushroom bark shack. Timid knocks came from the door.

  “Set?”

  I stayed seated, barely breathing.

  “Yeah…” I said quietly. “You can come in, Selma.”

  The door creaked open.

  She didn’t enter at first. Just looked at me from the threshold. Could just barely see her face among the shadows.

  I could already see that she had seen better days. I’d just forgotten what grief could do to a face. Her eyes, always sharp, were sunken and red. The streaks down her cheeks spoke to many hard nights.

  For a moment, she said nothing. Her lips parted a few times, but no sound came out. Then, quietly—

  “You idiot.”

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  I smiled. “That’s fair.”

  Her hand shot up to cover her mouth, but it couldn’t stop the sob that broke through. The door opened and she wheeled herself in, coming closer, slow and uneven. The wood creaked under her chair’s weight. And I didn’t move. I wasn’t going to disrespect the person who raised me like that by interrupting her own approach.

  “You absolute—spirits damned—idiot,” she said, her voice cracking like dry fingers. “How was I going to face your parents. I—”

  She shook her head violently, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes.

  “Idiot. Letting that blasted man lead you out there. Where was your backbone? Where was your sense? How could I ever…”

  She trailed off again, wheeling herself closer until her knees—what was left of them—were at the edge of my bed. That was when the light from the lantern shroom shone on her legs, the simple padded stumps that ended right at the knees. She didn’t hide them. Never had.

  I looked at her with weary eyes.

  Selma, for as long as I knew her, was a strong woman. Only forty years of age, she was still a beauty. I… I really felt guilty for turning her into this–a woman ravaged by guilt and worry.

  Selma was once a hunter, and it showed—even now. Though age and hardship had crept into her features, she carried herself with the poise of someone who had faced down the woods and won. Her dark hair, now streaked with gray, was pulled back in a no-nonsense braid. Her frame remained lean and strong, the kind of strength that came from years of climbing trees, hauling traps, and carrying home whatever she killed… And it kept, since she tripled down on climbing trees still.

  Her face had once turned heads—high cheekbones, sharp eyes, and a commanding presence—but her state now left others too uncomfortable to look her in the eyes. She was stern by nature, and awkward when it came to delicate things like helping a crying boy, but that never stopped her from showing care in the ways she knew how—like taking in a little boy whose parents died to illness, cleaning his wounds, cooking when there was barely food to cook, and making sure she was nearby to greet him when she came home.

  Even in her old wheelchair, she radiated strength.

  I lowered my head. “I’m sorry, Selma.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Her voice was raw. “Don’t you ever be sorry for coming home.”

  That cracked something in me. I bent forward and rested my head against hers.

  Her hands shook as she touched my hair. One hand landed softly. Then another. And then I felt her clutch me like a lifeline, her breath hitching, her head bowed over mine.

  I chuckled. “I saw that you tried hanging some stuff up?”

  She froze. Then she scoffed. Then she held the back of my head in place. Then she headbutted me hard enough to daze me.

  “Twit,” she spat. Pulling her head away and making a face. “You drunk? You smell like it.”

  “No, not at all.”

  She chuckled, irritation giving way to a smile, and gently patted my left shoulder, right where the wound had closed. My eyes drifted to her knees as I quieted down.

  “You ever bitch and moan about losing this arm?”

  I met her gaze. “No, ma’am.”

  She nodded, her lips tense. “Good. That’s why you survived.” I heard her gulp and saw the relief on her face.

  “I wasn’t going to let you down. You or Runica.”

  She chuckled and lightly patted my cheek. “You don’t have to lie… but thank you for putting me in the same breath as the girl.”

  I grinned. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”