slightly shorter one today, though I think I'm going to go up to about 1200 lines as uposed to 1000 going forward. Anyway, hear's you're chapter. Bell is the woman Grace gave vigger too at the Toronto Public Library a bit ago.

  ---Bell---

  # Bell Morrison's Night

  I roll over again, sheets not tangled but still wrong somehow, sliding across my legs with that particular whisper of fabric on skin that becomes so loud in the middle of the night when everything else has gone quiet.

  The digital clock on Filop's desk—the one he made himself with his own hands, not bought from some store—glows 2:30 AM in red numbers sharp enough to cut through the darkness.

  The house has that deep stillness that only comes at this hour, when even the furnace has stopped its rhythmic clicking and the traffic on St. Clair has finally fucked off to wherever traffic goes when normal people are sleeping.

  The pillow's gone flat again.

  I punt it with my fist, trying to shape it into something that might actually support my head the way my Filop used to do before he died when Sarah was small, back when her biggest worry was monsters under the bed instead of whatever the hell she worries about now with her running and her job and her complete lack of any kind of social life that isn't tied to training schedules and race times.

  Am I wrong for wanting what Grace did again?

  The question circles through my head like water circling a drain, pulling everything else along with it.

  I hadn't felt that good in fifteen years—since my little Sarah was small, before she grew up into this focused, driven woman who inherited her father's stubborn determination along with his green eyes.

  Grace—the woman's name had been Grace—had asked in that weird formal way of hers, like someone reading from a script written in another language and carefully translated.

  "May I express gratitude through physical contact?"

  Then she did something.

  Gave me vigger. Or viger, I'm not sure how to spell it, she only said it out loud, and it's not like I could look it up later because apparently this shit doesn't exist in any book or database I have access to.

  Twenty-four hours worth, she'd said.

  One day of feeling like a person instead of an exhausted shell pretending to be functional.

  I'd felt better than I'd felt in fifteen years. Got through a whole shift at the library without needing to sit down every half hour. Shelved an entire cart of returns without my hands cramping up like arthritic claws. Even helped a teenager research her history paper without my focus sliding sideways into that fog that's become my constant companion.

  Made it home and cooked actual dinner—real food, not crackers and cheese eaten standing at the counter because sitting down at the table felt like too much effort.

  The next day I woke up back to normal.

  Except normal wasn't normal anymore, was it? Not when you know what it feels like to not be tired, the exhaustion becomes impossible to ignore.

  Before, I'd just thought this was what sixty-eight felt like, what aging did to your body. Now I know different.

  Now I know what I could have been, what I should be feeling like, and everything else is just this hollow exhaustion that I can't pretend is fine anymore.

  Am I greedy for wanting more of that? For wanting to feel like I'm not getting old, like my body isn't slowly giving up on me piece by piece?

  On one hand, I'm not getting any younger—sixty-eight and counting—and Sarah's, well. Sarah. She's got her career at the running store, got her life all planned out in training schedules and race times and personal bests that she chases with the same single-minded focus her father had when he was chaseing me. Ironic that I was the one who, well. Filup made the desk with the saw downstairs.

  She's not getting any younger either, and I want grandchildren. Want to know that when I die and Soulrender takes me to better Valhalla—whatever the hell that actually is—there'll be someone carrying on the family. Maybee some small person with Sarah's determination and maybe Filop's eyes and my stubborn refusal to give up even when everything hurts.

  Sarah's in her twenties now, and women in their twenties don't know anything. That's not me being mean, that's just reality.

  I remember being in my twenties, remember thinking I knew everything, and most of the things my mother told me back then have come true despite the fact I dismissed most of it at the time as old-fashioned bullshit from someone who didn't understand how the world worked anymore.

  Now here I am, sixty-eight and exhausted, proving my mother right about things I swore she was wrong about.

  I'm getting more exhausted, finding it harder to do various things. Though is that because my body knows what it feels like to not be exhausted—since before I just figured it was part of aging—or something different now?

  I don't know. Can't tell if the exhaustion got worse or if I just notice it more now that I know what the alternative feels like.

  But here's the thing that keeps eating at me, keeps me awake at 2:30 in the morning staring at the ceiling: Grace is young. Mid-twenties at most, all that energy and sharpness and intensity that comes from being young and healthy. Energy can't just be created out of nothing—that's basic physics, basic logic, basic common sense.

  Which means for one day of energy I got, Grace would have lost one day.

  And I have no idea if that energy can recover, if it comes back like sleep recharges you, or if I literally stole a day of her life to make mine easier.

  I don't want to make Grace live shorter because I want to feel young again. Don't want her dying at fifty instead of eighty because she gave away years of her life to tired old women at libraries who couldn't manage their own exhaustion.

  Even if I don't want to worry Sarah with how tired I actually am, even if keeping Sarah in the dark means suffering through this alone.

  I roll again, the sheets twisting around my legs now, getting tangled in ways that make me want to kick them off entirely except then I'd be cold and the cold seeps in through the walls like Malinda's blood.

  This bedroom—mine and Filop's, the one he'd had since he was a child and couldn't bear to leave when his parents died and left him the house—has three exterior-facing walls, so the snowstorm's chill cuts right through into me. We'd made it ours, slowly, replacing his parents' furniture piece by piece, repainting walls, hanging our own pictures.

  But the bones remained the same, including this bedroom that catches every bit of winter wind that blows across Toronto at minus fifteen Celsius.

  I pull the duvet up higher, tucking it around my shoulders.

  The flannel nightgown I'm wearing used to be warmer, or maybe I used to be warmer from the inside out, generating enough heat that minus fifteen outside didn't matter so much.

  Now the cold finds me wherever I am, creeps into my bones and stays there no matter how many layers I pile on.

  Sarah needs friends.

  The thought comes unbidden but persistent, won't leave me alone.

  My daughter has her running, has her job at the store, has this focused intensity that she inherited from her father along with his green eyes and his ability to pursue goals with single-minded determination.

  But friends?

  Real friends, not just running partners or coworkers who she sees at shift changes?

  I can't think of the last time she mentioned going anywhere just for fun, can't remember the last time she talked about someone she was spending time with outside of training schedules and work shifts.

  Grace is young—mid-twenties at most, around Sarah's age.

  She'd spent four hours in the library that day, moving through the stacks with this particular kind of vigilance that made me think of prey animals checking for predators.

  Always aware of exits.

  Always positioned where she could see the whole room.

  Never turning her back to open spaces.

  The kind of behavior that speaks to bad experiences, to knowing what it's like when safety isn't guaranteed and you can't afford to be caught off guard.

  She doesn't have friends either, I'd bet money on it.

  People with friends don't move like that, don't catalog threats in public libraries like they're navigating war zones.

  I shift again, trying to find a position that doesn't make my hip ache.

  The mattress is old, probably needs replacing, but that requires energy I don't have and money I'm saving for Sarah's future, for whatever she might need when I'm gone and can't help anymore.

  Not that she'd admit to needing help.

  My daughter inherited her father's stubborn independence along with everything else, including his complete inability to accept assistance even when accepting it would make everything easier.

  Jason.

  The blind man, except he's not blind anymore according to what Sarah mentioned last week when I'd managed to coax actual conversation out of her over coffee at that place near her store.

  Grace's Jason, I think now, putting the pieces together in ways I hadn't fully assembled before.

  The Jason whose address matches Grace's library card application, the one sitting right there in the system that I've looked at more times than I want to admit during slow afternoon shifts when my mind wanders and my body aches.

  He'd seemed nice from what Sarah said.

  Cautious.

  Thoughtful.

  The kind of man who thinks before he acts instead of just charging forward on pure determination.

  Sarah needs that.

  Needs someone who will balance out her tendency to just push harder when things get difficult, to train through injuries, to treat every setback as something to overcome through sheer force of will instead of something that might require a change in approach.

  Sarah's been, well.

  Once again, she's not getting any younger.

  Maybe I should push her towards that Jason fellow?

  The blind one who's somehow not blind anymore—I still don't understand that part, but stranger things have happened.

  Like young women giving magical energy transfers to tired librarians, for instance.

  My mother used to tell me things I dismissed at twenty-three as old-fashioned nonsense, things that turned out to be true once I got old enough to recognize patterns instead of just living through isolated moments.

  Sarah's in her twenties now, living on pure focus and discipline, and I remember being exactly that age.

  Thought I could figure everything out through determination and refusing to listen to anyone who suggested maybe I was wrong about something.

  He seems nice from what Sarah said.

  More importantly, Sarah needs someone with a solid head on his shoulders.

  Jason has that—you can tell from how Sarah talks about him, all careful and thoughtful and not just charging forward on pure determination the way Sarah does everything.

  Sarah's too aggressive.

  Gets out too much, doesn't build enough.

  She's manager at the running store, yes, and that's good, but she's not methodical.

  Not a planner, not really.

  Not someone who will methodically go through things, work out all the angles before acting.

  Like my Filop when I just wanted to dump that corpse in the river and he ran through the plans before chopping Glorinda up with the saw in his basement.

  We fucked on his couch afterwards and I decided I was marrying that man.

  Which I did, so take that, Glorinda, you fucking man-stealing cunt—he was mine and he's always going to be...

  I stop that thought before it goes too far down paths I've walked a thousand times.

  Filop is dead, has been for near on two decades now.

  Just because Glorinda tried to cut my heart out to give to him on Valentine's Day almost forty years ago doesn't change the fact that he's gone and I'm here alone in our bed at 2:30 in the morning thinking about things I can't change.

  Still.

  Sarah needs someone.

  Needs friends, needs connections, needs people in her life who aren't just other runners or customers at the store.

  Also, there's that man who comes to the library sometimes—the homeless one, though he might not actually be homeless anymore since he's wearing better clothes now and just looks better overall, like someone who's found stable ground under his feet.

  He has a Sarah too.

  Not my daughter, but someone with that name who matters to him based on the muttering I've overheard about Jason and Grace and Sarah when he thinks no one's listening while he reads in the stacks.

  He might know Jason.

  Might be connected to this whole situation in ways I don't fully understand yet.

  The pieces feel like they're there but I can't quite assemble them into a complete picture, like trying to do a jigsaw puzzle in the dark when you can't see the edges clearly enough to know where they connect.

  Hmmm.

  I sit up, the cold air hitting my shoulders immediately through the flannel nightgown, making me gasp with the shock of it.

  The cardigan I wore earlier is draped over the chair near the closet—Filop's chair, the one he used to sit in while taking off his work boots, the one that still has a slight indentation from years of his weight settling into the cushion in the same spot.

  I grab the cardigan and pull it on, wrapping it tight around myself before my feet hit the cold hardwood floor.

  The house predates good insulation, predates the kind of careful climate control that modern buildings take for granted.

  Every winter I remember why, every winter I consider moving somewhere with better heating, and every winter I stay because this is Filop's house, our house, the place where Sarah grew up and learned to ride her bike in the driveway and had her first kiss on the front porch when she was sixteen and thought I didn't know.

  Sarah needs friends.

  Needs people who are cautious, methodical, conservative in the good ways—not the political bullshit ways, but the careful, thoughtful ways.

  People who plan before acting, who consider consequences, who don't just charge forward assuming determination alone will solve every problem.

  Grace is—if not conservative—then she knows her stuff.

  You don't move like Grace moves, all awareness and tactical thinking, without knowing exactly what you're doing and why.

  Grace, by what I saw, well.

  People with friends don't act like Grace.

  Don't catalog exits like someone hunted, don't position themselves where they can see the whole room, don't move through spaces like they're expecting attack from any direction.

  So I'll give Sarah Grace's contact.

  I have it from the forms she filled out for the library card, right there in the system with her address and phone number and everything.

  Push them to at least see if they can be friends?

  See if maybe they have something in common beyond whatever brought Grace to the library for four straight hours?

  Grace seems like a normal girl underneath all that vigilance, not like those modern women who scream about bullshit that they won't be happy about in twenty years.

  I watch all those YouTube videos about sad women who realized they fucked up because they looked at the outside of people, not the insides.

  The pretty face and the smooth words instead of the character underneath.

  Though probably shouldn't tell Sarah that.

  Mostly because she would take it very differently than I meant it, would hear it as me criticizing her choices when what I'm really trying to do is help her avoid the mistakes I see other people making.

  And as I stated, Sarah has her own career to deal with.

  Her own life to manage.

  Doesn't need her mother lecturing about things she'll figure out eventually, one way or another.

  I glance at the clock on the desk that Filop made with the same saw he used to chop up Glorinda.

  2:30 AM.

  No time for calls, then.

  No time for action, just planning.

  So tomorrow.

  I'll give Grace's contact to Sarah tomorrow, see if Sarah won't find something in common with her.

  Grace was in the library for four hours, and Sarah enjoys reading when she's not running herself into the ground.

  Maybe Jason will come along and Sarah and him can talk?

  Get to know each other outside of whatever context they already know each other in?

  Though I do feel guilty since I'm mainly wanting Jason there to be a counterbalance for my Sarah.

  Someone to temper her intensity, balance her drive with caution and planning.

  But that's what mothers are supposed to do, isn't it?

  Do the best for their daughters, arrange opportunities, create situations where good things might happen even if you can't force them to happen.

  Jason has a father—you can tell from how he moves, how he talks according to Sarah's descriptions.

  He's got that particular kind of grounded confidence that comes from knowing you were valued as a child, from having a man in your life who modeled what masculine stability looks like.

  Sarah needs that kind of steadiness in her life, whether as a friend or something more.

  Maybe he will bond with Grace instead.

  Then Sarah will see them together and finally, finally listen to me about settling down.

  Maybe with Worthy—Sarah mentioned him once or twice, seemed to like him well enough.

  Maybe with someone else who comes along and catches her attention once she stops being so focused on training schedules that she doesn't see anyone around her as potential partners.

  I decide to end that thought before I start spiraling into fantasies of my Sarah being sister-in-law with Grace, with Jason either as my son-in-law or as my—what even would he be then?

  Brother-in-law's friend?

  The relationship chart gets too complicated, and it's 2:30 in the morning, and I'm too tired for that kind of mental gymnastics.

  But that's not a thought for now.

  Not something I can control or force or make happen through sheer determination.

  All I can do is create opportunities and hope the young people in question are smart enough to recognize good things when they see them.

  Instead, I get out of bed properly, cardigan wrapped tight, and move to Soulrender's shrine before pulling it out of my closet.

  The closet door opens with its familiar creak.

  I've been meaning to oil those hinges for two years now, keep forgetting or not having the energy when I remember.

  Behind Filop's old coats that I can't bring myself to donate—they still smell like him sometimes, like sawdust and coffee and that particular soap he always used—behind the boxes of tax documents and old photographs that I should probably organize but never will, sits the small wooden shrine.

  The shrine is small, because Soulrender and Harald don't want elaborate.

  Don't want gold and jewels and expensive offerings.

  They want action, want commitment, want you to do what you say you'll do.

  Soulrender and Harald—who is hers, always hers, and only hers—don't take prayers like other gods.

  Meditation that looks like prayer?

  Sure, you can do that if it helps you think.

  But they speak and deal in actions, in commitments made and kept, in words that mean something because you follow through on them.

  I scribble down a note on scrap paper: Give Grace's contact to Sarah tomorrow, gently push her over the next week or two to spend more time with Grace, maybe bring Jason along.

  The pen feels awkward in my hand, my handwriting shakier than it used to be.

  When did that happen?

  When did my hand start betraying my intentions like this?

  The statues—marble, because I saved up for months to afford them and if you're going to do something, do it right—are eight inches tall because the actual people are eight feet tall.

  Had to get the proportions right, had to make them accurate representations.

  Harald's actually nine feet, but he's an inch deep in mud, not actual mud but carved mud, so it works out.

  He stands in the thick of battle while she stands above it, both grounded but in different ways.

  The bowl sits at Soulrender's feet, blackened from years of burning offerings.

  Not offerings in the traditional sense—Soulrender doesn't want things, doesn't want gifts or tributes or prostration.

  She wants commitment.

  Wants proof that you'll follow through on what you say you'll do.

  Wants you to articulate your intentions clearly and then make them real through action.

  Now I will do said actions.

  I've not worshiped, not in the traditional sense, but I've followed Soulrender's creed for twenty-five years now.

  Filop following Harald's, which is both different and similar in all the ways that matter.

  Complementary, like two sides of the same coin.

  They know, as they always do, I won't go back on my word.

  Breaking your word to Soulrender is breaking your word to yourself, and what's the point of following a creed if you're just going to ignore it when it's inconvenient?

  The match strikes with that sharp sulfur smell that makes my nose wrinkle.

  I touch flame to paper and watch my commitment blacken and curl, smoke rising in that particular pattern I've seen hundreds of times now.

  The smoke wisps up from the bowl but never burns above it, never escapes into the room no matter how thin the smoke is or how strong any draft might be.

  Just one of those things that you stop questioning after the first year or two of seeing it happen, one of those small magics that proves Soulrender is real and listening even when she doesn't speak back in words you can hear.

  The paper becomes ash.

  My word becomes action waiting to happen.

  The decision is made, committed, burned into reality in a way that can't be taken back.

  Putting the shrine away as carefully as I took it out, arranging Filop's coats over it again just so, I close the closet door with that same creak that needs oil.

  Tomorrow I'll give Sarah the information.

  Tomorrow I'll start the gentle pushing that might lead to friendship, might lead to something more, might lead nowhere at all but at least I'll have tried.

  At least I'll have done what I could to help my daughter find connections in a world where she seems determined to go it alone.

  Now I can sleep.

  That's how it works with Soulrender—once you've committed, once you've made the promise and burned the proof, your mind can rest because the decision is made and all that's left is execution.

  No more circling thoughts, no more what-ifs and maybes.

  Just action waiting for morning.

  I climb back into bed, pulling the duvet up again, tucking myself into warmth that feels slightly more substantial now that the decision has weight behind it.

  The pillow is still flat but it doesn't matter as much.

  My hip still aches but I can ignore it better.

  The exhaustion hasn't gone anywhere—vigger doesn't last, twenty-four hours and then back to normal—but I can sink into it now instead of fighting against it.

  Now I just need to know if Jason likes giant swords.

  Filop's sword's been leaning against my wall, and good men should wield swords...

  ---Grace---

  # Tracking the Storm

  I watch Jason sleep as the storm howls against the cabin windows, battering the glass with it's fury. His chest rises and falls in precise intervals—nineteen breaths per minute, a slight decrease from his normal twenty-two when awake. Signs of deep, restorative sleep. Despite the day's events—the hypothermia, the Deathborn, the revelation of interdimensional interest in our activities—his face appears serene in the flickering firelight. Peaceful. Untroubled.

  I add another log to the fire, calculating the optimal position for sustained burn efficiency. The wood is dry, well-seasoned pine that catches quickly, sending a burst of orange sparks up the chimney. The smell of resin fills the cabin, sharp and clean beneath the lingering scents of our earlier training—sweat, effort, determination.

  Jason's muscles will ache tomorrow. His body isn't conditioned for the intense physical demands I've placed on it, but his performance exceeded all reasonable expectations. The way he adapted to the blind fighting techniques demonstrated remarkable neural plasticity, despite his own mental blocks. His existing pathways, developed through twenty-eight years without sight, immediately reactivated when visual input was removed. Few trainees demonstrate such rapid integration. Even if, I was partly to do with said integration.

  I move to the window, using my knife to scrape a small opening in the frost that's accumulated on the glass. Outside, the world has vanished into howling whiteness. Snow continues to pile against the cabin, now reaching halfway up the window frame. Wind patterns suggest the storm center is directly overhead, with probable duration of another twelve hours at minimum.

  Tactically, our situation remains stable. The cabin is secure, the fire well-maintained, our supplies sufficient for extended occupation if necessary. We are, as Jason might say, "stuck but not stranded."

  The strange events with the Deathborn continue to occupy my tactical processing. My mind is occupied with Jason, however, as Jason is not a tacticle concern at present, I need not alocate any processing to him as a tacticle concern. Their existence suggests interdimensional boundaries are already thinning, months before November. The "imposters" and their "real" counterparts revealed organizational structures beyond anything the Druid prepared me for. The Legion, the Deathborn, the Spooks—all monitoring, observing, occasionally intervening.

  And they're watching us. The marble entity observed Jason's fall into the lake. The Fifth Corpse appeared specifically where we took shelter. Coincidence is statistically improbable.

  A soft sound draws my attention back to Jason. He shifts in his sleep, his face momentarily troubled before relaxing again. One hand reaches out, fingers grasping at nothing before settling on the rough blanket. I wonder what he dreams about. Vigger pathways, perhaps. Combat stances. Or something entirely different—normal things from his life before I arrived with knife and blood and warnings of an apocalypse he is still unsure if he will be ready for.

  I move closer, studying his sleeping form with careful attention. The firelight catches in his sandy blond hair, turning it almost golden where it falls across his forehead. One stubborn strand keeps slipping into his eyes, no matter how many times I brush it away. His lashes are surprisingly long, casting delicate shadows on his cheeks. The curve of his lower lip, the line of his jaw, the faint stubble beginning to appear after 3 days without shaving—I catalog these details without immediate tactical purpose, simply... observing.

  The Druid would have disapproved of such inefficient data collection. "If it doesn't improve survival probability, then it's a waste of time, Grace," he always said. Yet I find myself unable to look away, fascinated by the small details that make Jason uniquely himself.

  He mutters something in his sleep, the words too soft to catch even with my enhanced hearing. His breathing changes slightly—shallower, faster—before settling back into its regular rhythm. Training often affects sleep patterns, as the brain processes new physical pathways and consolidates learning.

  I return to my watch position near the window, using my utility blade to carefully clean beneath my fingernails. The imposter Melissa—or whatever her true name was—mentioned the Twentieth Corpse "Spooks" and their likely extermination of Tyler, the one who had introduced himself as Merek. Their casual acceptance of their colleague's probable death suggested either exceptional compartmentalization or genuine emotional disengagement.

  I recognize similar traits in myself, from my earliest training. The Druid instilled absolute focus on survival and mission objectives, with minimal concern for individual welfare beyond tactical necessity. Attachments were vulnerabilities. Connections were liabilities. Only the mission mattered.

  Yet here I sit, in an isolated cabin in the Canadian wilderness, monitoring Jason's breathing patterns and memorizing the exact shade of his hair in firelight. Tactical assessment suggests I have developed significant emotional attachment despite optimal threat response conditioning.

  More surprisingly, this attachment does not appear to compromise my tactical effectiveness. If anything, it enhances certain capabilities. My response time when Jason fell into the lake was 27% faster than standard parameters. My assessment of potential shelter locations was completed with unprecedented efficiency. Even my ability to identify the Fifth Corpse's subtle deception markers was heightened rather than diminished.

  This contradicts everything the Druid taught about emotional attachment. Perhaps his understanding was incomplete. Or perhaps adaptation to this world requires different optimization parameters. After all, Carter was correct about my in-correct psychopathy. As such. What else could the old man have been in-correct, though never wrong, about?

  Jason stirs again, rolling onto his side facing the fire. The blanket slips from his shoulder, exposing him to the cabin's chill. Without conscious decision, I move to readjust it, pulling the rough wool up to cover him properly. My fingers linger a moment longer than tactically necessary, registering the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.

  This touch serves no immediate survival purpose. Yet I find myself reluctant to withdraw my hand.

  "Tactical irrelevance," I whisper to myself, finally pulling away. But the phrase rings hollow, even to my own ears.

  I resume my position by the window, keeping watch as the storm rages outside. The landscape reminds me of the Northern Reaches in my homeland—endless white, howling wind, isolation so complete it feels like the universe has contracted to this single point of warmth amid infinite cold. I spent three weeks alone in such conditions during my final ranger trials, surviving on nothing but what I could hunt and the knowledge that endurance meant success while failior meant only death.

  This isolation feels different. Despite the howling emptiness outside, I do not feel alone. Jason's presence fills the small cabin with something I cannot properly categorize—not merely body heat or oxygen consumption, but something less tangible. Something I lack vocabulary to describe adequately. Something that, I wonder, if Revenna would assist me with? She was, from what I have been able to gather, like me, once. She is. Like me, but. More adapted to this world? She understands it in a way that I, currently, can not. Perhaps, when we return to Jason's world, to Dawson and Kitten and Magnen and Bearee, to the shower and the hot tub and the place that I have decided is home, I will ask her. Perhaps.

  The fire pops loudly as a pocket of resin ignites, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. The sudden sound causes no change in Jason's breathing pattern—he truly is deeply asleep. Good. His body requires recovery time after today's exertions and the hypothermia, although that latter part should, though I do not rely on should, have been fully purdged by now.

  I wonder if we will encounter the real Deathborn again, or if their appearance was an isolated incident. The statistical probability suggests increasing frequency of such anomalous events as November approaches. Reality fragmentation typically follows exponential rather than linear progression patterns, according to the Druid's limited explanations.

  Jason will need accelerated training protocols. Today's sessions demonstrated significant potential, but his combat skills remain rudimentary. Knife training should be incorporated next—at least basic defensive techniques. His adaptability suggests he could achieve functioning proficiency within weeks rather than months.

  A particularly violent gust of wind slams against the cabin walls, making the structure creak in protest. The sound of rattling windowpanes and groaning timbers creates a surprisingly effective audio mask. Even with my enhanced hearing, I would struggle to detect an approach through such ambient noise.

  Tactically suboptimal.

  I adjust my position to maintain sightlines to all potential entry points—doors, windows, even the chimney after the death children's unconventional arrival methods. My hand rests on my bone knife, the familiar grip reassuring against my palm. Whatever comes, I am prepared.

  Jason murmurs something in his sleep again, this time clear enough to catch: "...counterclockwise when... attack from left..." His mind processing the training sequences even in sleep. Excellent. Such integration will do him good.

  Another hour passes as I maintain vigilance. The storm shows no signs of abating, snow continuing to accumulate against the windows. The temperature inside the cabin has dropped approximately 1.7 degrees Celsius as the fire begins to burn down. I add another log, arranging it carefully to maximize both heat output and duration.

  As I'm adjusting the burning wood with a branch serving as a makeshift poker, I hear a change in Jason's breathing pattern—shorter inhalations, altered heart rate. He's beginning to wake up.

  I return to my position by the window, maintaining tactical distance while ensuring clear sightlines. The transition from sleep to wakefulness makes humans temporarily vulnerable—disoriented, slower reaction times, compromised threat assessment. Better to allow Jason to complete this transition without my presence. He, what is the term, 'beats himself up?' Has done so enough when he sstruck me with his skull after he woke, and I have no desire for him to resume said activity if he were to strike me, regardless of the fact that said would, now, do me no actual harm. Granted, after you have had you're lower abdomonal cavity, the stomach and intestines in particular, ripped open by the swipe of a snow bare, there is little Jason could actually do that would cause me pain that I would not simply catalog as data.

  His eyes open slowly, blinking against the firelight. For a moment, he stares at the ceiling, confusion evident in his expression—the disorientation of waking in an unfamiliar place. Then awareness returns, his gaze sharpening as he takes in the cabin.

  "Grace?" he says, his voice rough with sleep.

  "Here," I respond, stepping slightly away from the window to ensure visibility.

  He pushes himself to a sitting position, wincing slightly as his muscles protest. "How long was I out?" Then: "seem to be doing that a lot lately."

  "Three hours and twenty-seven minutes," I inform him. "The storm continues. Snow accumulation now exceeds one meter in some areas surrounding the cabin."

  Jason runs a hand through his sleep-tousled hair, making it stand up in even more chaotic patterns than usual. The sight creates an unexpected warmth in my chest—tactically irrelevant, yet persistent as always when involveing Jason. My Jason.

  "How are you feeling?" I ask, the question emerging before tactical assessment can intervene.

  He looks mildly surprised by my inquiry—a reasonable reaction given my typical focus on objective measures rather than subjective states.

  "Sore," he admits with a small smile. "Like I've been run over by a particularly determined moose. But not bad, considering I was halfway to being a human popsicle, 3 days ago now?"

  I process this response, categorizing it as "humor masking minor physical discomfort" rather than "significant medical concern." Jason frequently uses humor to minimize potentially uncomfortable topics—a psychological adaptation I've observed consistently.

  "Your muscle soreness is expected," I acknowledge. "First combat training typically produces significant myofibril microtrauma. Recovery will occur within 48-72 hours with proper hydration and protein intake."

  Jason stretches his arms overhead, grimacing slightly as stiff muscles extend. "That's a very Grace way of saying 'your muscles will be screaming at you for a couple dayss but you'll get over it'"

  I nod, accepting this translation of my assessment. "Yes."

  He laughs, the sound unexpectedly pleasant in the cabin's quiet. "At least you're consistent."

  A comfortable silence falls between us, broken only by the crackling fire and the endless howl of wind outside. Jason continues stretching, working through the stiffness with methodical movements. His form is already improving—back straighter, movements more deliberate, center of gravity properly maintained.

  "So," he says after completing his stretching routine, "what's the plan now? More training?"

  I consider his question, assessing multiple factors simultaneously—his physical condition, the ongoing storm, optimal skill development sequencing, and the unusual events of the day.

  "Additional combat training would be tactically advantageous," I acknowledge. "However, your body requires recovery time to integrate today's lessons. I suggest alternating with less physically demanding skills."

  "Like what?" he asks, curiosity evident in his expression.

  "Tactical assessment," I decide. "Situational awareness. Threat identification. Skills that increase survival probability without requiring significant physical exertion."

  Jason nods, leaning forward with unexpected eagerness. "Teaching me to think like a ranger? I'm definitely interested."

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  "Not exactly," I clarify. "Rangers are born and trained from childhood. But certain fundamental principles can be adapted to your existing capabilities."

  His shoulders slump slightly at my correction, a micro-expression of disappointment flickering across his features before being masked by his usual good humor. "Right. Of course."

  Something in his reaction creates an unfamiliar tightness in my chest. My words were factually accurate—he cannot become a true ranger without lifelong conditioning. Yet I sense my response caused unnecessary... hurt. This displeases me.

  "You would have made an exceptional ranger," I find myself saying, the words emerging without tactical pre-calculation. "Your adaptability, perception, and learning capacity exceed standard parameters. In my homeland, those qualities would have been identified early and cultivated."

  Jason's expression shifts, surprise giving way to something warmer. "That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Grace."

  I consider this assessment. "It is not 'nice.' It is tactically accurate."

  His smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in that particular way that creates a corresponding warmth in my chest. "Coming from you, that's even better than nice. It's true, which. Well. Like I said, even better."

  The strange pressure in my chest eases, replaced by that increasingly familiar warmth that serves no immediate tactical purpose yet somehow feels... essential now.

  "We will begin with fundamental awareness principles," I state, returning to more comfortable tactical terrain. "In ranger training, this is called 'seeing what is, not what you expect.'"

  "Sounds like Zen and the Art of Ranger Maintenance," Jason quips, earning him a confused tilt of my head.

  "It is not Zen," I correct. "It is practical observation of the world around you in-order to not die."

  He laughs again, softer this time. "Just a joke, Grace. A reference to an old book."

  I make a mental note to research this reference later. Understanding Jason's cultural framework would improve communication efficiency. Also. I would find other books similor to Bloodthorn's work, pleaseing.

  "The storm will keep us here at least until morning," I continue. "Sufficient time to cover foundational awareness techniques. Then we can resume physical training once your body has adequate recovery time."

  Jason nods, shifting to sit, legs stretched forward, on the platform, facing me with complete attention. "I'm all yours, Ranger Grace. Teach me to see what is."

  All yours. The phrase creates another surge of that strange, pleasant warmth. Tactically irrelevant, perhaps. But increasingly... acceptable.

  "We will begin with the three awareness circles," I say, settling into a formal teaching posture. "Immediate, intermediate, and environmental. Together, they form the foundation of ranger perception..."

  As I begin the lesson, I find myself watching the firelight play across Jason's attentive face, noting how his eyes—eyes that function because of my vigger—track my every movement with growing understanding. His genuine interest in my teachings creates something unexpected within me—a sense of... connection I never experienced when training under the Druid.

  The realization comes with startling clarity: I am not merely teaching Jason for tactical advantage or improved survival probability.

  I am teaching him because I want to. Because his growth matters to me beyond mere survival. Because seeing him improve creates something within me that I cannot yet name but increasingly value.

  This attachment should compromise my tactical effectiveness. Should create vulnerability and distraction. All evidence from before states that connection creates vulnuribility. The packmaster who's dog was baited and trapped, then killed later for meet alongside the man himself. The child who's dall was stolen and then used to bind her in chains. Others. But.

  Now, however, it feels like strength.

  "One moment." I say, while retrieveing Mia's book, the book the girl was reading previously, from my pack.

  "That's." Jason says: "Mia's book, isn't it?"

  "Yes." I say: "I found it in you're pack." Jason grunts before: "fuck, must have gathered it up in my character sheet when I tossed everything into my bag. I'll have to give it back to her when we get back." Before: "what is it?"

  "A primer." I read from the title, written on the spine: "on primal magic."

  "Like." Jason says, growing excited now: "from long watch?"

  "Yes." I say.

  "Can you." Jason says before: "read it?" Before, with a scowl: "it's still in print."

  "Yes." I say, decideing that I will simply weeve the 3 circles into this new lesson before opening the book to the first page:

  "Primal Magic: Your Complete Journey Through the Three Pillars."

  "Tier Zero: Natural Bridge."

  "You stand at the beginning, requiring nothing more than willingness to step outside and pay attention. Whether you're stressed from work, wanting to understand the natural world, or just sensing that plants respond to your presence—you can start here without changing your whole life. Just basic respect for natural systems, conscious time outdoors, simple appreciation. The magic meets you where you are."

  "I'm doing that now." Jason says, grinning: "well, you're helping me, anyway."

  The storm continues its assault on our small shelter, snow piling ever higher outside, wind searching for weaknesses in the wooden walls. Inside, the fire burns steady, casting dancing shadows as I continue my lesson, watching understanding dawn in Jason's eyes as I continue reading the book that smells like home.

  For now, we are safe. We are together. We are learning.

  It is enough.

  ---Healer---

  The fire crackles, sending sparks spiraling up into nothing because this partitioned slice of reality doesn't have a proper chimney, doesn't need one. I watch Jason shift his weight, settling more comfortably against the log he's using as a backrest while Grace continues reading, her voice carrying that particular cadence she gets when she's focused on something she finds tactically relevant. The book—one of mine, actually, though she doesn't know that—rests in her hands like a weapon she's still learning to handle.

  My sons shouldn't have done that. Shouldn't have frozen her like they did.

  The living wood beneath my feet pulses with a rhythm that matches my heartbeat, or maybe my heartbeat matches it. Hard to tell anymore. The flowers in my crown are doing their nervous flutter thing, petals opening and closing in patterns Eddara says look like morse code when I'm anxious. Which I am. Because my boys, my legion, they're supposed to protect, not traumatize. That's the whole fucking point of them.

  "When you ordered them."

  The wood doesn't just flex this time. It *warps*, reality bending like someone's pressing their thumb into wet clay, and then Protector slides through the floor like—fuck, okay, like he slid out of Thornara that one time. Was it payback for all the times me and Eddara would disappear to, well. Probably. Though Thornara only caught us the once when she was a teenager, and I made damn sure of that. The mushrooms though, those weren't my fault. She thought they were candy.

  He's wearing his usual uniform: shorts. Nothing else. Eight and a half feet of muscle, skin, and those flowing runes that never stop moving across his arms and chest. The script pulses with meaning I can read without trying—protection, vigilance, endurance. Basic stuff for him. Though there's a new one coiling around his left bicep that I think translates to something about patience, which is funny considering.

  "Didn't intend that," Protector grunts, settling into a crouch that shouldn't look comfortable but does on him. His attention fixes on Jason and Grace. Jason's leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, watching Grace read with this expression that makes my chest tight. Like she's the most interesting thing in the world. Which, for him, she probably is. "And she did. Thornara. The other times were from those fucking mushrooms she thought were candy. Not your fault."

  The flowers in my crown relax slightly. Good to know I'm not being held responsible for botanical narcotics.

  "First Hate brought her to Durge," I say, watching Grace's finger trace a line of text. She's got good form even when she's reading. Spine straight, shoulders back, ready to drop the book and draw a weapon if needed. The knife she keeps in her boot—the one she thinks Jason doesn't know about—catches the firelight. "But that shouldn't have caused..." I gesture toward the scene in front of us, to Jason's clothes still hanging over that stick above the fire, steam rising off them in lazy curls.

  Protector considers this, and I can feel him thinking. The runes on his arms pulse brighter, faster, processing. "Something before, perhaps?" His voice has that rumble that makes small children either feel absolutely safe or absolutely terrified depending on whether they've done something stupid. "Something that burned itself deep?"

  I turn this over in my mind, running through possibilities. Grace's background is mostly classified, even from me. The Druid trained her hard, trained her mean, trained her to survive. But that reaction—that wasn't tactical freezing. That was trauma response. "Maybe," I admit. "But this, how did mechanic Jason put it?" I try to remember the exact phrase. "'Throws a wrench in things'? Or was that the mechs from mechanization? The goblins that didn't become druids?"

  "The ones who decided to just interbreed with ogres instead?" Protector adds, which isn't helpful but is accurate.

  "Because other things might trigger Grace," I continue, finding my thread again. "And she has enough to concern herself with already." The firelight shifts, painting new shadows across Jason's face as he laughs at something Grace says. The sound is warm, genuine. Unguarded.

  "Paladin would be able to help," I note, considering options. "The man's made it his specialty to deal with this kind of thing." I pause, frowning. "Though how he turned his own self-hate into a perpetual motion engine, I have no fucking idea."

  "This variant's Tyran." Protector's voice drops lower, which I didn't think was possible. "From what I heard. Also something about emuse? Zombie emuse?"

  Fuck.

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  My brother. My Tyran—not this variant, mine—I thought he was trying to make were-kangaroos in Australia. Which means he either succeeded, which knowing him is likely, or failed and decided to come here instead. And if he's here, he's going to be... Tyran. Which means chaos in the name of science and zero regard for consequences.

  "We need to get Mia to actually interact with Jason and Grace," I say, changing subjects before I spiral into worrying about what Tyran's doing. "As opposed to just, well."

  "Watch them from the shadows like Mia?" Protector's mouth twitches into what might be a smile. "Yes. I'll handle it. If she stabs me, I won't die. And even if I do, reincarnation is really just unfair." He pauses, and something darker crosses his face. "Not quite as unfair as godslayer, but I only used that like, twice? To kill the variant of you who went with L'Ceal."

  My stomach clenches. "I don't want to think about that."

  Protector nods once, sharp and final. We don't talk about L'Ceal. We don't talk about the versions who made different choices, who walked different paths. We especially don't talk about the ones who had to be put down.

  "Will you train her?" His question pulls me back. "If that is the path she takes? Ambrosia? Hospitable environment? Lifebringer?"

  I watch Grace close the book, marking her place with careful precision. Watch her look at Jason, really look at him, with an expression that's trying very hard to stay tactical and failing. "Why didn't Alnasl tell Sarah that Shaina could heal her?"

  The question seems to come from nowhere, but Protector follows my thinking. He always does.

  "Alnasl doesn't know if Shaina would." His voice goes absolutely flat, which is how I know he's thought about this extensively. "I do. She's Shaina. She heals. She tends. It's who and what she is. But Alnasl does not know, and as such, Alnasl does not possibly lie to her patients."

  The logic tracks. Alnasl's honor system is... specific.

  "Then no," I say, watching Jason stand, stretch, check the clothes hanging over the fire with a touch that's probably testing for dryness. His fingers linger on the fabric. "Shaina would be a better teacher than me. Besides, you think Jason..." I nod toward the young man who's now adding another log to the fire with movements that suggest Grace has been teaching him proper fire management, "would let me near her? No. Shaina, if she accepts, will teach Grace."

  "She will." Protector says it like it's already decided, already done. "Shaina was part of Tane's squad. Tane, for all her issues, was a good human. Just don't be a tomato and you'll be fine."

  His face cracks into a grin that would probably terrify anyone who doesn't know him. "Also, you really think Shaina's going to refuse training someone? Especially a ranger?" The grin widens. "The woman loves rangers almost as much as she loves her worthy. Primal warrior worthy, mind."

  I consider this, then nod. Protector knows his people better than I know mine, just like I know mine better than he knows his. It's how we work, how we've always worked. Complementary skillsets.

  "Still can't believe my careful plan was undone by a cat," I mutter, because I'm still annoyed about it. "Though the little floofball got better for it, and it turned out the plant wasn't really needed, so it all worked out."

  Protector's head swivels toward me with a speed that would snap a normal person's neck. "What's this now? Plant? What did you do, brother of mine?"

  Shit. I forgot he didn't know about this part.

  "I made a plant with berries that had warm fuzzies inside them," I explain, trying to sound casual about it. "The emotion, I mean. Then put it on Jason's desk so Grace would eat them. Except the cat—Kitten, the one Grace found in that box—ate them instead." I can still picture it. "Ran up the railings too. Was actually pretty funny."

  Protector considers this, and I watch emotions play across his face. Amusement first, then calculation, then something harder that makes the runes on his skin pulse with angry red light. "I will return."

  His tone suggests he's about to do violence to someone.

  "Don't actually do anything," I say quickly, putting my hand on his forearm, which is all I can reach without jumping. The muscle underneath is like touching warm stone. "This is Grace's, technically. Her territory, her jurisdiction, her... thing."

  Whatever he was about to do.

  Protector's jaw works, grinding teeth that could probably bite through steel. Then he nods, once. Accepting my logic but not happy about it.

  Then he steps through me.

  Not around. Not past. *Through*. I feel the momentary displacement of reality as he uses my living form as a conduit to the wildroads, advanced primal magic that I keep forgetting is a thing he can do. The sensation is deeply weird—like having someone walk through your soul but politely, like they're excusing themselves at a crowded party.

  And then he's gone.

  I stand there for a moment, recalibrating, then turn back to watch Jason and Grace. The fire's burned down to steady coals now, the kind that'll last for hours without much attention. Jason's settled back into his spot, and Grace has reopened the book. But she's not reading. She's watching him watch the fire, and there's something in her expression that I recognize.

  The same thing Eddara had when she first realized she didn't just tolerate my presence, she *wanted* it.

  They're good for each other. Really good. Grace is learning that she can want things, that desire isn't weakness. And Jason's starting to understand that he's wanted because of who he is, not because of what he can do or who he's related to. Technically bullshit—the deathoath complicates things—but it took me years to fully deal with similar dynamics, and I had a literal goddess of life helping me process. So Jason's doing pretty damn good, all things considered.

  Grace shifts, and the movement draws Jason's attention. He looks at her, and she looks back, and something passes between them that doesn't need words. Understanding, maybe. Recognition.

  The book in Grace's hands lowers slightly. "You're staring at the fire like it's going to reveal the secrets of the universe."

  "Maybe it will," Jason says, and there's a smile in his voice. "That book certainly seems to think natural phenomena have deeper meanings."

  "Primal magic does operate on symbolic resonance," Grace replies, her tone shifting into lecture mode. "Fire represents transformation, purification, the conversion of potential energy into kinetic force and heat. In magical contexts—"

  "You sound like you're quoting the book," Jason interrupts gently.

  Grace blinks, looks down at the pages, then back at him. "I am. The phrasing is efficient."

  "You could also just say fire is pretty and makes things warm."

  "That would be tactically imprecise."

  Jason laughs, and I feel it in my chest, that warm sound of genuine amusement. "Grace, not everything needs to be tactical."

  "Inaccurate." But there's something in her voice, a softness that wasn't there before. "However, I acknowledge that some observations can be simplified without compromising core meaning."

  "Progress," Jason says, grinning.

  I watch Grace almost smile. Almost. The corner of her mouth twitches, and her eyes do this thing where they warm up like she's letting light in. Then she catches herself and goes back to reading, but the warmth doesn't quite leave.

  Yeah. They're definitely good for each other.

  Now if I can just figure out why everyone keeps insisting Grace watched me and Eddara have sex. She never did. Right? I mean, I would've noticed. Eddara would've noticed. We specifically checked for observers because, well, goddess of life, former student, boundaries are important.

  ...Right?

  Fuck, now I'm going to be paranoid about this.

  The scene continues without my internal crisis. Grace reads another passage about primal magic's relationship with living systems. Jason listens with the kind of attention he gives everything she says, like every word matters. His clothes are almost dry now, fabric cooling from the heat, ready to be worn again.

  "The ecosystem doesn't just survive under a druid's touch," Grace reads, her finger following the line. "It thrives, transforming from inhospitable terrain into lush, fertile landscape. The key is understanding that you're not imposing your will on nature—you're facilitating what nature already wants to become."

  "Like you teaching me about vigger," Jason says. "You're not putting something new in me. You're helping me find what was already there."

  Grace's finger stops moving. She looks at him, really looks, and I see her processing this connection he's made. "That is... an apt comparison."

  "I learn from the best," Jason replies, and the way he says it—like it's simple fact, like Grace being the best is just obvious truth—makes something in her expression crack open a little wider.

  They're going to be fine, I think. Maybe better than fine. November's coming, reality's thinning, and there are forces moving that neither of them fully understand yet. But right now, in this moment, they have each other. They have this learning, this growing, this careful mutual discovery of what they could be together.

  I let the scene fade, the partitioned reality dissolving around me like smoke. I have my own life to return to, my own goddess waiting, my own responsibilities in my own timeline. But I'll be watching. We all will—the Brotherhood, the Sisterhood, the various cosmic entities who've decided these two matter.

  Jason Stone and Grace, in whatever forms they take, in whatever realities they inhabit, they always find each other. And they always, *always* matter.

  Even if my boys apparently gave her fucking trauma responses, which we're going to have to address at some point.

  Though knowing Shaina, she'll probably just fix it while teaching Grace how to turn water into ambrosia and casually mentioning that trauma is just another form of energy that can be transmuted into strength.

  Fucking druids and their "everything is a teachable moment" philosophy.

  I step through the boundary between watching and living, reality snapping back into focus around me. Eddara's garden materializes, warm Toronto summer air replacing the February cold of Jason and Grace's timeline. I can smell jasmine, feel living wood responding to my presence, hear the gentle hum of golems tending to plants they've adopted as their personal responsibility.

  "You were gone longer than usual," Eddara's voice comes from somewhere behind the rose bushes. "Did you get lost in their timeline, or were you overthinking again?"

  "Can't it be both?" I call back, moving toward her voice.

  Her laugh carries through the garden, warm as sunlight, and I feel the flowers in my crown respond to her presence. Opening, reaching, recognizing their goddess.

  Yeah. I definitely need to make sure no one was watching when we—

  "Jason," Eddara says, appearing around the roses with that look on her face that means she knows exactly what I'm thinking. "If Grace had watched, I would've known. Stop spiraling."

  "How do you—never mind. Goddess. Right."

  She smiles, takes my hand, and leads me deeper into the garden where no one, absolutely no one, is watching.

  Probably.

  ...Definitely going to ask Protector to check later.

  Just to be sure.

  ---Jason---

  The watery winter sunlight breaks through the clouds as I scrape another heaping shovelful of snow off the buried car. The blizzard has finally let up, though the world around us remains transformed into a winter wonderland on steroids. Five days of Grace's combat training, followed by being snowed in at that bizarre cabin with floor-traveling death children, have left my muscles screaming in protest with every movement. Still, there's something oddly satisfying about the ache—tangible proof that I'm changing, growing stronger.

  "We must remove all snow from the windows and roof before departure," Grace states, methodically clearing the driver's side with efficient, economical movements. Despite the brutal cold, she wears only a light jacket, her vigger circulation keeping her warm while I'm bundled up like a kid whose mother thinks it's the apocalypse. Which, I suppose, isn't far from the truth considering what's coming in November.

  "I think I've got most of it," I say, stepping back to survey our work. The car sits in a small island of cleared space, surrounded by snowdrifts that reach nearly to my waist. "Though I'm not sure how we're going to actually get out of here. The road looks completely buried, and this thing's a 2-wiel drive.

  Grace scans our surroundings with that predatory intensity that never fails to fascinate me. "The initial portion will be challenging," she acknowledges, "but the main road has likely been partially cleared. Local municipalities prioritize emergency access routes during severe weather events."

  I wipe sweat from my forehead despite the cold, my breath fogging in the frigid air. "If you say so. I'm just amazed we didn't freeze to death in that cabin."

  "The structure was adequately insulated, and the fire maintained optimal thermal output," Grace replies matter-of-factly, as if spending days with interdimensional death children popping through floorboards before it turning out they were actually running from other people who they stole the names of are perfectly routine. Maybe for her, bizarre encounters are just Tuesday. She did speak about something called an ice wraith? And Clatshares exist, so.

  With one final check, we climb into the car—Grace immediately taking the driver's seat. Her hands position exactly at ten and two on the steering wheel, her posture remaining perfect despite the hours of snow clearing. No slouching, no signs of fatigue, just that same focused intensity she brings to everything.

  "I should drive," I offer weakly, mostly out of social convention. "It's my parents' car after all, and you've been up longer."

  "You cannot see the yellow and white lines on the pavement," Grace points out, nodding toward the I assume barely visible road markings peeking through the snow. "They are flat paint, invisible to your unique vision. I will drive."

  I can't argue with that logic. My strange sight—a gift from Grace's vigger healing—has its limitations. Flat images on surfaces register as essentially blank to me. Road markings, printed pages, digital screens—all require workarounds or assistance. It's why I needed Grace to read the book to me earlier. Still. I can see, which is better than what I had.

  The fading afternoon sun casts long shadows across the winding country road as we finally make our way back toward Toronto, the car crunching through several inches of snow that remain on the secondary roads. Every pothole or snow-hidden bump sends fresh waves of pain through my overworked muscles.

  "Your body is adapting well to the training," Grace observes, breaking the comfortable silence that's been for, about half an hour now? "Your recovery time has decreased twenty-three percent since we began."

  I turn to look at her profile, silhouetted against the golden light streaming through the driver's side window. "Did you actually calculate that, or is that just a feeling?"

  "Both," she replies, and I catch that subtle twitch at the corner of her mouth—the closest thing to a smile in her standard repertoire. "I maintain precise measurements of your performance metrics, but I have also developed an... awareness of your progress that is less quantifiable."

  "Careful," I tease, shifting to relieve the pressure on my sore back. "That almost sounds like intuition. Very un-Grace-like."

  She makes that soft huffing sound that I've come to recognize as her version of a laugh. The fact that I can identify these subtle expressions feels like its own kind of victory.

  The light catches her face just right, highlighting the sharpness of her cheekbones, the perfect bow of her lips, the slight furrow of concentration between her eyebrows as she navigates the partially cleared roads. I force myself to look away before she notices me staring, focusing instead on the passing fields and farmhouses, now transformed into smooth white sculptures through the windows Grace opened slightly so I can actually see out.

  That's when I see it in the rearview mirror—a subtle movement in the backseat where there should be nothing but our camping gear. A shape unfolding from beneath a tarp, dark eyes meeting mine in the reflection.

  I see his intention instantly—the way his gaze shifts to Grace, the glint of something metallic in his hand. He's not looking at me at all. I'm just in his way.

  "Grace! Behind—"

  My warning cuts off as strong hands move, the thin cord whipping around my throat with trained efficiency. The garrote pulls tight with a savage yank, cutting off my air immediately. I wasn't the target—I just had the misfortune of sitting between this attacker and Grace.

  Instinct takes over. My hands fly to my neck, fingers scrabbling at the garrote. The cord—fishing line, maybe, or piano wire—slices into my flesh with every desperate movement. I try to twist away, but my seatbelt constrains me, and my attacker uses the leverage to pull tighter.

  "Gr-" I try again, but all that emerges is a wet, strangled sound. My lungs burn, panic exploding through my system. Five days of training hasn't prepared me for this—the terrifying intimacy of someone actively trying to kill me to get to Grace. Granted, I doubt that 5 years would be enough.

  She continues driving, focused on the snow-covered road ahead, not on me gasping silently beside her. I manage to knock against the gearshift with flailing hands, my coordination already failing as oxygen deprivation sets in alongside, probably, bloodloss.

  Blood pounds in my ears. Black spots bloom across my vision. I kick out desperately, feet slamming into the dashboard—anything to make noise. The car swerves slightly on the slippery surface as Grace compensates for my movement, her head finally turning toward me.

  Her eyes widen for just a fraction of a second—then narrow, going flat and cold like Durge's.

  What happens next unfolds with dreamlike slowness as my vision, and consciousness, begin to fade.

  Grace doesn't shout. Doesn't hesitate. Her right arm shoots across my body, fingers formed into a rigid spear-hand that drives backward with the precision that Grace brings to everything she does, even learning how to use the air-frier. There's a wet crunch as her hand connects with something behind me, followed by a muffled scream.

  The pressure on my throat doesn't let up. My vision tunnels, darkness creeping in from the edges.

  "Varmint filth," Grace hisses—an actual emotional outburst—then abandons the steering wheel completely. She unbuckles her seatbelt in one fluid motion and twists in her seat, lunging between the front seats toward my attacker.

  Through dimming vision, I see her bone knife appear in her hand, the blade glinting dully in the fading light. The car, now completely uncontrolled, veers wildly across the center line, snow spraying up from the wheels as we slide across the slippery surface.

  The last thing I register before consciousness slips away is the sickening crunch of metal against wood, my body thrown against the seatbelt as the world tilts violently around me.

  Darkness claims me. Before everything goes black though, I think: "I can't die, because if I do, Grace does, and fuck that."

  ---Grace---

  ## Grace's Perspective

  The scent of blood fills the car—metallic and sharp. Jason's blood from the cut on his throat, but more importantly, the blood of the man partially hidden behind his seat, still gripping the garrote with trembling hands.

  Time slows as combat awareness overtakes me. I assess and act simultaneously. Jason's carotid arteries are compressed but not severed. Permanent brain damage begins at four minutes without oxygen. He has approximately two minutes of useful consciousness remaining, less if the wire cuts deeper.

  The car is now a liability, not an asset.

  I abandon the steering wheel without hesitation, twisting toward the attacker. My initial strike to his nasal cavity was ineffective—I'd aimed for his eye socket but missed in the confined space. A miscalculation that could cost Jason his life. That will not be tolerated.

  My bone knife slides into my palm from its sheath, the familiar weight an extension of my arm. I lunge between the seats, my target already reacting—releasing one hand from the garrote to defend against me. Not enough. Jason's face is purpling, his movements growing sluggish.

  I drive my knife toward the attacker's wrist, aiming to sever the tendons controlling his grip. The blade cuts true, slicing through flesh and sinew with minimal resistance. Blood sprays across the backseat as the man howls.

  The car swerves violently, tires leaving the road. Impact is imminent. I brace myself, maintaining my attack position. We strike a tree at approximately forty kilometers per hour, the front crumpling with a scream of metal. My body absorbs the impact, using the momentum to drive deeper into the backseat, toward the thing who is harming my Jason.

  The attacker—male, approximately seventy-five kilograms, wearing a black tactical mask—releases the garrote as the airbags deploy. Jason slumps forward, unconscious but breathing. The wire has left a deep red line across his throat, blood beading along its path.

  I feel something unfamiliar surge through me—not the tactical coldness of combat, but something hotter, darker. Rage. Pure, uncalculated rage. Though I am aware of what rage is, I saw it when mothers, both human and animal, would defend their ofspring in my homeland, I have never felt this rage myself.

  The man tries to escape, scrambling for the door handle. I seize his throat with my left hand, fingers digging into pressure points that send white-hot pain through his nervous system. His eyes widen with terror as he realizes his mistake. This is not a normal woman he's attacking. I am a ranger, a predator, and he has harmed what is mine.

  "You touched him," I say, my voice eerily calm despite the inferno raging within me. "You tried to take what is mine. The man who sees me. Not the ranger. Not the weapon. Me."

  My knife hand begins its work methodically, systematically. I do not kill him immediately—that would be too merciful. Instead, I apply my knowledge of anatomy with surgical precision, identifying and severing specific nerve clusters that maximize pain while minimizing blood loss.

  He screams, the sound muffled by my grip on his throat. I could silence him completely, but I want him conscious. Want him aware. Want hhim to understand, exactly, what he did before he dies.

  "Who sent you?" I demand, twisting the blade in a non-lethal but agonizing manner.

  "System... preparation," he gasps. "Test... subject..."

  The words register dimly through my focus on his suffering. November. The systems apocalypse. This is connected somehow. My knife continues its work, blood flowing over my hands, coating my fingers in crimson warmth.

  In the distance, sirens wail—approaching quickly. I should stop. Should assess the tactical situation. But something primal has taken over, something that demands retribution for the threat to my Jason.

  The attacker's eyes roll back, consciousness fleeing as blood loss mounts despite my careful work. I release his throat, letting him slump against the backseat. My hands drip red, blood pooling in my palms before spilling onto my clothes.

  I turn back to Jason, checking his pulse. Strong. Regular. The death oath remains intact, which means his life is not in immediate danger. Relief washes through me with unexpected intensity.

  Blue and red lights flash through the shattered windshield as police vehicles screech to a halt around us. Officers emerge, weapons drawn, shouting commands I barely process.

  "Police! Hands where we can see them!"

  I look down at my blood-covered hands, at the knife still clutched in my right fist, at Jason's unconscious form. I understand immediately how this appears to them.

  "Ma'am, drop the weapon! Now!"

  The tactical response is clear—I should comply, explain the situation, ensure Jason receives medical attention. Yet something in me resists. The thought of being separated from Jason while he's vulnerable, of being prevented from protecting him, creates an unexpected flare of now cold rage in my chest.

  I force myself to open my fingers, allowing the knife to fall with a soft thud onto the seat. Blood drips from my hands as I slowly raise them, my eyes never leaving Jason's face.

  "He needs medical attention," I state, my voice steady despite the unfamiliar emotions churning inside me. "His trachea may be damaged."

  Multiple officers approach, weapons trained on me. Through the broken window, I hear one of them radio for an ambulance.

  "Jesus Christ, what did she do to that guy?" another whispers, catching sight of the attacker in the backseat.

  "He attempted to kill my Jason," I explain with clinical precision. "I prevented that outcome. The man is still breathing. Had I wished him dead, he would be." I meet the officer's eyes directly. "I chose not to kill him. This time. Remember that."

  The officer takes an involuntary step back.

  I continue, my tone matter-of-fact: "Anyone who attempts to harm my Jason will be killed. This man received mercy he did not deserve. Others will not."

  Strong hands grip my arms, pulling me from the vehicle. I allow it, though every instinct screams to resist, to remain with Jason. Metal handcuffs snap around my wrists, cold against my skin but insignificant compared to the coldness forming in my chest as they separate me from the man who is mine.

  "Grace Winters, you're under arrest for aggravated assault," an officer recites mechanically. "You have the right to remain silent..."

  The words wash over me meaninglessly as I watch paramedics arrive and rush to Jason. Only when they reach him, when I see his chest rise and fall steadily, does some of the tension leave my body.

  They would try to cage me for this. For protecting what is mine. In my homeland, my actions would be celebrated as appropriate, proportional.

  But this is not my homeland. And as they guide me toward a police car, Jason's blood mixing with his attacker's on my hands, I realize I have much to learn about the limits this society places on the defense of those you care for.

  The realization that I care for Jason—truly care, beyond the obligations of the death oath—hits me with surprising force as the police car door closes behind me. If the death oath compels me to protect his life, this newer, rawer feeling compels me to protect his happiness, his entire being.

  I knew that I cared for Jason before this. I understood it, fundimentally, as tacticle. This is. Emotional. This is. More.

  November approaches. The systems apocalypse draws nearer. And now, it seems, others are aware of what's coming—testing us, perhaps preparing in their own way.

  I will need to become stronger. And I will need to teach Jason to become stronger too, if either of us is to survive what lies ahead.

  ---Magnen---

  # The Call from the Hospital

  I'm watching Mike muscle a support beam into place like it weighs nothing. The strength he's displaying is remarkable—I've seen professional contractors half his age struggle with beams that size. What's more peculiar is that he's wearing just a thin flannel shirt while the rest of us are bundled up against the basement chill. Kyle and Dillen are huddled near the far wall in heavy sweaters, their breath visible in the cold air as they measure and cut insulation panels.

  "How the hell are you not freezing?" I hand Mike another lag bolt, feeling the cold metal bite into my fingertips. "It's barely 10 degrees Celsius down here."

  Mike shrugs, securing the beam with practiced efficiency. "Spent too many winters outside, I guess. Body adapts."

  That's become his standard answer whenever one of us notices something unusual—which is happening with increasing frequency. Yesterday, he caught a falling sheet of drywall one-handed that should have crushed Dillan's foot. The day before that, I saw him lift our old refrigerator by himself to slide a dolly underneath.

  "Nobody adapts to the point where they're comfortable in short sleeves when it's -15 outside," I press, watching his face carefully. "And nobody your age should be able to lift a forty-five kilogram beam single-handedly without breaking a sweat."

  Mike's hands pause momentarily on the beam. Something flickers across his weathered face—caution, perhaps, or resignation.

  "It's the vigger," he admits quietly, leaning closer so Kyle and Dillen can't hear. "Grace has been teaching me. The life-force manipulation she showed you and Bearee that night Jason had his, whatever that thing was where you found out about november."

  I nod, remembering all too well the evening Grace demonstrated how she'd healed Jason's eyes. How she'd gotten her nose broken when Jason sat up, then fixed it with nothing but concentration and that strange energy she called vigger. Bearee had been fascinated despite herself, asking questions with that clinical precision she brings to everything. She'd tried to hide her interest behind professional concern, but I know my wife. The idea of manipulating life energy to heal had captured her imagination completely. Even more now she's training with Etienne's, now our, hatchets.

  "She's got me practicing every chance I get," Mike continues. "Says I've got 'exceptional adaptive capability for my age.' Temperature regulation was the first thing I managed to get working reliably."

  "Must be nice," I mutter, rubbing my cold hands together. At nearly 70, my joints remind me of their existence every morning with increasing persistence. "Jason promised they'd start teaching me when they get back from their camping trip. Think I'm too old to learn this magical life-force bullshit that actually works?"

  Mike grins, the expression transforming his weathered face. "Grace says everyone has the capacity. Some just take to it faster than others."

  "Bearee's been asking Jason about it for weeks now," I say, lowering my voice. "She'd never admit it, but she's excited about the therapeutic possibilities. Just yesterday she was talking about how vigger might help her clients with chronic pain if she could learn to manipulate it properly. Someone named Bell, in particular?"

  "She'd be good at it," Mike acknowledges. "It requires focus and intention. Seems right up her alley."

  "She still thinks it might be dangerous," I add, grabbing another lag bolt from the box. "Says we don't understand the long-term effects."

  "Bearee's cautious," Mike acknowledges. "Smart. But I was sleeping under a bridge in January before Grace found me. Now I'm warm, stronger than I've been in twenty years, and helping build rooms for homeless kids in your basement. I'll take those effects, long-term or otherwise."

  I can't argue with his results. Mike looks ten years younger than when he first came to dinner. The chronic cough he'd arrived with disappeared weeks ago. Even his movements have changed—more fluid, more precise. Over in the corner, I catch Kyle watching us with barely concealed curiosity. He's been hovering whenever Grace visits, clearly fascinated by her strange abilities. Dillen, on the other hand, maintains his skepticism, though even he can't deny how much Mike has changed.

  My thoughts are interrupted when the basement door creaks open. Bearee descends the stairs, her face tight with the expression she gets when trying to control her emotions—the professional counselor mask sliding into place to cover something turbulent beneath.

  "It's Jason," she says, one hand gripping the railing so tightly her knuckles whiten. "The hospital just called. There's been some kind of accident—and Grace is involved somehow."

  My tools clatter to the workbench as I stand. "What happened? Is he hurt?"

  "They wouldn't give details over the phone. Just said we should come right away." She tugs absently at her sleeve—a nervous habit she's had since I met her thirty years ago. "They mentioned police involvement."

  Mike sets down his hammer with deliberate care, moving to stand beside me. "Police?"

  "That's all they would say." Bearee's eyes find mine, the professional veneer cracking just enough for me to see the fear underneath. For all her wariness about Grace, Bearee has grown attached to the strange young woman with her direct manner and unexpected kindnesses. Just this morning she was telling me how Grace had shown her a pattern for directing energy through acupressure points—"purely theoretical," she'd claimed, though I caught her practicing the movements later.

  From behind us, Sarah emerges from the small office space we've set up for her in the corner of the basement. Her face is pale beneath her dark hair. "Is Grace okay?"

  "I don't know," Bearee admits, her shoulders tensing. "The nurse just said Jason was admitted and Grace was... being questioned."

  A heavy silence falls over the basement. The implication hangs in the air, unspoken but impossible to ignore. Grace questioned by police while Jason is in the hospital paints a deeply troubling picture.

  "Grace wouldn't hurt Jason," Mike says with absolute certainty, his voice dropping to that quiet intensity that always makes me pay attention. "Not in a million years."

  "You don't know what she's capable of," Bearee counters, her eyes flashing. The protective mother emerges fully now, psychology training temporarily forgotten.

  "I know exactly what she's capable of," Mike responds, meeting her gaze steadily. "That's why I'm certain."

  I remember the conversation Grace had with Bearee weeks ago—how she'd explained the death oath binding her to Jason, how his death would mean hers. Whatever happened, it wasn't Grace attacking Jason. That much I'm sure of.

  "We need to go," I say, grabbing my jacket from the back of a chair. "Now."

  "I'm coming with you," Mike states, already heading for the stairs.

  "Me too," Sarah adds, grabbing her coat.

  Bearee looks like she might object for a moment, then simply nods. "Fine. The more support for Jason, the better." Bearee then punctuates this by grabbing the hatchets and slideing them through her belt.

  I turn to Kyle and Dillen. "You boys okay finishing up here? We shouldn't be gone more than a few hours."

  They exchange a glance, and I'm reminded of their history—both ex-cons who Mike found sleeping under the Riverdale Bridge. They're probably thinking about how most people wouldn't leave ex-felons alone in their home.

  "We got this, Mr. Stone," Kyle says, solemn. "Take care of your son."

  "House will be fine," Dillen adds, his voice gruff but sincere. "Those vigger exercises Sarah showed us are working pretty good. We'll keep practicing while you're gone."

  This surprises me—Dillen has been the most resistant to Grace's teachings, maintaining that it must be some kind of trick. The fact that he's practicing suggests he's seen enough evidence to overcome his skepticism.

  Ten minutes later, we're piling into my truck—Bearee in the passenger seat, Mike and Sarah in the back. The tension is palpable as I back out of the driveway and head toward Toronto General.

  "Grace wouldn't hurt him," Mike repeats, more to himself than anyone else. "Whatever happened, there's an explanation."

  "Maybe she lost control," Bearee mutters, staring out the window at the passing houses. "We don't really know what she is, where she came from."

  I catch her hand in mine, squeezing gently. Despite her words, I know Bearee's worry extends to Grace too. She's been increasingly protective of both of them, especially since that night in the basement when we found them asleep together. She'd been furious at first, then concerned, then strangely resolute—as if she'd made some internal decision about Grace that she hadn't yet shared with me.

  "She has perfect control," Mike counters, his voice firm. "That's her whole thing."

  I grip the steering wheel tighter with my free hand, trying to focus on the road and not the worst-case scenarios playing through my mind. "Let's not jump to conclusions. Could be something completely different."

  "Like what?" Bearee demands, turning toward me.

  "Like maybe she protected him from something," Sarah suggests quietly from the back seat. "You know how she is—always on guard, always watching for threats. That goes double when Jason's involved."

  This possibility hangs in the air as we drive through the late afternoon traffic. It makes far more sense than Grace harming Jason. In the months she's been with us, I've come to recognize her strange, fierce protectiveness toward my son—the way she positions herself between him and potential dangers, the way her eyes constantly scan for threats even in our living room.

  "Either way," I say, turning onto University Avenue, "I wish they were home right now instead of wherever they are. Jason promised me vigger lessons starting this weekend. I've got a lower back that could use some magical healing."

  Bearee shoots me a look—half exasperation, half fondness. "Is that all you're worried about? Your back?"

  "No," I admit, sobering. "But I'd rather think about that than what might be waiting for us at the hospital."

  "It would be nice to finally learn," Bearee says softly, almost to herself. "I've been reading everything I can find on energy work and meridian theory. There's so much potential for healing." She flexes her fingers absently, and I wonder if she's trying to channel vigger now, searching for that pathway Grace described.

  As we pull into the emergency parking lot, I can't help but wonder if November is already starting—if the systems apocalypse Jason and Grace have been preparing for is arriving early. The thought sends a chill through me that has nothing to do with the temperature.

  "Whatever happened," I say, turning off the engine, "we handle it as a family. All of us."

  Mike's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. He nods once, an understanding passing between us. Whatever's waiting inside those hospital doors, we'll face it together—this cobbled-together family of misfits that Grace has somehow assembled around herself.

  As we walk toward the entrance, I realize with surprising clarity that I'd give almost anything to see Grace standing in our kitchen right now, methodically cutting vegetables with terrifying precision while explaining to Jason exactly how to maximize the nutritional value of a simple stir-fry. Even if they both agreede that meet makes everything better.

  God, I hope they're both okay.