[ Ayame's POV]
It is dark. We should rest. But he has no wood for a fire. He says we are close. The Sky-Dock is close. I know of the Sky-Docks. They are the arteries between the floating landmasses. I have used them. The memory is there, a clear picture without sound or feeling. A platform of smooth, ancient stone. Rails that gleam with captive starlight. A vessel that sails the void between realms.
He saw the edge of the world from the mountain. It frightened him. It should. The drop is not into more land, but into the true Deep. The endless dark where even light gets lost. Only the reckless or the doomed go into the Deep without a vessel. He is not reckless. He is determined. He needs the dock to continue his path. I will make sure he reaches it.
I do not count the days. Time is the sun rising and setting. It is the growing ache in my legs, the slow healing of my wounds. He thinks perhaps three days have passed since the red beast. The hard part is behind us. He is correct about the terrain. But the hard part of people is often ahead.
We encountered more Unfaithful after the red zone. Small ones. F-rank. The weakest kind. Twisted things of shadow and broken instinct. They are drawn to the lingering blood-smell on us, or perhaps to the strange energy that clings to him. He killed them easily. White chains, cold and sharp, erupted from the ground at his command. They are not a weapon of this world. I have never seen their like. They are not regular fate essence. They are not that of an Enlightened or Awakened. They are something else. Another mystery about him.
He thinks I am weak. He worries my injuries linger. He is not wrong. But the weakness is manageable. Pain is a companion I know well. I can walk. I can fight if I must. I conserve my strength in this smaller form. It is efficient. It draws less attention, uses less energy. He looks at this form and sees fragility. He does not see the purpose of it.
I am quiet as we walk. He finds it comforting. I do not understand why silence comforts humans. Often, silence is when the worst things are planned. But if my quiet gives him strength to continue, then I will be silent.
My form is small. Thin. The clothes are torn and stained with old blood, both mine and the beast's. In this shape, I am a head shorter than him. It is efficient for travel. For conserving energy. It is a contrast to my other form. The one that fought the wolf. That form is taller. Stronger. It holds a different kind of presence. It is not about bulk or visible muscle. It is about density. Potential. A coiled power. Lucid finds it curious. He watches me when he thinks I do not notice. He is trying to understand what I am. I do not mind. Let him look.
We reach the trees. The blue forest. The air changes. The killing cold of the mountain lifts. A thick, humid warmth takes its place. It is a relief. It feels like life returning to my frozen skin. The trees are a deep, vibrant blue. It is the blue of twilight, captured in leaf and bark. This is a Gloaming Wood. I know this. The memory surfaces without effort. The blue hue comes from spores in the air, from lichen on the bark. It is harmless. It means the forest is very old. These woods often grow on the stable edges of continents, near places where the world ends.
Above, the twin moons are visible through the canopy. Sellenia, the silver one. And Morwen, the red-tinged one. He only now notices Morwen's hue. He finds it weird. It is not weird. It is a sign. The red tinge deepens during times of strife, when the veil between realms grows thin. It has been deepening for a long time. He is new here, maybe he is from the edges of the scattered realms. A Place where they are not visible perhaps. He does not know the signs of the sky.
He walks ahead. I stay a step behind. I watch his back. I watch the forest around us. I listen. I see the first outlines of buildings past the river. He sees them too. He speaks to me, a gesture of hope. "We are almost there."
I nod. My nod means I see them too. It does not mean I want to go there. Villages at the edge of the world are often cruel places. People who live staring into the Deep either grow very wise or very fearful. More often, fearful.
We come to the river. It is wide, shallow, fast with mountain runoff. He picks his way across the stones, careful and slow. His balance is good, but he is tired. It would be easy to slip. I do not follow his path. When he is across, I simply leap. My body is light in this form, made for agility. The distance is nothing. I land without sound on the soft moss of the far bank.
He makes a sound. "Wow." It is a sound of appreciation. It pleases me, though I do not know why. My performance was adequate. It served its purpose.
"Let us go," I say. We go.
The lights of the settlement grow brighter. He speeds up, a jog fueled by hope for a real bed, a warm meal, safety. His hope is a tangible thing. It is also a vulnerability.
I reach out and my hand nudges his, stopping him.
"They will not allow me inside," I state. It is a fact of this world. Many places will not. My kind is remembered in stories as monsters. Stories are easier for humans than truth.
He is confused. He tells me to go on, that he will wait outside. He does not understand. "I am not human," I explain. It should be obvious. My horn. My eyes. The way my blood works. "They will grow enraged at my presence. Go forth."
He pauses. He thinks. I see his mind working behind the mist. Then he acts. He takes the heavy fur cloak from his pack. He drapes it over my head, pulling the hood forward to hide my horn, to shadow my face. His hands are gentle as he adjusts it.
"You are not the only one who is not entirely human," he says quietly. He gestures to the mist that hides him. "If they have a problem, they will have a problem with us both."
His gesture is one of solidarity. It is a foolish gesture. It ties his fate to mine in the eyes of the village. But it also makes something tight in my chest loosen. A feeling I cannot name.
Then he does something strange. He waves a hand at his own face, as if trying to wipe the mist away. He makes a pained, frustrated sound. "Argh!" He claws briefly at his own cheek. He is hurting himself. Trying to remove what cannot be removed. I have seen this before in others. A rejection of one's own nature. It leads only to pain.
I move without thinking. I kneel beside him. I put a hand on his back to ground him. His muscles are tense. "Are you okay?" I ask. My voice comes out softer than I intended. The worry is there, sharp and clear in my mind. He cannot be damaged. Not now. Not by his own hand.
He reacts with surprise, then shame. "I am... I am sorry." He thinks he has offended me by showing weakness. He has not.
"You are in pain," I say. It is an observation.
He calls it an old condition. He straightens. He pushes the pain down, locks it away inside. He is good at that. "Come on," he says, his voice firming. "Let us face the village together. If they turn us away... they can go and screw themselves."
The crude phrase is unfamiliar, but the meaning is clear. Defiance. I approve.
We walk into the village. There is no wall. The forest simply gives way to muddy lanes and timber huts. Men with swords patrol. They are not soldiers. Their armor is mismatched. Their eyes are not watching for external threat, but monitoring the people within. Control, not protection.
The villagers stop to stare. We are ragged. Bloodstained. Strange. Whispers follow us. I feel their stares like physical pressure. He feels it too. I can see the tension in his shoulders.
His hand finds mine. My fingers lace with his. It is not for warmth. The evening is mild. It is for connection. For claiming a shared space in this hostile place. I am uncomfortable here. I will not say I am frightened. But I am... alert. He is my constant in the chaos. I cling to that.
He speaks to a woman with a basket. He tells her we come from the Red Mountains. Her face changes. Pity, perhaps. Or the recognition of survivors. She points us to the inn. A building with a faded lily sign.
Inside, the air is thick with silence. A few locals drink in corners. All conversation dies when we enter. Their eyes are heavy with judgment. The innkeeper is a gaunt man. He flinches when he sees Lucid's mist-shrouded face. His fear is immediate, visceral. It is not just fear of the unknown. It is the fear of someone who has been warned about something, and now sees it standing before him.
Lucid asks for two rooms. I speak before the keeper can. "One room. A single bed."
Lucid is embarrassed. A flush heats his neck beneath the mist. He whispers my name like a warning.
I look at him. My logic is plain. "It is cost efficient." It is also safer. One room to guard. One door to watch. One space to defend.
The innkeeper's disapproval is a thin veil over his greed. He takes Lucid's coin and gives us a key.
The room is small. A bed. A window. Nothing more. The moment the door closes, his exhaustion wins. He falls onto the bed, defeated by the simple promise of a mattress.
I do not join him. I stand by the door. I listen. I hear the old building settle. I hear faint voices below. I hear the skittering of vermin in the walls. My instincts hum a low, constant warning.
The friendly woman outside. The flinching keeper. The heavy silence. The patrols that watch their own.
This place is not right. The pieces do not fit. A village on the edge, yet not welcoming of travelers who brave the Red Mountains? They should be eager for news, for trade, for new blood. Instead, there is only suspicion and a silence that feels like waiting.
He sleeps. His breathing becomes deep and even. I sit on the floor, my back to the wall. I face the door. The only point of entry.
I will not sleep. I will watch. The vow demands it. And something deeper, the nameless feeling that started in the cave and grows warmer each day, demands it more.
I am here. The night is long. The town is wrong. And I am watching.