[ Ayame's POV]
I sit.
The floor is wood. It is hard. It is cold. My back presses against the wall. This is a good position. I see the door. I see the window. I see him.
Lucid sleeps. His breathing is a sound. Deep and even. It fills the quiet room. It is too loud. In a different place, I would tell him to be quieter. But he is asleep. He cannot help it. His chest moves under the thin blanket. Up and down. The mist clings to his face like a second skin. I cannot see his features, but I know he is there. I listen to the rhythm of his breath. I match my own breathing to it. Slow and steady. In and out.
The room is dark. Moonlight filters through the small window. It paints a silver square on the wooden floor. It does not touch him. This is good. Light reveals position. Light is a danger.
My body aches. The wounds from the red beast are closed on the surface. His green healing light did that. But deep inside, a dull ache remains. A tiredness that is more than physical. It is in my bones and in my blood. I ignore it. Pain is merely information. It is not a command. I have ignored worse pain.
My thoughts are clear. They are simple.
Guard.
Watch.
Protect.
The town outside is quiet, but it is not asleep. I hear things. The scrape of a boot on mud two streets over. The low murmur of men talking near the well. I cannot make out their words, but I hear their tone. It is not friendly. It is the tone of planning. Of waiting.
This inn itself is too silent. A proper inn should have noise. Snoring. The rustle of sleepers. The small sounds of rest. This inn has none of that. There is only a heavy quiet, broken by the occasional sigh of old wood settling. The man downstairs, the keeper. His heartbeat was fast when we stood before him. A quick, fluttering beat. Like a trapped bird. Fear. He feared our appearance, but I am certain he feared more than that. Something else, something that lives here.
Lucid moves in his sleep. A small twitch. His hand curls into the blanket. He murmurs a word I do not catch. A name, perhaps. His heart beats strong and steady in his chest. It is a good heart. It is always loud, but its rhythm is good.
I remember the cave. The cold was a living thing there. His blood was warm on my tongue. A sweet, strong taste. It was the taste of life itself. I remember the fall, and his arms around me, taking the impact. I remember the red beast and the searing light from its mouth. I put my body in the way. It was not a choice I made. It was a fact. A necessity.
Why?
The question lingers in my mind. A shadow without a clear shape. I have no answer for it.
He is fragile. His skin flushes red with emotion. He uses too many words. He stumbles when he walks. And yet. He gave warmth. He gave blood. He pulled me back from the edge of the crumbling ground. He carried me when I was broken. He shares his path.
He is mine.
That is the only answer that makes sense. My blood-giver. My warmth. My human. Therefore, I protect. It is efficient. It is correct.
A sound.
A floorboard in the hallway creaks.
My body becomes still. Stone still. My breath stops. My ears strain, listening.
Nothing.
Then, a faint scrape. Like a fingernail brushing slowly against wood. Outside this door.
My hand moves. It finds the hilt of the broken dagger he gave me. Only a stub of the blade remains, but the edge is still sharp. It is a poor weapon, but it is a weapon.
I do not wake Lucid. Not yet. Waking is noise. Noise breaks rhythm. Noise announces readiness. Surprise is a better advantage.
The scraping sound does not come again. But the presence does not leave. I can feel it. A weight on the other side of the door. Listening. Waiting.
Minutes pass. The square of moonlight on the floor shifts its position.
Finally, a soft exhale from the hallway. Footsteps, slow and careful, retreating.
I let my own breath out in a silent stream of air. My grip on the dagger loosens.
The immediate threat is gone. For now. But it was here. It tested the door.
My eyes remain fixed on the wood. This town is not merely suspicious. It is active. It is probing.
Lucid sleeps on. He trusts the locked door. He trusts the roof. He trusts the simple idea of an inn. This is his fragility. He sees a bed and thinks *safe*.
I know better. Safety is a moment. A small space you carve out and defend. It is not given.
The night deepens. The distant conversations fade. The patrols change shifts. I hear the footsteps outside change in character. Heavier boots now. More purpose in their step.
My body does not tire. My mind stays sharp, a blade honed in the dark. I watch the door. I watch the window. I watch him.
His breathing changes. It hitches. A dream, perhaps. Not a pleasant one. His fingers clutch at the blanket.
My hand moves without conscious thought. It rests on his arm, over the wool of the blanket. My hand is cold from the floor. I do not shake him. I simply let my hand rest there. A weight. An anchor.
His breathing steadies. The tension in his hand eases.
I leave my hand there. His skin is warm beneath the fabric. It is a practical action. It calms him. It keeps his sleep quiet. A noisy sleeper is easier to locate.
That is the reason.
I watch the window. The black sky begins to grey at its edges. The moon fades. The dangerous part of the night is ending, but the dangerous part of the day is coming. A town that probes in the dark may very well act in the light.
Soon, we must move. We must reach the Sky-Dock. That is the path.
But for now, for these last moments of darkness, I sit. I watch. My hand on his arm.
The vow is unbroken.
I am here.
***
The grey light turns to pale blue, then to a clear, cold yellow. Sunlight cuts a sharp angle through the small window. It touches the floor. It touches the bed. It touches his legs under the blanket.
My eyes feel heavy. They have been open all night, watching. The safe cover of dark is gone. The room is now full of revealing light. Details become sharp. The grain of the wood floor. The dust motes dancing in the sunbeam. The worn weave of the wool blanket.
My body aches more pronouncedly now. The tiredness is a solid weight. I have completed my duty. The night passed without incident. He is unharmed. A slow, calm feeling settles over me. A job done.
I let my eyes close. Just for a moment. Not sleep. Just rest for my eyes. The sounds of the waking town filter through the window. A cart wheel grating on stone. A door slamming shut. A child calling out. Normal sounds. But I do not trust them. Normalcy here feels like a thin veneer.
I hear rustling. From the bed.
I make my body still. I make my breathing even and deep. I pretend to be asleep. It is sometimes better to observe from a position of perceived vulnerability.
I hear him move. Sit up. The blanket shifts.
A voice. His voice. Raspy from sleep.
"Good morning."
The words are strange to me. Foreign in their casual gentleness. I have heard such greetings before, but not directed at me. Not like this. In my life before… such soft words were considered dangerous. A risk. They came from the lips of my… my…
I search for the word. My colleague? My commander? The memory is a fragment. A sharp shard of broken glass. I cannot grasp it without it cutting.
I woke in the snow. I woke in the cave. My memories exist in pieces. They do not connect into a whole story. A red field. A sharp command ringing in my ears. The taste of cold metal. The heavy weight of a duty. Then nothing. Then only cold. Then his face, obscured but concerned, in the firelight.
The memories do not matter. They change nothing about the present.
My primary goal remains. I must seek the twin moons. That is a truth that survived the shattering of my mind. It is a deep, instinctual knowing. Something below the level of memory.
But there is another knowing now. A new truth that has grown alongside the old one.
Protect him.
I open my eyes. I look at him. He is sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his clothes. His movements are slow, careful of his own aches and pains. The mist swirls softly where his face should be.
"Good morning," he says again. He looks toward where I am sitting.
I do not know what the correct response is. So I say nothing. I give a single, short nod.
He stands. He stretches, and a low groan escapes him. He looks out the window. "Sun's up. We should find some food. Then find this dock."
I stand as well. My body protests—stiff from the hard floor, from the remnants of the fight. I ignore it. I am ready.
He looks at me. His head tilts slightly. "You okay? You didn't take the bed."
"I am okay," I say. "The floor was acceptable."
"It looks uncomfortable."
"It was efficient."
He almost smiles. I think. The mist moves in a particular way that suggests a smile. He shakes his head. "Come on. Let's see what this lovely town has for breakfast."
He says the word 'lovely' in a strange, flat tone. It means he does not believe it is lovely at all.
We gather our few belongings. The fur cloak. The now-empty pack. The broken dagger finds its place back in my belt.
As we move to the door, he pauses. He looks at me, really looks. "Thank you," he says. The words are simple, but they carry a definite weight.
"For what?" I ask.
"For watching," he says.
I nod once. It was my task. It was my vow. But his thanks… it creates a warm feeling in the center of my chest. A small, strange sensation. It is not like the warmth of blood or of a fire. It is different.
We leave the room. We descend the stairs. The innkeeper watches us from behind his counter. His eyes are narrow, calculating. He says nothing.
Outside, the town is fully awake. People stare openly as we pass. Their eyes follow us. There is no kindness in their looks. Only suspicion. And beneath that, a thread of fear.
Lucid walks beside me. His shoulder remains close to mine. He does not look at the people. He keeps his gaze ahead, his posture straight.
I watch the people. I note their hands, their eyes. I see a man by the smithy let his hand drift to the hilt of his knife. I see a woman quickly pull a playing child inside a doorway and shut the door.
This town is not safe. But he is with me. I am with him.
We walk toward the center of the town. We will find food. Then we will find the dock. We will leave this place.
The twin moons wait. Somewhere.
But for now, there is only this path. This shared path. This human with the loud heart and the quiet, stubborn courage.
I do not fully understand the word 'friend'. I do not believe I had any before. The concept is vague to me. A shadow of a thing.
But as I walk beside him, through the unfriendly street, under the morning sun, I think perhaps I am beginning to understand.
To care for someone. To have them care for you in return. It is not a weakness. It is a different kind of strength. A strange, quiet strength that builds in the space between two people.
I do not say any of this. I do not know how to form these thoughts into words he would understand.
I just walk. And as I walk, I continue to guard. I continue to watch.
It feels… correct.