[ Ayame's POV]
I stay close to Lucid. My position is at his side, slightly behind. This is the efficient place. It allows me to observe the path ahead and guard our flank. But my attention is not only outward. I watch him. I study the human who has become the center of my purpose. I note every detail, filing them away like pieces of a complex weapon I must learn to maintain.
His walk has a distinct rhythm. There is a slight, almost imperceptible limp in his right leg. He tries to mask it, but I see it. An old injury, perhaps. Or a lingering effect from our harsh journey. When he speaks to the people of this town, his entire posture undergoes a transformation. His shoulders straighten from their usual tired slump. His voice, normally a warm, uneven baritone, takes on a flat, hard edge. It is not his real voice. It is a mask he wears. A shield made of sound, designed to deflect their suspicion and mirror their own coldness back at them.
The people here are not like the weary but kind woman who gave us directions. Their words are thin and sharp, like slivers of ice. Insults wrapped in the false courtesy of small-town manners. They call him "mist-face" and "veiled one." They mutter curses like "fogged bastard," "fogged shit" under their breath when they think he is out of earshot. He always hears. I see the tiny reactions. A minute twitch at the corner of his hidden mouth. A slight, involuntary tightening of his shoulder. His hand will curl into a tense fist at his side, then slowly, deliberately, unfurl. It is as if he is absorbing a blow and forcing himself to remain standing.
There is more. Sometimes, in the middle of these interactions, his eyes will lose focus for a fraction of a second. His jaw will clench. There is a pause before he replies. It is as if he is conversing with someone I cannot see or hear. Like someone who lives inside his mind. This internal dialogue or reflection is a vulnerability. It divides his attention. In a fight, such a distraction could be fatal. I must account for it.
We finally locate a place to eat. A public house with a soot-stained chimney. A large iron pot hangs over a low fire, emitting the scent of turnips, old herbs, and poverty. There is no meat. The woman behind the rough counter tells us meat is for feast days only, her voice hollow with resignation. This is a poor town. The soil here seems hungry, and the people reflect it.
Lucid buys two bowls of the thin, grey broth. We carry them to a secluded spot at the back of the building, near a stacked pile of firewood. Fewer eyes here. Fewer whispers.
He sits on a cut stump. I remain standing. I hold the chipped clay bowl. The liquid within is lukewarm. I look at it. I smell it. It is sustenance, but it is not sustenance for me. My body, an Oni's body, rejects it on a fundamental level. My physiology craves something richer, of a soft metallic taste and vital heat. It craves flesh.
Lucid eats. He lifts the wooden spoon to where his mouth must be. The thick, ever-present mist around his face swirls, parts momentarily, and the stew disappears into the obscurity. It is a fascinating process to observe. The fog consumes the substance. Where does it go? How does his body process it? He is a living puzzle, a collection of mysteries wrapped in vapor.
He finishes his bowl quickly. He looks at my full one. He does not ask why I have not eaten. He has learned this about me.
Without a word, he rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing his forearm. The skin there is a map of his struggles, faint, silvery lines of old scars, and two pink, newer marks. My marks.
"Come here," he says. His voice is warm now. It has shed the hard town-mask and returned to the timbre I know from the cave. The one that speaks of shared warmth and unspoken understanding.
I should refuse. I have taken too much from him already. I am a drain on his resources, a constant claim on his strength and his very blood. My rational mind knows this. My feet do not listen. They carry me forward. I kneel on the hard-packed earth beside his stump. My hand reaches out. My fingers close around his wrist. I can feel the steady drum of his pulse under my thumb. It is quicker than a resting heart should be.
I stop.
I look down at his offered forearm. Then my gaze travels upward, of its own volition, to the strong column of his neck. To the place where his throat meets his shoulder. The memory of taste is more potent there. The blood is closer to the heart, richer, filled with a brighter, more complex energy.
Lucid tracks my gaze. "Why did you stop?"
I do not possess the vocabulary to explain the distinction. It is not logic; it is instinct. "It is different," I manage, the words clumsy. "I would rather drink from another source." It is a revealing statement. It exposes a desire, a specific craving. It makes me seem picky. Greedy. I let go of his wrist and sit back on my heels, creating distance. "I do not require it. I am sated."
He is quiet for a long moment. The mist around his face seems to grow still, contemplative. Then he lets out a soft huff of air. Not a laugh, but a sound of understanding. Amusement, perhaps.
He sees through the lie.
He shifts on the stump. With a deliberate motion, he pulls the collar of his shirt aside, tilting his head to expose the side of his neck. The skin there is smooth, unmarked save for a faint blue vein pulsing just beneath the surface. "Is it because you like this part more?" he asks. His tone holds no mockery. It is gentle. An invitation. An offering made with full awareness.
My control, so carefully maintained, shatters.
A hunger deeper than any stomach-cramp surges through me. It is sharp, sweet, and utterly compelling. I move without conscious thought. I close the small distance between us. My arms go around his shoulders, not in attack, but in an embrace that pulls me closer. My face presses against the warmth of his neck. I breathe in his scent, pine resin, wood smoke, and that unique, clean scent that is his alone, like sunlight on stone after rain. I press my lips to his skin in a fleeting, soft contact. An apology. A thanks. Then my teeth find their familiar place. I pierce the skin with practiced precision.
The first flow is always the most potent. Warm. Vital. Thrumming with the unique signature of his life force.
He does not flinch. He does not gasp. He sits perfectly still, a statue of acceptance. One of his hands comes up and rests lightly on the center of my back, between my shoulder blades. It is not a restraining touch, nor a comforting one. It is simply a point of contact. A grounding presence.
I drink. Slowly, deliberately. This is not the frantic, desperate taking of the cave, driven by starvation. This is a measured drawing, a conscious exchange. My body thrums with the influx of power. The deep ache in my bones begins to recede. The fog of tiredness lifts from the edges of my mind.
As I drink, I am pressed close to him. My ear is near the solid wall of his chest. I can hear his heart.
It is beating very fast.
*Thump-thump-thump-thump.*
A rapid, frantic rhythm that echoes in the small space between us. It creates a strange, fluttering sensation in my own chest. A sympathetic vibration. I do not understand this feeling. It is not hunger. It is not pain. It is something entirely new. Disconcerting. Intriguing.
Even in this intimate, predatory act, I find him fascinating. The sheer endurance. The quiet generosity of his offering. The way his heart betrays a nervous energy that his disciplined body does not show.
When I have taken what I need, I pull away. I lick the small punctures clean, a reflexive gesture. They are already beginning to seal, the faint, familiar green glow of his healing aura flickering at the edges. I sit back, feeling the warmth spread through my limbs. Full. Revitalized. Alive.
He adjusts his collar, covering the fresh marks. His movements are steady. "Better?" he asks.
I nod. "Yes. Thank you."
We sit in silence for a moment. I watch him. He is staring toward the main street, but his eyes are unfocused. He is deep in thought. This... journey. This path we are sharing together I can't find but... enjoy it
Enjoyment... I am not supposed to enjoy this, it's dangerous but indulging in it a little for now, shouldn't pose a threat.