Kael did not let him finish eating in peace.
She waited until Aarinen had taken three bites—enough to calm the body but not enough to dull awareness—before sitting opposite him. Close enough that he could see the faint scar along her knuckles, the way her fingers never fully relaxed.
Around them, the camp pretended not to listen.
They were listening.
"You know what people are saying about you," Kael said.
"Yes."
"That you bend things," she continued. "That you survive what shouldn't be survivable. That cities bleed when you pass through."
"Yes."
She leaned back slightly.
"And that whatever keeps you alive has changed."
Aarinen paused mid-chew.
"That's newer," he said.
Kael smiled thinly.
"We have ears," she replied. "Some of them very expensive."
Aarinen finished chewing slowly.
"What do you want?" he asked.
Kael's gaze flicked briefly to his bandaged shoulder, then back to his eyes.
"To decide," she said.
"About what?"
"Whether you're worth shelter," she said. "Or whether turning you in buys us a quieter winter."
That was honest.
Aarinen respected that.
"What's the price?" he asked.
Kael tilted her head.
"Prove you're not a liability," she said.
Aarinen laughed softly, then winced as pain followed.
"That's vague."
"Deliberately," Kael replied.
Before he could respond, a shout rose from the camp's edge.
"Movement!"
The word snapped the camp into readiness. Weapons were drawn. People moved—not chaotically, but with drilled efficiency. Kael was on her feet instantly, blade in hand.
"How many?" she called.
"Unknown," a voice replied. "Fast."
Aarinen stood, slower.
He felt it then—the shift in the air, the subtle pressure that preceded violence. Not fate. Not symbolism.
Intent.
Kael glanced at him.
"This might be your chance," she said.
"For what?"
"To show us what you do now," she replied.
The first arrow came out of the trees without warning, striking one of Kael's people in the thigh. He went down with a cry, blood spilling into the dirt.
Then the forest erupted.
Figures burst from the undergrowth—six, maybe eight, moving low and fast. Not Merrowen wardens. Not civic executors.
Different.
These wore layered leathers and dark cloth, faces uncovered, eyes hard. Hunters who didn't care about arrest or reward posters.
Contract killers.
Kael shouted orders.
The camp answered.
Steel rang. Crossbows snapped. Someone screamed.
Aarinen froze for half a heartbeat.
Old instinct surged—release, distort, let pain become laughter and violence become abstract.
Nothing answered.
He felt everything.
The arrow that grazed his arm burned like fire. A thrown knife nicked his side, tearing cloth and skin. Pain stacked, immediate and personal.
He staggered.
And someone would have died for it if Kael hadn't intercepted the blow meant for him, her blade catching an attacker's sword in a shower of sparks.
"Move!" she shouted.
Aarinen moved.
Not with power.
With intention.
He grabbed a fallen spear, its shaft slick with blood, and drove it forward clumsily as an attacker lunged. The point caught flesh—not deep, not clean—but enough to stagger the man back.
Aarinen followed, shouting, slamming his shoulder into the attacker's chest, sending them both crashing into the dirt.
Pain exploded through his wounded shoulder.
He screamed.
The attacker hesitated—confused, unprepared for prey that screamed instead of laughing.
Aarinen used that hesitation.
He slammed the spear butt into the man's throat.
Once.
Twice.
The man went still.
Aarinen rolled away, gasping, staring at the body.
He had not bent anything.
He had not distorted the world.
He had simply fought.
Nearby, Kael cut down another attacker with brutal efficiency. Two of her people lay wounded. One lay unmoving.
The remaining attackers withdrew abruptly, melting back into the trees with practiced discipline.
Silence fell.
Heavy.
Kael wiped her blade clean on the grass and turned to Aarinen.
He stood swaying, blood dripping from multiple wounds, breath ragged.
No laughter.
No spectacle.
Just survival.
Kael studied him for a long moment.
Then she nodded once.
"Alright," she said. "You're not dead weight."
Aarinen managed a tired smile.
"High praise."
She sheathed her blade.
"Get him patched up," she ordered. "And double the watches."
As people moved to obey, Kael crouched in front of Aarinen.
"They weren't sent by Merrowen," she said quietly.
"I know," Aarinen replied.
"Which means your problem just diversified," she added.
"Yes."
She looked almost pleased.
"Good," she said. "That means leverage."
Aarinen closed his eyes briefly, letting the adrenaline drain just enough for pain to roar back in.
When he opened them again, Kael was still watching him—not as a curiosity, not as a threat.
As a factor.
The night deepened around the camp, stars emerging slowly.
Somewhere out there, the hounds adjusted tactics.
Somewhere else, new hunters took interest.
And here, bleeding by a fire among people who had chosen not to decide too quickly, Aarinen learned the most dangerous lesson yet:
Without laughter to protect him, every alliance mattered.
And every choice would cost him something he could feel.