The land began to shift.

  The dense trees of the forest gradually gave way to clearing. First in patches—sunlight breaking through the thinning canopy—then more completely, until only scattered groves remained. The ground sloped downward, the terrain softening. Green fields of flowers and crops emerged as the grass grew higher. Moss returned, creeping into the cracks of old stone.

  But even as the landscape softened, the scent of smoke still clung to the wind.

  Astrid squinted ahead. A river village—tiny, battered—came into view at the base of the next ridge. Roofs half-collapsed. Walls scorched. People moved slowly among the wreckage, like ghosts picking through memory.

  Children cried somewhere out of sight. A few wounded figures leaned against broken carts, too still.

  Astrid began to run toward it.

  Shit. I gotta help.

  Kurai grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her back. His voice was flat.

  “This isn’t our fight.”

  Astrid turned to look at him. His expression was indifferent, like this was nothing new to him. She looked back toward the devastation, the ruins burned into her vision.

  “It’s someone’s,” she said, pulling her hand from his grip, running toward the town.

  I don’t care. Help or don’t—but I’m going to do something. Such a cold-hearted bastard.

  She knelt beside a man with blood caked in his hair. He flinched as she reached for his arm.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” she murmured.

  Kurai stood further off, arms crossed. Watching. Not speaking.

  From behind a cracked barrel, a child stared up at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

  Finally, he spoke.

  “We don’t have time. You know that. They’re still watching for us.”

  Astrid didn’t look up. “I know.”

  He stepped closer. Voice lower, more intense. “You’re not responsible for every broken thing you see.”

  Astrid placed a bandage over the man’s arm.

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  “Someone has to be.”

  Kurai exhaled slowly, tension knotting in his jaw.

  Astrid didn’t wait for permission. She moved between people, checking wounds, directing those who could stand. Her supplies were limited, but her hands were steady.

  She recognized signs of burn shock—dry lips, pale skin, eyes unfocused—and used what little water she had to help cool skin slowly, not directly. She tore clean strips from her shirt to cover wounds, recalling how important it was to prevent infection with burns. No ointments. No herbs she didn’t recognize. Just clean cloth, elevation, hydration. Keep it sterile, as sterile as she could.

  She boiled water from a nearby rain barrel over a cooking pot, letting it cool before washing hands and cloths. Someone tried to hand her a salve—thick, yellow, and reeking of moss—but she shook her head.

  “That could seal in bacteria. No. Just clean, cool cloth and pressure. Trust me.”

  Kurai stayed to the side, half-shadowed beneath a charred awning.

  A villager approached him cautiously. “Thank you. For...” they paused the moment their eyes met him, “who are you?”

  Kurai’s eyes flicked toward Astrid. Then back. “I’m no one,” he said. “Besides—thank her, not me.”

  He made his way over to Astrid, watching as she rinsed a cloth with boiled water.

  “Here. Some more water for you.” He placed the pot beside her.

  “Thanks.” She didn’t look up at him, too focused—and still pissed at him.

  “You’ve done this before,” he said quietly. Not an accusation. More like a realization.

  Astrid didn’t look up. “My little sister… she’s fragile. Sick a lot. Hospitals, home care. You pick things up.”

  Kurai was quiet for a second longer than usual.

  “Still. Not many people would know how to treat burns this cleanly with nothing but scraps.”

  She finally met his gaze. “Yeah, well. Somebody had to.” Quickly looking away, embarrassed. Don’t praise me.

  He smiled but left her to her work. “I’ll try and find some more cloth.”

  She didn’t reply, too busy reassuring the young boy in front of her, telling him it’s okay, I know it hurts.

  Kurai started to make his way over to a house—raid it for some more cloth, or whatever hadn’t been charred to a crisp.

  But then he noticed something. Tracks in the mud. Deep. Recent.

  On the edge of a ruined cart—a mark. A crude sigil scorched into the wood.

  He turned. “Astrid.”

  She looked up from her work.

  “They’re coming back.”

  Astrid stood, the cloth still in her hands. “Are you sure?” she asked, glancing past Kurai toward the hills.

  He pointed to the scorched cart again. “Same symbol from the caravan yesterday. They mark what they plan to come back for.”

  She swallowed. “How long do we have?”

  “Not long.”

  Kurai looked at the villagers. Too many injured. Too many unarmed. They wouldn’t stand a chance.

  “We need to move them,” Astrid said quickly. “Anyone who can’t fight—get them out of sight. The rest—anyone who can throw, swing, scream—we need them ready.”

  “Ready for what?” asked one of the villagers, pale and shaking.

  Kurai stepped forward. “Trouble.”

  He didn’t shout. He didn’t raise his voice. But something in his tone made them listen.

  Astrid moved with sudden urgency. She handed the bandaged boy to a woman nearby. “Take him to the stone house near the river—low walls, good cover. Stay low.”

  The villagers scrambled. Doors opened. Tools were passed. Pitchforks, clubs, stones.

  A few looked to Kurai, uncertain. He didn’t give orders—but he stayed visible.

  Watched the tree line. Watched the sun sinking. Watched the dust rising on the far ridge.

  “They’re almost here,” he said.

  Astrid stood beside him now. Her hands were shaking, but her eyes were clear.

  “You really are a bad influence,” he muttered.

  She gave him a tired smirk. “Takes one to know one.”

  The attack came just after dusk.

  Five bandits descended the hill, cocky and laughing, weapons drawn like they expected no resistance.

  They were wrong.

  The villagers didn’t scatter. They rose.

  One hurled a pitchfork. Another cracked a jar of oil and set it aflame. Astrid shouted orders, moving between them—grabbing arms, pointing to cover.

  Kurai moved like smoke through the chaos—golden fire flashing from his hands in sharp bursts. He didn’t unleash everything. Just enough.

  When a bandit got too close, Kurai burned the weapon out of his hands. When another tried to flank, Astrid tripped him with a broken stool.

  Looking over at Kurai, watching him fight—he’s doing a good job. Maybe he’s getting better at control? But something told her he hadn’t let the fire out. Not really.

  It wasn’t a grand battle. But it was fierce.

  And the village won.

  Two bandits dead. One injured. The rest fled.

  Astrid stood in the wreckage, chest heaving, blood on her shirt and ash in her mouth.

  Kurai watched from the edge of the firelight. There was admiration in his eyes. And fear.

  He’d watched her run toward danger without hesitation. Seen what she would endure. What she would choose. And that scared him more than the fire ever had.

  She wasn’t the girl fumbling through a glowing forest anymore. She wasn’t running from it. She was standing in it. Choosing.

  Somewhere far off, one of the fleeing bandits stumbled into a shadowed camp.

  He dropped to his knees before a hooded figure. “They were there,” he rasped. “The girl. The demon. Headed east.”

  The Council agent leaned forward, the firelight catching the curve of a smile. Not joy. Anticipation.