---Grace---

  I stand before the mirror in Jason's bathroom, studying my reflection with tactical assessment. The new clothing from the military surplus store we visited yesterday after retrieving him from work fits properly—black tactical pants with multiple storage options, a form-fitting dark green t-shirt that allows for optimal mobility, and a light jacket acquired primarily to ensure Bearee could have her garment returned to her. My bone knife rests comfortably against my hip, concealed yet accessible, its utility counterpart sheathed at the small of my back.

  My hair needs attention. In my homeland, maintenance was purely functional—cut short enough to prevent freezing in the extreme cold, long enough to provide minimal neck protection. Here, Jason has suggested "styling" might be beneficial for the interview with Dave. I attempt to arrange it according to the images he showed me on his device, but my fingers feel clumsy with this unfamiliar task.

  "Need help?" Jason's voice comes from the doorway, tinged with that particular warmth he displays when observing my struggles with his world's customs. Not pleasure about my difficulties. Not consideration upon how best to take advantage. Just amusement and the desire to assist, like when he first showed me the air frier, first instructed me in the use of the shower, first told me of the hot tub. I am, unsettled, by this. Not as much as when I first arrived here, but I am still unsettled anyway.

  "Yes," I admit, lowering my hands. "This process appears to require specialized knowledge I do not possess."

  He enters the small bathroom, standing behind me. Our reflections create an unusual tableau—his taller frame, sandy hair, and blue eyes contrasting with my more compact build. The mirror shows his smile forming as he gently takes the brush from my hand.

  "May I?" he asks, raising it toward my hair.

  "You may," I permit, maintaining stillness as he begins working the brush through my dark strands. His movements are careful, deliberate, lacking the efficiency I would employ but somehow more effective. The contact sends a strange warmth through my scalp that travels downward, creating an unfamiliar but not unpleasant sensation that has been growing in frequency these last few days.

  "So," Jason says as he works, "for the interview on Friday, just remember what we talked about. When Dave asks about your experience, focus on the survival aspects—tracking, fire-making, shelter construction. Maybe leave out the part about mercy-killings of the wounded."

  "That seems inefficient," I respond, watching his face in the mirror as he concentrates on a particularly stubborn tangle. "My experience with ending suffering humanely is relevant to wilderness survival instruction. If you can not survive. if you can not contribute, then you are killed so the group may continue to pass on their knowledge and trates to the next generation.

  "True," Jason concedes, his fingers working through the knot with surprising gentleness, "but most people here have a different relationship with death. Maybe save those skills for advanced classes after you've been hired? Military guies are a bit more open to self-sacrifice for the group. I think, though you'll have to ask Carter about that since he's actually military and all."

  I process this suggestion, finding the logic sound despite the inefficiency. "Very well. I will temporarily withhold certain aspects of my expertise until a more appropriate time, at which point I will speak with Carter upon it's usefulnes in survivel training scenarioes ."

  Jason's reflection smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that particular way I've become increasingly aware of. "Exactly. And remember, when Dave asks why you want to work there, it's better to say something about sharing knowledge or helping others develop skills rather than 'acquiring financial resources to reduce dependency on Jason's clan.'"

  "But that is my primary motivation," I point out.

  "I know," he says, his hands pausing briefly. "And I appreciate that. But in interviews here, people expect certain... narratives. Stories about passion and purpose, not just practical considerations." Before: "though I agree with you, it would be better if everyone just said why they actually wanted to work at a place from the get-go. Makes things just, more simple?" He shrugs.

  This concept troubles me. "Deception for social acceptance."

  "Not deception exactly," Jason corrects, resuming his brushing. "More like... focusing on different aspects of the truth. You do want to share your knowledge, right?"

  "Yes," I acknowledge. "Effective survival skills improve collective resilience. Wasteful deaths through ignorance are tactically unsound."

  "See? Just say that. Well, maybe not the 'wasteful deaths' part, but the knowledge-sharing angle is perfect." He sets the brush down, studying me, I can see his reflection in the mirror. "There. What do you think?"

  I examine the results of his efforts. My hair falls in a more ordered arrangement, framing my face in a way that emphasizes bone structure rather than obscuring it. The tactical advantages are minimal, but I recognize the social utility in this world's context. Also, I believe he would find it pleasant. A strange notion. Like the shower. The hot tub. Dawson and Kitten and Jason himself.

  "It is... acceptable," I decide. "Thank you for your assistance."

  Jason's reflection grins. "High praise coming from you. Now, let's go through some typical interview questions again."

  We move to the living room, where Jason has created a simulation of the interview environment. He sits in the armchair across from me, adopting a more formal posture that mimics Dave's mannerisms with surprising accuracy.

  "So, Grace," he begins in a deeper voice that approximates Dave's resonant tone, "tell me about your experience with wilderness survival."

  I straighten my spine, recalling our previous practice sessions. "I have extensive training in arctic and subarctic survival conditions. My skills include tracking, hunting, shelter construction, fire-starting in adverse conditions, and tactical assessment of environmental hazards."

  "Good," Jason nods, momentarily breaking character. "Much better than 'I survived where weaker people died.' Very professional."

  He resumes Dave's persona. "And what makes you interested in working at Northern Edge specifically?"

  I carefully select my response, applying Jason's guidance about social expectations. "I wish to share practical knowledge that enhances others' survival capabilities. Northern Edge's approach to wilderness education aligns with my teaching methodology."

  Jason beams, dropping the Dave impersonation. "Perfect! See? You're getting the hang of this. Much better than yesterday's 'your facility is adequate for basic training purposes.'" He grins. "Though the time you said you wanted to help people kill more snow squirrels probably will get a laugh out of Dave."

  I do not remind him that said squirrels are a threat due to their desire to consume human testicles. That, I do not require Jason's guidance on, will not be taken well by the three men who will be conducting my hiring interview.

  A small warmth spreads in my chest at his approval—another of the inexplicable emotional responses that have become more frequent since Carter's conversation. These reactions continue to puzzle me, especially in light of my status window, which I check while Jason rearranges his notes.

  The familiar display materializes in my peripheral vision, visible only to me:

  ```

  NAME: Grace

  CLAN NAME: Frostwatch (Adopted)

  CLASS: Ranger, Marksman, Veteran

  SECONDARY JOB: Alchemist, External

  ALIGNMENT: Neutral

  PRIMARY ELEMENT: Ice

  CONDITION: Psychopath - You feel little emotion, whether it be fear, desire, joy, or sadness, and act, and live, accordingly. A code of living is highly recommended lest you wish to become hunted down by blades of silver.

  ```

  The contradiction persists. According to Carter, a psychopath cannot care, cannot form emotional bonds, cannot experience the warmth that spreads through my chest when Jason smiles because of something I have done or taught him. Cannot feel pleasure when Dawson comes to greet me, Kitten curls around my neck, when I enter this dwelling. Yet my status window remains unchanged, the designation clear and unambiguous.

  "Earth to Grace?" Jason's voice pulls me back to the present. "You okay? You zoned out for a second there."

  "I was verifying something," I explain, dismissing the window with a thought. "It was... inconclusive."

  "Mysterious as always," he says with a small laugh. "Anyway, let's get back to it. Another question Dave might ask: 'How would you handle a student who's struggling with a particular skill?'"

  I consider this scenario. "I would first identify the specific point of failure in their technique. Then provide clearer demonstration, followed by supervised practice with immediate feedback. If the student continues to struggle, I would recommend private supplementary instruction to prevent group progress impediment."

  Jason winces slightly. "Maybe phrase that last part differently. 'Group progress impediment' sounds a bit... clinical. How about 'so everyone can learn at their own pace'?"

  "That seems unnecessarily vague," I observe, "but I understand the social utility of the phrasing. I will adjust accordingly."

  "And try to look a little less... intense... when you say it," he suggests, mimicking my standard expression with exaggerated stillness before softening his features. "More like this. Approachable."

  I attempt to replicate the facial configuration he demonstrates, feeling the unusual sensation of muscles relaxing around my eyes and mouth.

  "Better," he encourages. "Still Grace, but less like you're, you know, considering if you're going to disembowel someone or not."

  "Disembowelment is tactically inefficient in most combat scenarios," I point out. "A clean throat strike is preferable for rapid—"

  "And that's exactly the kind of thing to avoid mentioning in the interview," Jason interrupts, laughing despite himself. "No throat strikes, no disembowelment, no detailed explanations of how to kill anything larger than a squirrel."

  "These restrictions significantly reduce the range of survival techniques I can discuss," I note, though to my surprise I am not frustrated by this.

  "Just for the interview," Jason reassures me. "Once you're hired, you can gradually introduce the more advanced concepts. Dave will love it, trust me. He's been trying to make his courses more authentic for years."

  A thought—a choice—that has been forming in my consciousness since our embrace yesterday crystallizes within my mind. "For the TTRPG?"

  Jason nods, smiling. "Yeah, that's how you say it."

  "For the TTRPG, the war of great houses."

  "Thanks for calling Dave about that by the way," Jason says with a smile. "Doubt I would have done that myself."

  "If you wished to play in that game," I say, "then you would have ensured that you would do so, and the most efficient method is by explaining such to Dave, as he is the dungeon master."

  Jason grunts, rubbing the back of his neck. "Never been good with the advocacy stuff. Also, well." He pauses. "The fact that Commander Jason Stone exists doesn't really help, you know?"

  "Would you rather that I did not initiate this?" I ask, more tactically concerned than I should be.

  "No," Jason says with a grin. "No, even if I had an issue with it, which I don't, not really, well. You grew from it, so. Also, at tier three, I can fucking chase people through their dreams. Inric, something? Glanced over the wiki yesterday, but." He shrugs.

  "For House Long Watch," I say slowly. "I believe that I wish to play a druid. Or, rather, I will transfer into a druid with my current character."

  Jason considers this, fingers idly stroking through his sandy-blond hair. "You'd lose a level. Not saying you shouldn't—he was your father. Just. That means the game will be a little harder, you know?" He grins. "Though least Dave can bring his DMNPC in as a tank now."

  "DMNPC?" I ask. "I have not encountered this term."

  "So, Dave's the dungeon master," Jason explains. "DMNPCs are, well, dungeon master NPCs—non-player characters. But because it's the DM, short form, well. Dave doesn't do that, thinks it fucks with the game, but sometimes you have DMs making the game all about their NPC."

  I consider this. Human ego, even in my homeland, is a tactical weakness. I exploited such on multiple occasions, both in and out of combat when required.

  "What is a tank?" I ask instead.

  "So," Jason says, brightening. "This game is slightly different but it's based on TTRPG rules. Or, well. No, never mind. So we have various types of characters."

  "This is unrelated to classes?" I ask. "As Rangers and Hunters, though I find it strange that there would be two terms for the same archetype with the only difference being gender."

  Jason grunts. "Think it's, like, something to do with the culture of the house itself? Either way, Hunters/Rangers are DPS." He pauses. "I don't remember what all the terms actually mean, so." I nod.

  "So," Jason continues, "DPS are high damage. Hunters, Rangers, high damage output and relatively low health. Tanks are normally the opposite, high health and designed to take damage and, well, tank hits for the other characters. Healers, so Mike, heal damage. Normally the tank in a full party, but not always. Support kind of can do all those things, but not as well as specialists."

  "I understand," I say. "Hunters, Rangers, would be this DPS?"

  "Yeah," Jason nods. "Bows and slingshots, knives and claws? Technically Rangers'd be long range DPS and hunter would be maylay, close quarters combat DPS, but still DPS."

  "What are druids normally, then?" I ask, curious despite myself.

  "Support," Jason says, before humming. "Granted, this game isn't quite like the others. Astrid Marines are DPS, but they can also be tanks, at least at tier one. Huh. Cultist Warriors would be DPS most likely. Protectors would be tanks, but druids would be... Support I think for this? I'll have to take more of a look at them since I think you can kind of—" He stops. "So, speccing is specializing. Not the exact term of what it means, but it kind of became that way? Point is, druids can specialize into tanks I believe, though Protectors are the main class of it, least for Longwatch."

  "So," Jason says, though seemingly speaking to himself more than me now, "Carter's going to be an Astrid marine, so DPS, Mike's going to be a Cleric, so healing, I'm staying a packmaster hunter, so support and DPS, and you're going to be a druid, so support? Dave's staying Ulfr, probably Huskarl since, well. Ulfr are the closest we're probably going to get to shirtless barbarian, and Dave doesn't do angry characters. Ever."

  "Shirtless," I ask. "Removing one's clothing is tactically unwise."

  "Yeah," Jason says with a grin, "but it's cool and iconic, and, well. Magic exists." As I have no rebuttal to that, I simply nod, Jason grinning, scent warm as he does so.

  The mention of Carter, however, brings our conversation back to uncomfortable territory. I lower my voice slightly, though we are alone in the house. "Jason, there is something I have been considering since our game night."

  His expression shifts, becoming more attentive. "Is this about what Carter talked to you about outside?"

  "Yes." I straighten my posture, maintaining precise control of my facial muscles despite the unfamiliar discomfort this topic creates. "He suggested that my self-classification as a psychopath may be inaccurate. That my emotional responses during the game were inconsistent with true psychopathy."

  Jason's face softens with something I recognize as compassion, his scent confirming it as it wafts warm and continuing to smell like perfectly cooked meat across the space between us. "He told me he spoke to you about that. What do you think about what he said?"

  "I am... uncertain," I admit, the admission itself unusual for me. "My status window continues to display 'psychopath' as a special condition. Yet I experience responses that Carter claims are incompatible with this designation. It creates a logical inconsistency I cannot resolve."

  "What kind of responses?" Jason asks gently.

  I hesitate, finding unexpected difficulty in articulating these experiences. "When your character was dying in the narrative, I experienced discomfort that served no tactical purpose. When you express approval of my performance, I experience warmth in my chest cavity that has no connection to thermoregulation. When Kitten sleeps against my neck, I feel—" I search for the appropriate word, "contentment that offers no survival advantage. When you embraced me yesterday, I felt... I am unsure how to articulate my feelings upon that."

  Jason's expression shifts through multiple configurations—surprise, thoughtfulness, and something I cannot categorize that softens his features and dilates his pupils.

  "Those sound like emotions to me, Grace," he says quietly. "Maybe not as intense as what others feel, but definitely emotions."

  "Then why does my status window maintain this classification?" I ask, the question emerging more forcefully than intended. "Status windows display what you are. if I am not a psychopath, then my status windo should reflect that. if my status window displays an artibute or trate, then it, thus, should be reflected in the world around me."

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Jason considers this for several moments before responding. "Maybe it's outdated? Or maybe it's based on how you were in your world, not how you are now? Or..." he hesitates, "maybe whoever created that classification was wrong about you from the beginning."

  This possibility creates an unexpected disturbance in my thought patterns. "The Druid's assessment of my condition was considered definitive. The clan's treatment of me was based entirely on this designation. It was—I proved it several times independently."

  "But what if they were wrong?" Jason presses gently. "What if what they saw as psychopathy was just... different emotional processing? Maybe in your world, with its extreme conditions, your way of experiencing emotions was seen as a deficiency when it was really just an adaptation."

  I find myself unable to respond immediately, processing the implications of this theory. If the fundamental understanding upon which my entire identity was built is flawed, what does that mean for who—what—I am?

  Jason reaches across the space between us, his hand hovering near mine without touching. "You don't have to figure it all out right now. Whatever you are or aren't—you're Grace. That's enough as far as I'm concerned." He shrugs. "Then again, I'm me, and, well. Not you, so." He shrugs again.

  The simplicity of his statement creates another surge of the chest-warmth that defies tactical explanation. I nod once, accepting his perspective without fully resolving the contradiction.

  "We should continue interview preparation," I say, redirecting to more manageable territory. "The session is on Friday, which allows two days for additional practice."

  "Right," Jason agrees, recognizing my need to change subjects. "Let's talk about how to handle questions about your background without revealing too much about your homeland."

  As we resume our practice, my mind continues processing the conversation in parallel. The possibility that my entire self-understanding might be based on a misconception is both destabilizing and strangely liberating. I consider the tactical implications while simultaneously responding to Jason's simulated interview questions.

  After completing several more scenarios, Jason stretches his arms above his head, signaling a transition. "I think you're as prepared as you can be. Dave already wants to hire you based on what he saw of your skills. This interview is mostly a formality so he can process the paperwork."

  "So that you can process the paperwork," I correct, Jason huffing out a laugh as he registers my words.

  "Exactly. The electronic parts can be my responsibility, especially with your... sensitivity to computers." Jason rises from his chair, checking his phone. "Almost dinner time. Mom should be home soon."

  The mention of Bearee triggers another thought process I've been considering. "I wish to speak with her," I state.

  Jason looks up from his device. "With Mom? About what?"

  "I have questions regarding emotional classification and psychological assessment that fall within her professional expertise." I pause, studying his reaction. "Would this be inappropriate?"

  "No, not at all," Jason says, though his scent shifts slightly—curiosity mixed with something milder. "Mom would probably be happy to talk with you about psychology stuff. She's always in therapist mode anyway."

  "Would this discussion displease you?" I ask directly, noting his subtle shift in posture.

  Jason blinks, clearly surprised by my directness. "What? No, of course not. Why would it?"

  "The content of such a conversation would likely involve personal information. In my clan, discussing one member with another without their presence would be considered a potential threat to tactical cohesion."

  Understanding dawns on his face. "Oh. No, I don't mind at all. Mom's professionally discreet, and honestly, I think it would be good for you two to talk more. She's pretty easy to talk to, as you probably noticed by now."

  I nod, recalling the careful yet direct way Bearee had approached our initial interaction. "Very well. I will speak with her after dinner, if the opportunity presents itself."

  "It will," Jason assures me. "Dad has a virtual meeting with some clients in Vancouver, so he'll be locked in his office downstairs. You'll have Mom all to yourself."

  He begins gathering the interview practice materials, then pauses, looking back at me with an expression I've come to associate with curiosity. "Can I ask what specifically you want to talk to her about? If you don't mind saying."

  I consider his request, weighing tactical disclosure against relational honesty—another balancing act I never had to consider in my homeland.

  "I wish to understand more about psychopathy as classified in this world," I explain. "And I wish to gather additional perspective on my... adaptations... since arriving here. As a professional in human psychological assessment, Bearee may offer insights that have tactical value for my continued integration."

  Jason nods, his expression softening. "That makes sense. Just remember that whatever Mom says is just her professional opinion—you're the one who knows yourself best, Grace."

  His statement creates another instance of the chest-warmth, stronger than previous occurrences. The tactical implications of this increasing emotional response require further analysis, but I find myself less concerned by them than I would have been even days ago.

  "I will consider her input with appropriate critical assessment," I assure him. "As I do all information sources."

  "That's my Grace," Jason says with a small laugh, then freezes, his scent shifting dramatically as his cheeks flush. "I mean—not my—just, you know, that's typical Grace behavior. Not that you're mine or—"

  "I understood your meaning," I interrupt, saving him from further clarification attempts. "The possessive was linguistic rather than literal."

  "Right," he says, relief evident in his posture. "Exactly."

  We clear the remaining materials in silence, though not an uncomfortable one. As I organize the tactical clothing for Friday's interview, I find myself contemplating the upcoming conversation with Bearee while simultaneously processing Jason's verbal slip.

  "My Grace." The phrase replays in my mind, creating an echo of the chest-warmth that defies tactical categorization. The chest-warmth that I find I do not dislike. The chest-warmth that I have come to find pleasurible, despite the fact that my vigger renders it meaningless to my over-all survivel.

  Whether psychopath or simply different, something has clearly changed since my arrival in this world. Perhaps Bearee can help me understand what that something might be—and what it means for who I am becoming.

  ---Bearee---

  The dinner plates have been cleared, the dishwasher humming quietly behind the kitchen door. I'm wiping down the countertop when Grace approaches, her footsteps so silent I don't notice her until she speaks.

  "Bearee, may I speak with you privately? There are matters I wish to discuss that would benefit from your professional perspective."

  I turn to find her standing at a precise distance—not so close as to invade personal space, not so far as to suggest discomfort. The small orange kitten that has become her constant companion is curled against her neck, tiny paws kneading absently at the collar of her new shirt.

  "Of course, Grace," I respond, hanging the dishcloth on its hook. I glance toward Jason, who sits at the dining table with his laptop. He nods almost imperceptibly. So he knows about this conversation. Interesting.

  "We can talk in my bedroom," I suggest. "It's quiet, and Magnen will be on his conference call for at least another hour."

  Grace nods once, a precise movement like everything else the woman does. "That would be acceptable. Thank you."

  I lead her up the stairs, observing how she moves—each step placed with deliberate efficiency, no wasted energy. Even carrying the kitten, she makes less noise ascending our creaky staircase than I do alone. My professional curiosity burns brighter with each passing day. Who exactly is this woman my son brought home? Who my son is falling for? And who, from what I can tell, is falling for him at the same time?

  My bedroom is my sanctuary—soft blue walls, bookshelves filled with psychology texts and personal reading, family photos arranged on the dresser. Grace enters and immediately scans the room, her eyes cataloging exits, vantage points, potential obstacles. It's subtle, but unmistakable to someone trained to observe behavior patterns.

  "Please, make yourself comfortable," I offer, gesturing to the reading chair by the window. I settle on the edge of the bed, facing her.

  Grace sits with perfect posture as always, stroking the kitten with measured movements. "I appreciate your willingness to speak with me," she begins. "Before I proceed, I wish to acknowledge something: your concerns regarding my presence in your home and my proximity to Jason are well-founded."

  Her directness catches me slightly off guard, though I've grown somewhat accustomed to it. "Oh?"

  "Yes," she continues, meeting my gaze steadily. "I am dangerous. Very dangerous, as you no doubt have realized by now. In my clan, your caution would be recognized as valuable perception. A mother who fails to recognize potential threats to her offspring would not be an effective protector."

  The clinical detachment with which she describes herself as a danger to my son sends a chill through me, though I maintain my professional composure. "I appreciate your candor, Grace."

  "However," she adds, "your concern specifically about me harming Jason is unfounded, due to several factors I will now explain."

  The kitten shifts against her neck, and with surprising gentleness, Grace adjusts her position, supporting the tiney creature with careful fingers. The tenderness of the gesture contrasts sharply with her words. Then again, Grace is like that. Contrasts upon contrasts upon contrasts that Jason seems to be able to read like brail where everyone else just sees funny dots.

  "When Jason brought me into his home that night, I was slowly freezing to death. His intervention saved my life. According to the laws of my homeland, this created what we call a deathoath—a binding obligation between us."

  "A deathoath," I repeat, rolling the unfamiliar term over my tongue. "Could you explain what that entails?"

  "It is a metaphysical bond," Grace explains, her voice as measured as her movements. "In my world, when one person saves another's life, the saved becomes bound to the savior. The saved owes the savior one significant request, command, or debt—to be determined by the savior. Until this debt is paid, the saved cannot directly harm the savior without experiencing emmediat death due to violent backlash of Vigger pathways."

  "That sounds..." I search for the right word, "intense. And this applies even though Jason isn't from your world?"

  "Yes. The oath manifested immediately upon my revival in your dwelling. Jason is bound to me, and I to him, though he has shown no inclination to use this binding for personal gain." Something shifts in her expression—so subtle I almost miss it. "This is... unusual in my experience."

  I process this information, considering its implications from both a mother's perspective and a therapist's analytical viewpoint. "So you physically cannot harm Jason?"

  "Correct. I cannot harm him directly. Though the oath would not prevent indirect harm—such as revealing information that might cause emotional distress. However," she adds, "I have no desire to harm Jason in any way. Your son has shown me..." she pauses, seeming to search for appropriate terminology, "...exceptional consideration. He has made it clear he does not wish to command me. He has given me things. Taught me things, with no desire of resippricle action, although I will teach him the skills that he asks."

  Grace straightens slightly, then focuses on a point in the air between us and makes a subtle gesture with her free hand. Suddenly, a translucent display appears—hovering in midair like something from a science fiction film. I blink, wondering if I'm hallucinating, but the image remains even when I blink a few more times.

  ```

  NAME: Grace

  CLAN NAME: Frostwatch (Adopted)

  CLASS: Ranger, Marksman, Veteran

  SECONDARY JOB: Alchemist, External

  ALIGNMENT: Neutral

  PRIMARY ELEMENT: Ice

  ```

  "This is my status window," Grace explains. "It is visible only to me, normally, but I can choose to share it. It contains fundamental information about my capabilities and condition."

  I stare at the floating text, my mind struggling to reconcile what I'm seeing with any reasonable explanation. "How is this possible?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

  "I do not fully understand the metaphysical mechanics," Grace admits. "All individuals from my world possess such a window. It provides objective assessment of one's attributes and status."

  "And each of these categories means something specific?" I ask, pointing toward the display.

  "Yes. My name is self-explanatory. Clan Name indicates my adopted family unit—Frostwatch is one of the northern clans specializing in border patrol and early warning systems. Class denotes my primary training and combat specializations. Secondary Job represents supplementary skills. Alignment indicates my moral framework—Neutral signifies that I prioritize balance and pragmatic outcomes rather than rigid moral systems. Primary Element reflects my natural affinity for ice-based phenomena."

  I nod, my mind racing to categorize this information within any known psychological framework and failing utterly. This is well beyond my professional experience.

  "There is more," Grace says, making another gesture. The display shifts, revealing new text:

  ```

  CONDITION: Psychopath - You feel little emotion, whether it be fear, desire, joy, or sadness, and act, and live, accordingly. A code of living is highly recommended lest you wish to become hunted down by blades of silver.

  ```

  The word "Psychopath" seems to pulsate slightly in the display, drawing my eye immediately. My clinical training kicks in automatically. "That's a very specific diagnosis," I observe carefully.

  "Yes," Grace agrees. "Jason is fully aware of this designation. I showed him on my first day here. I fully expected him to withdraw from me, possibly even demand my departure despite the deathoath. I would have, if he demanded it. He did not."

  The tenderness with which she says this last part catches my attention. It doesn't align with traditional symptoms of psychopathy at all.

  "I would have gone," Grace continues matter-of-factly. "As I offered when you first returned home. The creek bed would have provided adequate shelter."

  I recall that conversation—her immediate, practical offer to leave our home and live in a creek bed in the dead of Canadian winter. At the time, I'd attributed it to odd social dynamics or perhaps cultural differences. Now I understand it was simply her default approach to solving a perceived problem—direct, practical, and with complete disregard for her own comfort.

  "Grace," I say carefully, "as a clinical psychologist, I should point out that psychopathy has very specific diagnostic criteria in our world. What you're describing—and more importantly, what I've observed in your behavior—doesn't align with those criteria."

  Her expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes sharpens. "Carter Blackwood made a similar observation after the tabletop role-playing gathering. Yet my status window remains unchanged."

  She gestures to the floating display, where "Psychopath" continues to pulse gently. "This creates a logical inconsistency I cannot resolve."

  "What did Carter say, specifically?" I ask, genuinely curious.

  "He observed that during the game, when Jason's character was dying, I displayed emotional investment that he claims is inconsistent with true psychopathy. He stated that psychopaths can fake emotional responses but cannot truly feel them, particularly empathetic connection. He believes my reactions were genuine."

  I lean forward slightly. "And what do you think? Have you noticed changes in your emotional responses since arriving here?"

  Grace is silent for a moment, stroking the kitten with gentle fingers. "Yes," she finally admits. "I experience... responses... that have no tactical value. When Dawson greets me upon returning to the house, I feel warmth that serves no survival purpose. When Jason masters a technique I have taught him, I experience what might be classified as pride, though it provides no immediate advantage. When Kitten decides she wishes to be petted, I experience, contentment, despite the fact that Kitten cannot, by defenission, insure my survival."

  She looks down at the kitten, which has fallen asleep against her neck. "When this small creature sleeps against me, I feel... satisfaction... that cannot be explained through tactical assessment. These responses conflict with my understanding of my condition."

  My heart aches for the confusion I see beneath her carefully controlled expression. Whatever Grace is or isn't, she's struggling to reconcile her self-understanding with her lived experience.

  "In my professional capacity," I begin carefully, "I would define psychopathy as a personality disorder characterized by persistent antisocial behavior, limited empathy and remorse, disinhibited or bold behavior, and egotistical traits. True psychopaths typically display shallow affect, lack of guilt, pathological lying, manipulativeness, and failure to accept responsibility for their actions."

  I gesture toward the sleeping kitten. "Your behavior with that kitten alone contradicts several of those criteria. Psychopaths don't typically form attachments to animals—they might use them instrumentally, but not develop genuine care for them. The fact that you're confused about your emotional responses also suggests a level of self-reflection that's uncommon in psychopathy."

  Grace absorbs this information with visible concentration. "Then why does my designation remain unchanged?"

  "I'm not sure," I admit. "Perhaps the criteria for psychopathy in your world differ from ours. Or perhaps the status window reflects how you were when you arrived rather than who you're becoming. Or..." I hesitate, then decide direct honesty is best with Grace, "perhaps whoever classified you that way was working from incomplete or incorrect information."

  She considers this, her face utterly still except for the slightest furrow between her eyebrows. "The Druid's assessment was considered definitive. The entire clan structure treated me according to this designation. To suggest it might be incorrect is... destabilizing."

  "I understand," I say softly. "Identity is powerful. When something fundamental to our self-understanding is challenged, it can be deeply unsettling."

  Grace nods once, then straightens. "There is another matter I wish to discuss, which relates to Jason spasifically."

  "Go on," I encourage.

  "Due to several factors—my own curiosity, Dave's suggestion, and Jason's interest—I wish to take Jason into the forest for three days to teach him survival skills." She meets my gaze directly. "In my homeland, it is traditional—and failing to do so would result in severe consequences—to inform the mother of a young man before taking him into the forest for the first time. Had the genders been reversed, Jason would have been required to inform my father, as if he did not, he would have been killed."

  I blink, processing this unexpected turn. "You're... asking my permission to take my adult son camping?"

  "Yes," Grace confirms. "Though the activity would involve significantly more intensive training than what I understand 'camping' to entail."

  I suppress a smile at the formality of her request. "I appreciate you following your traditions, Grace. May I ask what you intend to teach him during these three days?"

  "Wilderness navigation, advanced fire-starting techniques, shelter construction, proper knife usage, energy conservation methods, and the foundations of vigger—which is an internal energy system from my homeland."

  The earnestness with which she outlines this curriculun is, unexpected. "And Jason is aware of these plans?"

  "Yes. It was initially his suggestion, though he proposed joining Dave's structured course with multiple participants. Dave later suggested a private expedition might be more beneficial for focused instruction." She pauses, then adds, "Jason has experienced significant changes recently. His vision, for example, is no longer as it was."

  This confirmation of what I've suspected sends a jolt through me. "Jason can see?"

  "Yes, though the specifics are his to share, not mine. His vision differs from standard human parameters, but functions effectively."

  My mind races with questions, but I will respect her boundaries regarding my son's privacy. "I see. And Dave is providing equipment for this forest expedition?"

  "Yes, though I will inspect everything thoroughly beforehand. Jason currently lacks the skills to survive comfortably without proper equipment, unlike myself. However, my long-term goal is to ensure that after sufficient training, he could survive with only a knife and the knowledge I impart."

  The combination of practical planning and clear dedication to my son's wellbeing makes my decision easy. "Grace, you have my permission to take Jason into the forest for training. I trust your expertise and your... commitment to his safety."

  Something shifts in her posture—a subtle relaxation that suggests relief. "Thank you. If you had refused, we would have simply joined Dave's structured course as Jason initially suggested."

  "You haven't discussed this conversation with Jason?" I ask, surprised.

  "No. I wished to follow proper protocol independently. Additionally," she adds with characteristic directness, "I have secured an interview at Northern Edge Survival School for Friday. Once employed, I will be able to contribute financially to your clan, which is tactically appropriate given the resources you have expended on my behalf."

  "That's not necessary—" I begin, but she continues.

  "It is necessary to me," she states firmly. "Your family—you, Magnen, and especially Jason—have provided significant assistance when I was vulnerable. While Jason would likely have defended my continued presence regardless, I recognize that had you and Magnen insisted upon my departure, he would have faced a difficult conflict of loyalty. I do not wish to cause him such hardship when it is not necessary."

  The insight in this observation, to me, proves that my choice to let Grace take Jason into the forest was the right one. Grace understands family dynamics better than her supposed condition would suggest.

  "Has Jason told you what 'push comes to shove' means?" I ask, curious.

  A slight curve touches the corner of her mouth—not quite a smile, but close. "Yes. I find it a particularly effective expression. The visual imagery is tactically sound."

  I can't help but smile in return. "Grace, may I ask you something personal?"

  She considers this for a moment, then nods. "You may ask. I reserve the right not to answer if doing so would violate operational security."

  "Fair enough," I shrug. "How do you feel about my son?"

  The question hangs in the air between us. Grace's expression doesn't change, but I notice her fingers still against Kitten's fur.

  "Jason has shown me consideration beyond tactical necessity," she says finally. "He provided shelter, sustenance, and integration assistance without demanding immediate compensation. He does not fear me despite understanding what I am. He accepts my differences without attempting to change them. He laughs when I say things that amuse him, but he does not laugh at me. Does not mock me. He chooses not to command me, despite the fact that he is within his rights to do so."

  She pauses, seeming to search for words. "When he smiles, I experience that warmth I mentioned—the one with no survival value. When he masters something I have taught him, I feel... pleased... in a way that exceeds mere tactical satisfaction. When he is nearby, my baseline vigilance decreases by approximately 17%. When he embraces me, always asking before he does so, I feel. Warmth. Not like the warmth of the shower. Not like the warmth of the hot tub, but. Warmth regardless."

  I translate this in my mind: *I trust him. I care about him. He makes me happy.* Not the words most would use, but the meaning is unmistakable.

  "I believe," I say gently, "that those feelings, however you describe them, have significant value, tactical or otherwise."

  Grace considers this, then nods once. "Perhaps. It will require further analysis."

  She stands in a single fluid motion, somehow not disturbing the sleeping kitten. "Thank you for this conversation. It has been informative."

  "Anytime, Grace," I say, rising as well. "My door is always open to you."

  "Not when it is closed," She deadpans. "But I understand the idiomatic meaning."

  As I watch her leave, moving silently down the hallway toward Jason's room, I find myself smiling despite the lingering questions swirling in my mind. Whatever Grace is—psychopath, interdimensional traveler, mysterious warrior—she cares for my son in her own unique way. And perhaps most surprisingly, I find myself caring for her too.

  The floating status window she showed me defies all rational explanation, yet I cannot dismiss it as hallucination or trick. Whatever world Grace comes from, whatever powers or limitations she brought with her, one thing is increasingly clear: she is changing. Growing. Becoming something perhaps even she doesn't fully understand yet. And, Jason is a part of that. As she is a part of him growing as well. Teaching him. Giveing him things henever thought he would ever get to have or do.