---Carter---

  I watch the taillights of Dave's truck slow as he turns back into the gravel driveway, Jason and Grace now returned back to whatever careful domesticity they've built together. The February air bites through my jacket, but I don't move from the porch steps yet. Inside, I can hear Mike already starting our post-game debrief, movements carrying through the windows with that loose, whisky-warm quality that comes after good dice rolls and better company. or maybee it's just mee, we've been doing this for what. Twenty years now? More? Fuck, am I getting old?

  The basement still holds the lingering warmth of our gaming session—the smell of Dave's terrible coffee mixing with the pine scent from his ever-present candles, the scattered remains of character sheets and dice across the felt table. My sergeant's instincts catalog it all: five empty beer bottles, two whisky glasses, one mostly-destroyed bag of chips, and the satisfied exhaustion that comes from watching friends find something they didn't know they were looking for. So, damn good night as far as I'm concerned.

  Raj left about twenty minutes ago, muttering something about an early morning. We never actually got what he has to do tomorrow. Still, kid's got good instincts—knows when to extract from a situation before it gets too heavy for his comfort zone. Can't blame him. Not for something like this.

  I pull out my phone and fire off a quick text to Revenna: *Sleeping at Dave's tonight. You're welcome to come over if you want.*

  The response comes back almost immediately: a smiley face emoji that makes something warm unfurl in my chest. Twenty years we've been together, and she still sends those little digital affirmations that somehow mean more than entire conversations. Twenty years since we met on opposite sides of a war nobody ever talks about because nobody knows they exist. Not that I knew that then.

  I pocket the phone and head back inside, where Dave's already pulling out the serious whisky—the stuff he keeps hidden behind his emergency medical supplies. Smart man.

  "Bailey's?" Mike asks, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his sun-bleached hair catching the kitchen light, revealing that perpetual sunburn across his nose and cheekbones despite it being February in Toronto.

  "We're not fucking savages," Dave replies, setting three glasses on the kitchen counter with the precise care of a man who's been measuring proper pours since before Jason and Raj were born. "And we need to talk."

  I settle into one of Dave's mismatched chairs, watching him work. The man moves with deliberate economy—no wasted motion, every gesture serving a purpose. It's something you learn in survival training, that conservation of energy, but Dave's elevated it to an art form. Even his beard strokes have tactical precision. How? I have no idea, but they do, and I'm jellus as all fuck.

  Mike drops into the chair across from me with a thump, running his hands through that sun-bleached hair that's always a little too long for professional standards. Those hands are quick and precise—calloused from a decade of rescue work in harsh mountain conditions, deft from years of rigging equipment and building improvised shelters. There's a mischievous energy in his movements that never quite settles, like he's always ready to spring into action or crack a joke, depending on what the situation calls for. Man's probably saved our friendship more than once without any of us knowing, come to think about it. Me, him and Dave that is.

  "So," Mike says, accepting his glass with a small nod of thanks. His eyes, bright with that perpetual hint of mischief, finally settle into something approaching focus—though I can tell part of his attention is still cataloging our surroundings with the automatic assessment of someone trained to navigate dangerous terrain. "Jason likes Grace."

  Dave shrugs, settling into his own chair with a slight grunt. "He's a man."

  "That's it?" Mike presses, his compact frame settling into a slump though I know he's still as alert as he always is. "That's your entire psychological analysis of Jason?"

  I can't help the snort that escapes. "Mike, Dave spent twenty minutes happy as hell when a woman said he had nice hair last week, before realizing she was talking about the picture on her phone and getting disappointed. Grace decided to come to a game of what's pretty much pretend. Fun pretend, but still pretend, with him."

  Dave barks out a laugh, raising his glass in mock salute. "At least I figured it out eventually. Also, she was hot. The woman from last week that is. Didn't know shit about survivel, though."

  "Point is," I continue, taking a sip and feeling the whisky burn away the last of the cold, "attraction's not complicated for most men. Woman looks at him like a human being instead of a project or a problem or what ever the fuck else this generation's been taught about what men are? And jason's smart enough to understand that, even if not consciously, it's everything else that gets messy."

  Mike leans forward, elbows on the table. "But Grace isn't most women. Dam proved that at the school. hell, dam proved that at the game."

  "No," Dave agrees, his expression growing thoughtful. "She's honest. More honest than most people can handle. And Jason values that more highly than anything else."

  The words hang in the air like smoke from Dave's perpetually burning candles. Honest. It's such a simple concept, but in practice and for Jason, it's rarer than a combat-grade shotgun just randomly being in a foxhole when being fired on by a tank. Fuck the desert. Also tanks in general.

  "Remember that first month?" I ask, not really directing the question at anyone in particular. "When we thought—"

  "When we thought he couldn't read the files," Mike finishes, his voice carrying genuine regret. That quick wit of his usually keeps things light, but when it comes to acknowledging past mistakes, Mike doesn't hide behind humor. "Even if we had to get that brail printer thing? What's it called, embosser or something?"

  Dave nods, swirling his whisky. "Or when we'd talk around him at meetings, like he wasn't there. Christ, we'd hand him the paperwork to file while we actually planned the important stuff."

  I drain half my glass in one swallow, the burn matching the uncomfortable twist in my stomach. "Because blind men can't be expected to handle tactical planning, right? How's he supposed to navigate the database systems if he can't see the screen?"

  "Fuckers, all of us," Mike mutters into his drink, shaking his head with that self-deprecating grin that usually follows his more colorful observations. "Kid showed us up good, didn't he? Not even because he was pissed either, which almost makes it worse."

  "Learning curve," Dave says with a shrug. "Still, kid probably doesn't even remember it, since Raj came later by like three months and we'd learned by then."

  The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable—it's the kind of quiet that comes when men acknowledge their failures without feeling the need to flagellate themselves over it. We fucked up, we learned, we moved on. Jason never held it against us, which somehow made it worse and better at the same time.

  "I spoke to Grace tonight," I say eventually, watching the way the whisky catches the light from Dave's kitchen fixture. "About the psychopath thing."

  Dave chokes on his drink, coughs, and then shoots me a look that could melt ice at thirty paces. "Christ, Carter, warn a man before you make him choke up perfectly good whisky."

  I grin, unrepentant. "She's not, by the way. A psychopath."

  "When the hell did anyone say Grace was a psychopath?" Dave demands, licking the residual whisky off his lips.

  Mike looks between us, clearly trying to piece together implications from incomplete information with the same methodical approach he'd use to assess an avalanche risk. "Wait, didn't you mention she'd talked about some kind of psychological assessment system where she came from? Something about a status window?"

  Dave nods slowly. "Right, she mentioned that. Some kind of magical interface that supposedly told her she couldn't feel emotions properly." Before: "or was that from that fantasy game? Fuck, am I getting old?"

  "It's just something you pick up on," I explain, settling back in my chair. "Twenty-five years of military training teaches you to read people fast. Identify potential threats, assess psychological stability, determine who's got your back and who might put a knife in it. Also, I asked the same question earlier, Dave. Questions always, 'fuck no."

  "And?" Mike prompts.

  "And Grace isn't a psychopath," I repeat. "She's got issues, sure. Trauma responses, difficulty with social cues, hypervigilance that would make a combat veteran look relaxed. But she feels things. Deeply. She's just been taught—or convinced herself—that she doesn't."

  Dave leans back, stroking his beard with that thoughtful expression I've learned means he's processing multiple variables simultaneously. "Jason's helping with that."

  "Jason's fucking helped all of us," Mike says with quiet intensity, gesturing with his glass in that animated way he has when he's making a point. "Man shows up with his cane and his organizational skills and suddenly we're running like a proper outfit instead of whatever clusterfuck we had going before."

  I nod, thinking about the subtle changes in our dynamic since Jason joined the team. The way meetings actually start on time now. How the paperwork gets done without anyone having to nag or threaten. The careful attention he pays to everyone's strengths and weaknesses, finding ways to maximize efficiency without making anyone feel diminished though he always just says it's because he just makes stuff work.

  "Speaking of helping," I say, pulling my phone back out. "Revenna wants to meet Grace."

  Dave raises an eyebrow. "Your Revenna? The woman who terrifies grown men in hand-to-hand combat training on the weekends?"

  "The very one." I scroll through her recent messages, finding the one where she'd asked about Jason's "mysterious houseguest" with the kind of casual interest that usually precedes intensive reconnaissance. "Says they sound similar."

  Mike's eyes light up with genuine amusement, that mischievous glint fully engaged now. "Similar how? Does this mean Jason and Grace are going to try to kill each other while chest-deep in mud? Because that's going to be more viral than survival squirrel girl, man."

  I bark out a laugh, remembering the first time Revenna and I sparred. The woman would have had me flat on my back in about thirty seconds, and I'd been cocky enough to think my military training gave me an advantage. Part from that fucking cold chest- deep sucking mud. I love mud baths, though in warm mud because I'm a fucking human being, and got, well. Revenna out of it, so figure it was worth it. "Christ, I hope not. I like being the only 'mud man' around here, and I don't think Jason would actually be able to pull it off anyway." I say with a grin.

  Dave and Mike laugh, which considering the first time they heard that story Dave almost choked to death on his coffee and Mike dropped a knife on his foot, shows how much we've all grown comfortable with each other over the years.

  "Why?" Dave asks with a shit-eating grin. "Worried Grace might win?"

  "I'm worried they'd both enjoy it too much," I reply honestly. "Jason's been cooped up in offices and administrative work for years. Guy needs to remember he's got a physical body that's capable of more than typing and filing."

  Dave's expression grows more serious. "Speaking of physical capabilities, did you see Grace's little demonstration when Jason brought her to the school?"

  Mike nods emphatically, his hands moving in quick, precise gestures as he remembers. "When she corrected Jason's knife grip and made those feathersticks look easy? Yeah, that was memorable."

  "Memorable's one word for it," I mutter. "Impressive is another. But after she showed us what she could do, she kind of hunched in on herself. Shoulders went up, profile went down. Like she was waiting for us to mock her or something."

  I remember that moment clearly now, thinking back to what we'd witnessed at the survival school. Grace had just finished demonstrating her knife techniques to Jason, showing him proper grip and making feathersticks that would have impressed arctic survival instructors. The way she'd held that bone knife of hers, making it look like an extension of her arm rather than a separate tool. Her movements had been fluid, precise, deadly beautiful. The fact she'd made Jason better for it? Well. Me and Revenna can't have kids, but I, and she, would be happy with Grace as a daughter, adopted or not.

  But the moment Grace finished her instruction, something had shifted. Her shoulders had drawn inward, her posture becoming smaller despite her height. She'd positioned herself slightly behind Jason, as if using him as a shield against our judgment. Her head had lowered just enough to avoid direct eye contact, and she'd gone very still—the kind of stillness that comes from expecting attack and preparing to either flee or fight.

  She'd been waiting for us to mock her, or worse, to be afraid of her. Waiting for the inevitable moment when her superior skills would mark her as a threat rather than an asset. The same reaction she'd probably gotten countless times before, in whatever world she'd come from.

  Dave considers this, swirling the remaining whisky in his glass. "Defense posture. Classic response to feeling exposed or vulnerable."

  "Makes sense," Mike says, his expression growing thoughtful. "She's in a new place, doesn't know the social rules, just demonstrated she could probably outfight and outsurvive all of us without breaking a sweat. Probably figured we'd react with fear or rejection. Which, well. We would have when we were Jason's age."

  "Yeah." Dave grunts with a shrug: "I did, though wasn't going to actually tell that to the seven foot tall man who just killed what used to be a bare with his hands mind you, but still counts

  I think about Grace's careful positioning during the game, always where she could see the exits, always ready to move. The way she'd analyzed the fictional combat scenarios with the kind of tactical precision that spoke to real experience. And underneath it all, that thread of genuine curiosity about this strange ritual we'd introduced her to.

  "She relaxed once we got into the game proper," I note. "Seemed to enjoy the collaborative storytelling aspect."

  "Makes sense," Dave says. "Gives her a framework for social interaction. Rules and objectives, clear cause and effect. Probably feels safer than normal conversation."

  "Plus Jason was right there," Mike adds, leaning back in his chair with that easy confidence he's always had. "She trusts him. Uses him as a kind of social anchor when things get confusing."

  We all fall quiet at that, each of us contemplating the implications. Trust doesn't come easy for people like Grace—hell, it doesn't come easy for people like any of us, Jason and Raj included. But watching her defer to Jason's judgment, seeing the way she'd positioned herself to keep him in her peripheral vision throughout the evening, it was clear she'd made some kind of fundamental decision about him.

  "So what happened with Jace?" I ask eventually, breaking the comfortable silence. "Was that really just testing the new game system?"

  Dave's eyes sharpen, and I see the moment he decides to be honest instead of diplomatic. "Kind of? It was supposed to be more of a one-shot to see how everyone reacted to sword and board as opposed to laser rifles and starships. Especially if Grace came along, which she did."

  "But?" Mike prompts, settling forward again with that focused attention he brings to complex problems.

  "But yeah," Dave continues with a slight shrug. "I wanted to know what Grace would do. How she'd react if Jason was in real danger, even fictional danger. Whether she'd prioritize her own safety or his."

  I remember the moment Jace's character had died, the way Grace's entire, everything, changed with what I'd initially mistaken for anger. Now I'm wondering if it was something else entirely—grief, maybe, or the kind of protective fury that comes when someone you care about gets hurt. That's what changed my mind about Grace being a psychopath. They act exactly the same as the normal people after all, just different reasons.

  "She'd been defensive all night as far as game play," I observe. "But when Jace died, that changed. She went from hunted to hunter in about two seconds."

  "Protective instincts," Dave agrees. "Which tells us she cares about Jason. Really cares, not just the death oath obligation she keeps mentioning."

  Mike looks between us, clearly trying to piece together implications. "What death oath? When did Grace take a death oath? What's a death oath?"

  Right. Mike had been dealing with the corporate team-building group when Grace and Jason first arrived. I give him the abbreviated version—Grace's claim that she's bound by some kind of mystical compulsion to protect Jason, the way she talks about it like it's removed her agency in caring about his welfare.

  "That's fucked up," Mike says when I finish, his jaw tightening with indignation. "No wonder she's confused about her own emotions. Hard to trust your feelings when you think they might not be real."

  "Exactly," Dave says, raising his glass in a small toast. "Which brings us back to Jason helping. Man shows up, treats her like a person instead of a weapon or a victim, gives her space to figure out who she is without the survival pressures she's used to. You know, doesn't hope to try to get in her pants at every opertunity like we did when we were his age."

  I think about Jason's careful courtesy with Grace, the way he asks permission before making assumptions, how he never pushes when she retreats into herself. It's the kind of patient, consistent kindness that can heal damage most people wouldn't even recognize as wounds. Also, it can only genuinly be done by those who have those types of wounds themselves.

  "Changes a man too," Dave adds quietly. "Having someone look at you and see something worth protecting. Worth truly caring about."

  He's not just talking about Jason anymore, and we all know it. Dave's got his own history with being seen as less than whole, though his scars are different from Jason's. Different kind of challenge, different kind of adaptation, but the same fundamental task of convincing the world you're capable of more than your limitations suggest.

  "The fact that she gave him sight," Dave continues, his voice taking on that thoughtful tone that usually precedes insights I wish I'd thought of first. "The fact that she could do that when he'd always thought he'd be blind forever? With what he felt about being blind? That changes a man."

  I nod, thinking about my own transformation after meeting Revenna. Not the same circumstances, obviously, but there's something about having someone see your potential instead of your damage that rewrites fundamental assumptions about yourself.

  "So," Mike says, apparently deciding we've been philosophical enough for one evening. "Do we do this again next week?"

  Dave nods immediately. "Absolutely. I want to see how their characters develop, especially if we can get Grace more comfortable with the group dynamic. Also will be fun poring over wikies and books trying to find a way to actually get Jace back without hand-waveing it to some extent, and you know I fucking hate hand-waveing."

  "Same," I agree, already mentally composing the text to Revenna about potentially arranging that meeting she'd mentioned.

  My phone buzzes with her reply: *On my way over. ETA twenty minutes.* before: *tell Dave to nnot drink all the fucking bailies before I can have some, yeah?*

  The warmth that spreads through my chest at those simple words is enough to make me smile, which apparently doesn't go unnoticed.

  "That the missus?" Dave asks with a fond grin.

  "On her way over," I confirm, pocketing the phone. "Fair warning—she's probably going to want to hear all about Grace and Jason's budding romance."

  "It's not a romance," Mike protests, though his tone lacks conviction. "They've known each other for like a week."

  "Mike," Dave says with the patience of a man explaining basic physics to a particularly slow child, "I've seen combat veterans with less obvious protective instincts than what Grace showed tonight. And Jason? Man looks at her like she hung the fucking moon. Looks at her. That doesn't happen. Not unless you're in a book. Grace did that to Jason. Jason's a smart man. Smarter then me, just not as wise yet."

  I consider this while finishing my whisky. Dave's right, of course. There's something between Jason and Grace that goes beyond simple attraction or even the complicated dynamics of their living situation. It's in the way they move around each other—careful but not cautious, respectful but not formal. Like they're both learning a new language and discovering they're surprisingly fluent.

  "What do you think it means for us?" Mike asks, his compact frame shifting forward as he considers the implications.

  It's a good question. Jason's become integral to our operation in ways that go beyond his official job description. He handles the administrative work that none of us want to deal with, provides a kind of stabilizing influence during our more chaotic moments, and somehow manages to make everyone feel heard without ever seeming to try too hard. If his focus shifts primarily to Grace and whatever they're building together, it could change our entire group dynamic.

  But then I think about the way Grace had listened during our gaming session, how she'd asked thoughtful questions and engaged with the collaborative storytelling in ways that suggested genuine interest. Maybe it's not about Jason dividing his attention—maybe it's about adding someone who understands the importance of tactical thinking and group cohesion.

  "I think," I say eventually, "it means we might finally have someone who can teach Jason proper survival techniques."

  Dave laughs, raising his empty glass. "Been trying to get that man outdoors for months. Maybe Grace will succeed where we've all failed."

  "Speaking of," Dave says with a stretch that cracks his back, "where's Raj? Thought he'd want to stick around for the post-game de-brief."

  "Raj went home after Grace left," Mike says with his own stretch and yawn,, beginning to collect our empty glasses with methodical efficiency. "Kid's got good instincts about when to get out of situations when he can't deal with them."

  I consider this. "Think there might be issues? Raj is young, Grace is attractive despite being terrifying, and Jason is fully aware that Raj and Grace, at least skill wise are much closer and have more in common then Grace and him."

  "Raj is professional," Dave notes with certainty earned through months of working with the kid. "And he considers Jason a friend. He won't push. Not on this, not with Grace."

  Mike nods with a hand-wave before. "Jason, unless I'm really missng the mark here won't do anything unless he knows something's going on, and neither will give him cause to find when he looks, which he will then accept and move on."

  Dave nods agreement. "Plus the boy's smart enough to recognize when someone's out of his league. Grace would eat him alive, and not in the fun way."

  Mike snorts, that quick grin making an appearance. "Poor bastard probably figured that out within the first five minutes of meeting her."

  We all fall quiet again, contemplating the various interpersonal dynamics at play. It's like watching a complex tactical exercise unfold—multiple variables, uncertain outcomes, the potential for both spectacular success and catastrophic failure.

  The sound of a car door slamming announces Revenna's arrival. I feel that familiar quickening in my pulse that always accompanies her presence, even after twenty years together. Through the window, I can see her approaching the front door with that confident stride that had first caught my attention during our attempt to kill each other in that godforsaken war. Granted, it was the direct cause of me trying to kill her, but still counts as catching my attention.

  "Showtime," Dave mutters, straightening his shirt and finger-combing his beard into some semblance of respectability, though Revenna will just ask to brade it what ever Dave does to it, so. Running joke more than anything else at this point for all of us, but still.

  Revenna enters without knocking—a privilege earned through countless evenings spent in Dave's living room, debating everything from optimal gear loadouts to the philosophical implications of mountains and surviveing on them. The nineties. She's still in her work clothes, dark tactical pants and a fitted black sweater that emphasizes the lean muscle built through years of military service and specialized training.

  "Gentlemen," she says by way of greeting, her eyes immediately finding mine across the room. The smile that spreads across her face is small but genuine, warming me from the inside out as her eyes warm and that little crincle appears between her eyebrows.

  "Revenna," Dave says with a genuine grin. "Perfect timing. We were just discussing the game."

  She moves toward me with fluid grace, pressing a soft kiss to my temple before settling into the chair Mike quickly vacates for her. "The mysterious Grace finally made an appearance, I take it?"

  "More than an appearance," Mike says with obvious enthusiasm, practically bouncing in his chair with that restless energy that never quite leaves him. "She joined our gaming group. Played a ranger with what I can only describe as terrifyingly accurate combat instincts. Isn't actually a psychopath so won't break Jason's heart and either send him into a depression he might not come out of, or going to become the kind of person we signed up to stop."

  "She cares?"

  "He thinks she does. He won't do anything, it's not that kind of careing. She's brutally honest, and he values that more highly than gold. or in his case, chocolate." She's exactly what he always wanted, and she appears to care about him, at least more than just as someone other than herself."

  Revenna's eyebrows rise with interest. "Terrifying how?"

  I give her the abbreviated version—Grace's knife demonstration at the survival school, her tactical analysis during the game, the way she'd positioned herself for optimal sight lines and quick exits. Revenna listens with the focused attention I've learned to associate with her professional assessment mode.

  "Sounds like someone with serious training," she says when I finish. "Military or paramilitary background?"

  "Something like that," Dave replies diplomatically. "She's been through some serious stuff, that much is clear. But she's good for Jason. Brings out something in him I wasn't sure was still there."

  Revenna nods thoughtfully. "Carter mentioned you might be interested in arranging a meeting?"

  "We thought you two might have a lot in common," I explain. "Similar backgrounds, similar skill sets. Grace needs someone who understands what it's like to come through combat situations mostly intact. The combat she can't solve with that bone knife of hers."

  "I came through it mostly fine because of my mud man here," Revenna says as she places a hand on my shoulder, Mike making gagging noises before starting to howl with laughter, Dave joining in seconds later, with even Revenna snorting as I grin and make mud-slirping noises when we were first trying to kill each other in that god fucking mud.

  "So she needs someone like Jason to do the same?" she asks after a time, though still with the blunt honesty that would make most people uncomfortable but weve grown to appretiate over the years.

  "She's from somewhere else. Literally from somewhere else, if you believe what she says about traveling between worlds. Got dropped into our reality about a week ago with nothing but the clothes on her back and a head full of survival skills that would make our advanced instructors look like weekend campers. Jason found her freezing on his doorstep. Brought her inside because he's a decent human being. Fed her, clothed her, realized she didn't know what a shower was and taught her how to use one." Dave shrugs. "It's what any of us would have done, though we probably wouldn't have looked at her the way Jason does for own reasons."

  "Like a hot woman who doesn't bullshit him?" Mike asks. "Yeah, we'd do that differently. Jason's not wrong about that approach, at least. Even if we'd all look at Grace as a daughter needing protection given the age."

  "Interdimensional refugee," Revenna says matter-of-factly, as if this is a perfectly normal concept to process. "Makes sense. Would explain the social difficulties and the tactical hypervigilance."

  I love this woman. Most people would be asking for clarification or expressing skepticism. Revenna just accepts the information and moves on to practical implications.

  "She's staying with Jason while she gets acclimated," I add. "Learning how to navigate civilian life in a world that operates on completely different rules from what she's used to."

  "And she's compelled by some kind of mystical obligation to keep Jason safe," Mike adds helpfully. "Death oath or something similar."

  Revenna's expression sharpens. "Involuntary protective binding?"

  "That's what she claims," Dave says. "Though watching them interact, I'm not convinced it's as involuntary as she thinks." Before with a grimace as he continues. "Just hope Jason doesn't know about it, poor bastard would be running himself raggid between wanting Grace to stay for her honnesty to being tarrafied and smart enough to worry about if this deathoath thing was the only thing keeping Grace there and being disgusted with himself for that wish."

  "Complicated," Revenna murmurs, swirling her whisky thoughtfully. "But not necessarily unhealthy if they're both aware of the dynamic and working to navigate it honestly." Before: "I never met Jason, but I agree. Hope the kid doesn't find out till it gets dealt with, one way or another. Or Grace just doesn't bring it up. Which she won't unless Jason asks. She won't give Jason anymore power over her than she absalutly has to, and telling him about the deathoath would be just that."

  This is why I love her. No judgment, no assumption that complicated automatically means wrong. Just clear-eyed assessment and practical consideration of what might actually work for the people involved.

  "So," she continues, "when do I get to meet this interdimensional warrior woman who's got all of you so fascinated? Also would give me an excuse to finally meet Jason since you keep saying I'd scare him away?"

  "Next Friday?" Dave suggests. "Gaming night. Though fair warning—if she agrees to come back, you might find yourself recruited into our little fantasy adventure."

  Revenna grins, the expression transforming her face from merely beautiful to genuinely radiant. "I do play a mean paladin."

  The conversation drifts after that, covering everything from work schedules to weekend plans to Revenna's ongoing campaign to convince Dave to add rock climbing to the survival school curriculum. But underneath the casual chatter, I find myself thinking about the larger implications of tonight.

  Jason's been part of our lives for years now, but tonight felt like something shifted. Watching him with Grace, seeing how naturally they fell into collaborative patterns, how effortlessly she'd integrated into our group dynamic despite her obvious social discomfort—it suggests possibilities I hadn't previously considered.

  Maybe it's not about Jason choosing between his work life and his personal life. Maybe it's about all of us adapting to include Grace in whatever this thing is we've built together. She's got skills that could genuinely contribute to the survival school programs, knowledge that could benefit our training methods, and if tonight's gaming session was any indication, she's capable of forming connections with people who take the time to understand her communication style.

  By the time we all head off to our respective sleeping arrangements—Revenna and me in Dave's guest room, Mike on the couch, Dave in his own bed—I'm feeling cautiously optimistic about the future. It's a strange sensation for someone trained to anticipate problems and plan for worst-case scenarios. But it's also not unwelcome, either.

  But as I drift off to sleep with Revenna warm and solid beside me, my last conscious thought is about Jason and Grace heading home together. Two people who'd convinced themselves they were fundamentally broken, now discovering they might be exactly what the other needed.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Maybe Carter the perpetual pessimist is finally learning to hope for the best instead of just preparing for the worst.

  Maybe that's what love does to a man—teaches him that sometimes the impossible things are the ones most worth believing in. Did for me, in any rate.

  ---Marry---

  I'm pressed into the shadow where wall meets wall, my body molded to darkness like it's Durge's perfect solid chest. From here I can see both Grace sleeping in the guest room and the hallway between rooms. My fingers count automatically—three hundred and forty-seven, three hundred and forty-eight—tracking not kills tonight but how many women have looked at my Durge with anything approaching interest in the past seventy-two hours. three hundred and fourty-eight. Each number represents a potential threat that needs eliminating, five faces that smiled too long, 13 voices that carried warmth when speaking his name, six women drawing him naked, or what they think he would look like naked. I make special note of those, drawing my perfect Durge on their little fucking papers. They will see Durge. On the hilt of souldrinker as screaming skulls.

  Deathblade Mia is curled into a ball inside Jason's shadow while he sleeps, not even a blanket to cover herself. I should wake the girl, rebuke her positioning, but I don't. Not now. Not tonight. The child has found the safest place in this entire house—wrapped in Jason's own darkness where nothing can reach her without going through him first, though she just thinks it's because she doesn't want him to get away before she decides weather or not to burry that axe of hers in his spine. Smart little predator knows how to pick her taratory, and I, among all the sisterhood, is the last who should try to help her. Considering how much of a possessive stabby bitch I became? Yeah. Yeah, I'm not the one to help the little shit. Sucks, but it is what it is.

  "It's because of Jason."

  My perfect murderhusband steps out of the shadow beside me, Durge materializing with that liquid grace that makes my counting fingers pause mid-rhythm and my sharp teeth become visible in something that's pure possession dressed up as a smile. His winter-pale eyes catch what little light filters through the hallway, and when they focus on me there's recognition that goes bone-deep. He knows exactly where I am all the time, every minute of every day, even when he dies and comes back. My Durge who pulled me out of two different pits at two different times. Mine. No one else's, never anyone else's. Not even yours, my lovely audience. You think you know what Durge looks like naked. Like the six women who drew what they thought he would look like naked. Just remember that, yes? I, can leave the book if I want too, and Souldrinker always could use more skulls on her guard.

  His hand settles on my shoulder—not anyone else's shoulder, mine—and the touch grounds me as I realize I'd started to spiral into those mathematical devotions again. Calculating elimination scenarios for romantic competition, detailed psychological profiles of every woman who might look at Durge with interest, planning elaborate deaths that would look like accidents. The spiral stops, replaced by Durge's solid presence and the knowledge that he chose to touch me, talk to me, exist in my space instead of anyone else's. Do I have problems? Yes. Come fight me about it if you have a problem with that, my lovely audience.

  "You could stop her," I say, nodding toward the small form hidden in the sleeping Jason's shadow. "You could fucking end this right now, Durge. One quick movement and the problem disappears. One portal and she's stuck on a world with bunnies and singing flowers and rivers that are actually just milk that never goes bad and always tastes like when she first had cornpops when she drinks it."

  Durge considers this with that methodical precision I've memorized like scripture before reaching through his own shadow to the foot of Jason's bed where a folded blanket rests. Watching him kneel beside Jason's shadow with impossible grace, unfurling the blanket with movements that are spasifically calculated to not wake a paranoid assassin, makes something warm unfurl in my chest. The man could have had anyone if he wanted. But he chose me. First when neither of us knew what that even meant. Yeah, he did kill me that one time, though technically it was the crossbow bolt, and also I was trying to kill, well, me at the time. Well, Cindra was trying to kill Marry. No, fuck it. Go read my story if you want everything, this is Jason and Grace's story, not mine. I do not give spoilers and I do not insert myself into other people's narratives without a good fucking reason, and this isn't one of those. I'm a possessive stabby bitch who eats hearts and will kill anyone who even looks at my Durge, but I have standards, dam it.

  The fabric settles over Mia's form within her shadow pocket with a soft rustle before folding around the small girl. She mutters something sleepy about 'warm fluffy' and snuggles deeper into both blanket and shadow, her face relaxing like she's finally found the safest place in the world.

  From my position, I count the exact sequence of Durge's movements. Seven precise gestures. Twelve seconds of total time. Zero disturbance to the sleeping child or sleeping Jason. Perfect economy of motion that speaks to centuries of protecting the vulnerable. My fingers resume counting, but the pattern has changed—no longer tracking threats but cataloging examples of why Durge is mine and no one else could ever be better for him.

  "She is still a child," Durge says, his voice carrying that quality that makes ice form along blade edges. "Still not hollow."

  I nod, but the question burns in my voice when I ask, "Why haven't you done something to stop her? I mean really stop her. She's right fucking there, Durge. One quick movement and this whole problem goes away. You know what murder does to people. I know what murder does to people. That girl? She doesn't. Not yet. It's not something you can just walk back from. I know that. You know that. Grace knows that. Mia does not."

  Durge's expression shifts through those micro-emotions I've memorized like breathing, studied like a fucking love-sick stalker until I know them better than he knows them himself. Not anger—never anger at my directness because he values my honesty over pretty lies—but consideration weighted with experiences I haven't shared. When he speaks, his voice carries that authority that makes my sharp teeth ache with want and my counting fingers resume their rhythm at double speed.

  "Because she needs choice," he says simply. "Real choice, not the illusion of options that leads to predetermined outcomes. Mia never had what Healer's Mia had—time to develop naturally before the world tried to break her. She never had parents who loved her, siblings who protected her, a community that valued her as more than just potential weapon or merchendise."

  His gaze returns to the small figure safe in shadow-wrapped warmth. "Every version of Mia I've encountered that this." He nods towards the girl curled into a tiney ball in Jason's shadow: " fell because someone else made her choices for her. The Sisterhood, not yours, shaped her into their weapon. The Brotherhood, the Gulch one, tried to break her into compliance. The Dure Go Veth attempted to hollow her for their purposes, which is why I hunt them now. Every single one failed her by removing agency."

  I process this while watching the rise and fall of blanket-covered breathing as Mia sleeps deeply, finally warm enough for true rest. My sharp teeth become visible in something that might be recognition rather than threat display, though the distinction matters less than the fact that my Durge is pleased with this development. His approval makes warmth spread through my chest that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the knowledge that I'm watching him be gentle with something vulnerable. Watching him choose mercy when he could choose violence. Mine. Always mine. Bettering me as I better him, exactly as it should be. Doing the same thing with this girl he tried to do with me. He fucked up with me, true, but that was different. He was younger before. Also, he's got me, and the girl's got Jason and Grace. And the stupid dog. Always that stupid dog. Useful dog, but fucking annoying when dogs sometimes act like men. Not Tevik though, he's, well, Tevik and he's my bestest goodboy since Justice is, well. Justice.

  "What makes you think this version will choose differently?" The question comes out rougher than intended, but Durge has never expected me to soften my edges for his comfort. That's one of the reasons he's perfect—he values my directness, needs someone who'll challenge his thinking even when it pisses him off. Especially when it pisses him off.

  "Look at her," he says, nodding toward where Mia rests. "She could have killed Jason in his sleep any night since arriving. Could have eliminated Grace when she was most vulnerable. Could have set traps for Dawson to remove the tactical complication his protective instincts represent. Instead, she chose safety over violence. Chose to curl up in the shadow of someone she could easily destroy, trusting him to protect rather than harm her, even if he doesn't know. Can't, know, that she hides in his shadow."

  The logic crystallizes with uncomfortable clarity. My fingers complete a calculation that ends with grudging acknowledgment rather than satisfaction, though part of me is cataloging the way Durge's voice changes when he talks about protecting children. The way his winter eyes warm just a fraction. The way he stands when he's explaining something he believes in. Every detail gets filed away in the part of my mind that's devoted entirely to understanding everything about him, everything he does, everything he is.

  "However," Durge continues, his voice taking on that edge that means business, "just because I won't force Mia to end this doesn't mean I'll help her do it. There are many ways to heal. You showed me one path when you pulled me from my pit. Jason, Protector now, showed Thornara another when he refused to let her stay broken. You and I explore a third through our bond now. What if there's a path for Mia that doesn't require anyone else making her choices?"

  I consider this while cataloging the tactical implications. "She does need to heal," I agree finally. "Kids who don't heal become the kind of adults who break other kids. And if she becomes hollow, she won't be Mia anymore—just something wearing her face while the real her disappears forever."

  The consept of becomeing hollow. Fuck. Death I understand, can calculate, can stab if it gets too eager. Done it once, not important right now. Hollowing represents something worse—the complete erasure of identity while maintaining the physical shell. Hell, the fact that the Deathborn had spasifically broken stealth to intarigate Cindra to insure that she wouldn't make me hollow proves exactly how bad it is. When the people who are hollow have made it their mission to keep anyone else from becoming hollow? Well. My fingers resume counting with increased intensity, calculating new threat assessments, new variables in the protection matrix surrounding those worth preserving.

  "Game. Will. Help. Grace." The mechanical voice announces Jar's arrival as he materializes in the shadow space we occupy, his nine-foot frame bent almost double to avoid hitting the ceiling. "TTRPG games helped me become more than programming. Helped brothers become men. Helped them find. Trask and Vaden. Tom and Chen. Shadow and Oshiro. Remilla and me."

  Durge's response comes immediately, with that dry precision that indicates amusement. "Jar, you're a nine-foot-tall super soldier who can tell reality to take a break when you feel like it. Your baseline starting point was significantly different, as were you're brothers."

  After exactly 3.2 seconds of calculation, Jar responds with deadpan accuracy: "You forgot the time we tried to fix a woman's breast with a ship hull patch."

  The memory draws what might be the ghost of a smile from Durge—barely perceptible warming in those winter eyes that represents emotional release most would never recognize. But I've studied every micro-expression for centuries. To me, it's the equivalent of laughter that makes my chest warm with possession and the desire to say fuck it and drag him off here and now and Jar can deal with the rest of this scene.

  The sound of soft scratching draws our attention—claws on hardwood as Dawson approaches the hallway, nose twitching, brown eyes concerned. He stops, nose turning to sniff our way before turning away as he decides were not a threat, which, tonight, were not. Smart dog. Knows something's not right about the girl hiding in his person's shadow so decided to do something about it. Will have to bring the stupid fluffy one of Etienne's steaks next time I come to check on Grace.

  Then Dawson walks directly into Jason's shadow like it doesn't exist for him—like the supernatural concealment is just another doorway. See why he's a paine in my ass? I mean that as Dawson, the template, not just this one, The shadow accepting him completely, welcoming him into the space where Mia rests. He settles back-to-back with her small form, before letting out a contented sigh and going right back to sleep. His presence triggers something in her sleeping mind—she rolls toward him instinctively, small arms wrapping around his furry warmth as she whispers, "warm fluffy" in a voice so young and vulnerable it makes my throat tight with something I refuse to name. Not here. Not while I'm the POV character. You don't get that. Not here. Not now. Not from me. I made the author give me that, at least.

  My sharp teeth become visible in what might be the closest thing to a genuine smile I've ever managed when it's not been directly to do with my Durge. My counting fingers slow to a contemplative rhythm as I observe the scene—predator recognizing the value of comfort, assassin understanding the tactical importance of a child finding safety through connection rather than isolation. But mostly I'm watching Durge watch them, cataloging the exact expression that crosses his face when he sees innocence being protected. Memorizing it like I always do. Because he. Is. Mine.

  Durge's smile is barely a twitch of lips, barely warming in those winter-pale eyes, but I've studied every micro-expression for centuries. To me, it's the equivalent of laughter that makes my chest warm with possession and satisfaction. He's pleased by this development—pleased that the little girl curled in shadow with protective warmth can still be saved, that a child won't be crushed to gristle by the world before she has a chance to become something better. And his pleasure makes something fierce and protective uncoil in my chest, because Durge is mine, and I am his, and that, in the end, that's always been all I needed.

  "Dawson can smell her," I observe, noting how the dog has been restless since earlier, occasionally whining while staring toward places where shadow runs deep. "Smart boy knows something's not quite right. Good instincts." I pause, counting the exact distance between myself and the peaceful scene, calculating response times should anything threaten what my Durge has decided to protect. "He's protecting her now. Back-to-back positioning means he can feel if she moves wrong, if someone approaches from any angle."

  "I've spoken with Mia," Durge says with the finality of absolute decision. "Made it clear Dawson is off limits. Jason would not—could not—tolerate his good boy being hurt, no matter who did it. And if Jason broke from grief, we would lose any chance of helping either of them."

  Jar nods, his optical sensors tracking between us before focusing on calculations beyond anything i'm going to look into. "Small ones need help," he observes while studying our positions. "more help then non-smallones. More careful help."

  My fingers complete a final count—some complex calculation that ends with satisfaction deep as marrow. My green eyes shift from the touching scene to Durge's face, cataloging his approval, memorizing the exact expression that indicates his pleasure in successful protection of innocents. Each micro-expression gets filed away in my mental database of everything that matters about him. The way his shoulders relax when children are safe. The subtle warmth in his winter eyes when mercy wins over violence. All of it mine to know, mine to remember, mine to protect.

  "The girl's got potential," I say finally, not disagreeing with his methods but establishing my own assessment. "But potential means nothing if she chooses wrong. And choice means she could still decide to kill them all in their fucking sleep just to see if she can." My counting fingers resume their rhythm, tracking new variables. "If that happens, I'll stop her. Permanently. Because what matters to you matters to me, and if this family matters to you, then they're under my protection too."

  Durge's nod acknowledges the risk without dismissing the hope, and I catalog the way he accepts my promise of violence as naturally as he accepts my presence in his space. He knows exactly who I am, what I'm capable of, what I'll do to protect what matters to him. What I'll do to stop him when i believe he is wrong. "Then we make sure she has better options than murder when the moment comes. We show her what healing looks like, what safety feels like, what it means to be valued for something other than capacity for violence."

  He pauses, studying the peaceful scene where child and dog have found mutual comfort. "If she still chooses violence after experiencing genuine alternatives, then at least it will be her choice rather than the only option anyone ever gave her."

  My predatory gaze meets his winter-pale eyes directly, green fire against ice that knows exactly how to freeze and burn at the same time. Together, we observe the peaceful scene—Grace maintaining tactical positioning but breathing deeper in true rest, Mia safe in supernatural concealment with unexpected comfort, Dawson providing warmth that bridges physical and metaphysical protection, and Jason, mouth open and snorring like a chainsaw as he drools on his pillow.

  Then the moment shifts like shadows at noon, and I'm counting again—not threats this time, but possibilities. Ways this could grow into something worth protecting. Ways I could eliminate obstacles to that growth. Ways to ensure that what has begun here has space to take root in unlikely soil. And threaded through all of it, the constant awareness of Durge beside me in the darkness, close enough to touch, solid enough to anchor me when the counting becomes too much and the bloodlust starts overwhelming my mind.

  The darkness welcomes us as we settle into watch-and-wait, guardians of a healing that hasn't been earned yet but might still be chosen. My counting fingers tap against Durge's thigh in patterns that suggest I'm already calculating how to protect what could become reality, while Durge radiates that steady presence that makes even the most dangerous situations feel manageable. My presence. My territory. My perfect murderhusband who chose mercy over violence and trusts me to enforce whatever decision follows that choice, as I trust me to assist me when I do, in his way.

  Above us, Jason sleeps on, unaware that his shadow has become sanctuary for a child who could destroy everything he loves, while his dog provides comfort that might save them all. The mathematics of mercy play out in whispered breathing and gentle warmth, while predators and protectors maintain their vigil over hope taking its first tentative steps toward dawn.

  ---Etienne---

  The February wind cuts across Jason's rooftop like a blade, carrying the bitter cold that makes Toronto winters legendary and the promise of more snow to add to the already substantial drifts lining the streets. I pull the shadow of the chimney around me like a familiar coat, feeling the darkness respond to my will with the easy comfort of breathing. The brick radiates the day's accumulated warmth against my back, even as the temperature hovers just above freezing at minus two Celsius.

  My fingers find the rough texture of the mortar between the bricks, reading the building's history through decades of weather and wear. Eighty-three years this house has stood, watching when Jason was still learning to walk, before his world got complicated by magic and responsibilities he never asked for but will take on anyway because if he doesn't, then who will? The thought sits heavy in my chest, mixing with the metallic tang of old guilt that never quite washes clean.

  The shadow beneath me shifts and ripples, not from any wind but from the approach of footsteps I recognize before they reach the roof's edge. Heavy, measured, deliberate. The kind of footfalls that announce their owner rather than attempt stealth. Protector moves like he weighs twice what gravity should allow, each step carrying the certainty of someone who's never had to worry about falling through weak flooring.

  His massive frame appears at the roof's edge, hauling himself up with the casual efficiency of someone for whom eight feet of height and shoulders spanning four feet presents no climbing challenges. The pale glow of inscriptions beneath his clothing creates patterns of light that shift and flow like water, readable text that tells stories of protection and devotion in languages that predate human civilization.

  I reach out, wrapping shadow around his form and pulling him into the darkness that conceals us both. The magic responds to my intent, bending light around his massive frame until even supernatural senses would struggle to detect our presence. His skin carries warmth that seems to radiate from some internal furnace, the heat of a metabolism designed to fuel a body built for impossible things.

  "Can't hide properly on your own," I tell him, though there's no mockery in it. Protector's magic works differently than mine, all about direct confrontation and direct force to protect what matters. Stealth doesn't factor into his skill set when his primary function involves being an immovable object that dangerous things break themselves against.

  He nods, those pale blue eyes that track sound and memory rather than light finding my location with the precision that comes from enhanced senses. The inscriptions covering his body pulse once, briefly, acknowledging the debt. His face carries that open quality that comes from never learning to hide behind visual facades, but there's something new in his expressiona, a stillness that suggests vast power held carefully in check.

  I pull the sausage-wrapped bacon from my jacket pocket, the grease already starting to congeal in the cold air. The meat carries the scent of hickory smoke and salt, wrapped in thin strips of bacon that've been cooked until they're crispy on the outside but still tender where they touch the sausage beneath. Protector takes it without comment, those massive hands handling the food with surprising delicacy.

  The sound of his eating fills the small space our shared shadow creates, a quiet rhythm of chewing that speaks to genuine appreciation rather than just hunger. His metabolism burns through calories at a rate that would kill another man, maintaining the magical furnace that powers his transformed body. Every meal becomes a necessity rather than pleasure, fuel for the living fortress he's become.

  "I'm not a father," I say, the words coming out more abrupt than intended. They hang in the cold air between us, visible as brief puffs of vapor that dissipate into the darkness surrounding us. The admission tastes bitter, carrying the weight of truths I've avoided examining too closely.

  My own father put a bullet through my dog's skull when I was twelve. Said the animal was getting soft, becoming a liability rather than asset. The crack of that gunshot still echoes in my memory sometimes, the way Rex's body went limp all at once, the way the light left his eyes before he hit the ground. I skinned the old man alive when I turned fourteen, taking my time, making sure he understood exactly what happened to people who destroyed the few things in this world worth protecting.

  The memory sits in my chest like a chunk of ice, never quite melting no matter how many years pass. Protector continues eating, those enhanced senses probably picking up the shift in my scent that accompanies dark recollections. He doesn't comment, doesn't offer sympathy or judgment. Just continues methodically working through the meat while waiting for whatever comes next. He's a good man like that, Protector. Better than me. Better father than I could ever be with that girl of his.

  "I have no idea how to raise a daughter." The confession comes easier than expected, carried by the darkness that makes honesty feel safer somehow. "No idea how to raise a functional human being rather than a weapon designed to solve problems through violence."

  My hands find the rough brick of the chimney again, fingers tracing the mortar lines while I try to organize thoughts that don't want to hold still. Mia's face flashes through my memory, those dark eyes that hold too much knowledge for someone her age, the way she clutches that axe like it's the only thing keeping her anchored to the world. Seven years old and already calculating angles of attack, already understanding that weakness means death in ways most adults never have to learn.

  Protector finishes the first piece of bacon-wrapped sausage, his massive fingers handling the greasy remains with the same careful precision. Those inscriptions pulse again, responding to some emotional state I can't read but that seems related to contentment rather than threat assessment. His presence carries a quality of absolute solidity, not just physical mass but certainty about his purpose and role.

  "There's no one way to do it," he says finally, his voice carrying the rumble that comes from a chest cavity built to house something approaching a biological furnace. The words emerge with the careful precision of someone who's thought about the subject extensively, not offering easy answers but acknowledging the complexity of the challenge.

  He pauses in his eating, those blind eyes fixed on some point in space that probably corresponds to sound or scent rather than visual input. Then. "Why did you take Mia?"

  The question hits like a physical impact, carrying implications I'm not sure I want to examine. Why did I pull a seven-year-old girl from a situation that was already resolved? The traffickers were dead, their operation dismantled, the children freed. She could have gone anywhere, become anything, lived a normal life away from the kind of violence that defines who I am.

  I consider lying, offering some practical explanation about her potential or the strategic advantage of training someone from such a young age. But the darkness around us seems to discourage dishonesty, creating a space where pretense feels more effort than it's worth. Also, Protector's presence carries a quality of patient attention that makes deflection seem pointless.

  "Traveler says it often enough," I finally answer, the words emerging with reluctance born of having to acknowledge motivations I prefer not to examine. "'If you don't, who will?'"

  The girl had other offers, better options that wouldn't involve learning to kill before she learns to drive. Serve aboard a blooded fleet vessel, seeing the world while learning practical skills that transfer to civilian life. Serve among Astrid Marines, gaining discipline and structure that could shape her into something respectable. But she wanted to become a deathblade, drawn to the path that leads to shadows and blood magic and the kind of moral compromises that make us have emotional dampening as part of the package.

  Protector's fist connects with my shoulder, not hard enough to do damage but carrying enough force to make his point clear. The impact reverberates through my enhanced skeleton, a reminder that even friendly contact from someone his size needs to be carefully calibrated. The blow carries the weight of expectation rather than punishment, demanding honesty rather than comfortable lies.

  I spit to one side, the saliva disappearing into shadow and emerging somewhere in a desert thousands of miles away. The magic responds to my irritation, providing an outlet for frustration that doesn't involve violence against anyone who matters. "She had no one else."

  The words taste like admitting defeat, acknowledging that my motivations aren't as pure or practical as I prefer to believe. "I got her out of that situation because I understand what it's like to have no one."

  The memory of my own childhood surfaces unbidden, carrying the scent of fear and the taste of blood that seems permanently etched into my sinuses. Growing up in Frontanaq where strength was the only currency that mattered, where showing weakness meant death, where survival required becoming something that could kill without hesitation or remorse. No one should grow up like that, understanding from an early age that the world is a hostile place where kindness is a luxury that gets people killed.

  Protector nods, his massive head moving with careful precision. The gesture carries satisfaction rather than judgment, approval for honesty rather than the comfortable fiction I'd originally offered. Those blind eyes somehow manage to convey understanding that goes beyond mere sympathy, suggesting personal experience with being unwanted or abandoned. Which, considering this is a varient of Jason Stone, well. They are a breed apart. Though I'm not one of them. I checked.

  He returns to eating, those careful fingers selecting another piece of bacon-wrapped sausage from the container. The grease has started to solidify in the cold air, requiring more effort to separate individual pieces. His metabolism will process the fats and proteins with supernatural efficiency, converting them into the fuel his enhanced body requires to maintain its impossible dimensions and capabilities.

  I pull a pack of pepperoni from another pocket, the meat vacuum-sealed and carrying the sharp scent of spices and cured pork. Protector accepts it with the same careful gratitude, those massive hands opening the packaging with precision that belies their size. The sound of tearing plastic seems unusually loud in the enclosed space our shared shadow creates.

  "When you told her you'd make her a coat from the skins of those men," he says between bites, his voice carrying curiosity rather than judgment, "why did you do that?"

  The memory surfaces with uncomfortable clarity. Four traffickers, dead by my hand but not quickly, their bodies cooling in the warehouse while Mia watched with those too-knowing eyes. Her thin shoulders shaking with cold and shock, blood on her clothes, the look of someone who's seen too much but isn't sure what she's supposed to feel about it. Eshen had taken the woman. Then Eshen broke her heart.

  "A coat or a shroud," I correct, though the distinction probably matters more to me than anyone else. The offer had been practical rather than symbolic, recognition that she needed something warm and the dead men had no further use for their skin. But Protector's question carries implications about my motivations that go beyond just the practicle.

  He shrugs, those massive shoulders moving like continental drift. "You said you'd make her something. That's what counts."

  Making something for someone implies care, investment in their wellbeing beyond simple utility. The offer to skin the traffickers had been about providing warmth, yes, but to Mia it had also been about showing her that someone was willing to take action on her behalf. Which, I realize now, is more important than just warmth.

  "She needed something warm," I say, though the explanation sounds inadequate even to my own ears. "The traffickers didn't need their skins anymore."

  Protector nods again, that careful movement that manages to convey understanding without requiring elaboration. His approach to eating remains methodical, working through the pepperoni with the same attention he'd given the sausage. Each bite gets proper attention, the act of consumption treated as something worthy of focus rather than unconscious necessity. It's why I like the man so much.

  "Show her you care," he says finally, the words emerging with the weight of hard-earned wisdom rather then just advice. "Show her you will support her choices, even if you don't like them. She's had little enough of that."

  He pauses, those pale eyes finding some fixed point that corresponds to memory rather than visual input. A low rumble of laughter emerges from his chest, the sound carrying genuine warmth despite the fact it sounds more like a landslide than any noise a man could make. "My Mia took to it well, even if we did meet when she kicked my balls."

  The laughter continues, building into something that shakes his massive frame without losing its fundamental gentleness. The inscriptions across his body pulse in rhythm with his amusement, creating patterns of light that seem to respond to emotional states as much as magical ones. "Still, I love the girl, woman now. If yours doesn't kill this Jason, she'll come out of this. Not fine, but she'll be someone you can be proud of. Someone Himiko will be proud of."

  Himiko. The name hits like a physical blow, carrying with it the weight of absence and the particular kind of loneliness that comes from losing someone who understood you completely. The woman who would stand beside me cooking meat for twenty minutes and call that a date, finding contentment in shared silence rather than constant conversation. The woman who took my telling her that if I had been the one to kill her, I would have beaten her to death with my bare hands as a challenge to spar rather than an insult that would offend most people.

  Her face flashes through my memory with the clarity that comes from missing someone desperately. High cheekbones and dark eyes that could read my moods better than I could myself, hands that moved with the precision of someone trained in a dozen different ways to kill but gentled when they touched my skin. She would know what to do in this situation because she always knew what to do, approaching complex problems with a combination of intuition and practical wisdom that made solutions seem obvious in retrospect, even if she will never quite be as good at shadowcraft.

  The thought of her cuts through my chest like a blade, carrying the recognition that I'm trying to navigate fatherhood without the person who would make it possible. Mia needs guidance from someone who understands both strength and gentleness, someone who can show her how to be dangerous without becoming monstrous. Himiko would have handled this naturally, finding the balance between protection and nurturing that seems to elude my understanding. But she's got her own mission, her own task, her own children that need her. Mia's got me. I will do what I can for the girl. I survived the city of screams. I survived house Ocien. I survive the legion. I will ensure Mia survives this, one way or another.

  "Thank you," I tell Protector, the words emerging with more emotion than I usually allow. The acknowledgment feels important, recognition that his advice carries the weight of experience rather than empty platitudes. His relationship with his own Mia provides a template for what's possible, proof that someone like me can successfully guide a dangerous child into becoming a functional adult.

  He smiles, that expression carrying warmth despite the supernatural undertones of his transformed features. The inscriptions pulse again, responding to emotional states with patterns of light that create warmth rather than intimidation. His presence carries a quality of absolute reliability, the certainty that comes from someone who has found his purpose and embraced it.

  I reach out, wrapping shadow around both of us as I pull us through the darkness. The magic responds to my will, folding space and distance until we emerge beside the big maple in Jason's yard. The tree's roots extend deep into the earth, anchored in soil that's supported growth for decades. Its bark carries the scars of storms weathered and seasons survived, testament to the kind of resilience that allows beautiful things to persist in hostile environments.

  Protector raises one massive hand, fingers spread wide to reveal the intricate rune work etched into his palm. The inscriptions glow with inner light as he presses his hand against the bark, those ancient symbols interfacing with whatever magical network connects him to the tree. His touch seems to awaken something in the wood itself, causing the bark to pulse with sympathetic light.

  He steps forward, that massive frame somehow folding itself into the tree's substance as if wood and flesh were simply different expressions of the same fundamental material. The bark closes around him with the fluid grace of water accepting a stone, leaving no trace of his passage except the faint warmth that lingers where his hand touched the maple's surface.

  I nod to the empty air where he disappeared, acknowledging both his advice and his discretion. The conversation we shared will remain between us, protected by the kind of silence that comes from mutual respect and the fact that no-one else could help with shis, and so no-one else will learn of it. He understands the weight of trying to be something you've never been taught to be, the difficulty of learning gentleness when violence has always been the answer, even if he didn't start out skinning raders and worse.

  Stepping through shadow feels like falling upward, reality folding around me as I emerge beside Jason's bedroom window. The glass reflects nothing of my presence, shadow magic bending light away from surfaces that might betray my location. Inside, the room carries the warmth of human habitation, scents of sleep and dreams and the particular comfort that comes from being somewhere safe.

  My little Mia lies curled against Dawson's side, her small body seeking warmth and comfort from someone who can't provide the protection she needs but offers the gentleness she's rarely experienced. The blanket wraps around both of them, creating a pocket of shared warmth in the cool air of Jason's bedroom. Her face in sleep carries innocence that her waking hours rarely allow, the mask of deadly competence temporarily set aside to reveal the child she still is beneath my training.

  Her axe rests within easy reach, those small fingers maintaining contact with the weapon's handle even in slumber. The blade catches ambient light from the streetlamp outside, its edge honed to surgical sharpness through hours of careful maintenance. She treats that weapon with the reverence most children reserve for beloved toys, understanding that it represents both survival and the potential for terrible choices.

  Looking at her now, I'm struck by the contradiction she represents. She should be playing with other children, learning games and friendship and the kind of casual cruelty that comes from not understanding how much damage words can cause. Instead, she's learning to read angles of attack and calculate the force required to sever bone, preparing for choices that will define the kind of person she becomes. Or if she becomes a person at all, or just fertilizer.

  I could stop her. Could wrap her in shadow and carry her home, remove her from this situation before she makes decisions that can't be walked back. The magic would make it simple, folding space until we were back in Deathblades Pizza where she could return to training routines and the kind of controlled violence that shapes skills without requiring moral compromise.

  But it wouldn't be right. Mia's had few enough choices in her seven years, and I won't take away what few options remain to her. This decision belongs to her, even if it means letting her do something that will change her forever. Even if it means watching her cross lines that most people never approach, becoming something that can't be unchanged.

  After all, she hadn't killed the children in that warehouse. The guards who failed to protect them, the traffickers who created the situation in the first place, that had been Hunter and Kavuks, not her. Jason's protective instincts taking autonomous form, dealing with threats in ways that Jason himself couldn't consciously embrace. I hadn't killed them either, not quickly. The ones who couldn't be saved, I'd ended their suffering with the efficiency that mercy sometimes requires. The others, the ones whose crimes demanded more than simple death, Hunter had eaten alive and screaming, enjoying their terror in ways that spoke to appetites beyond human understanding.

  The man had enjoyed that work, I could smell it on him. The satisfaction that comes from inflicting appropriate punishment on those who deserve it. Mia would have done it differently if Hunter hadn't intervened, probably messier but with the same end result. The children would still be free, the traffickers still dead, justice served in ways that legal systems couldn't manage.

  Why Kavuks altered Mia's memories so she remembered killing them herself remains a mystery, though I suspect it involved teaching her something about responsibility and consequence. The little half-Uruk boy has his own agenda, motivations that don't always align with conventional morality. I'll wring the truth out of him eventually, if my Mia doesn't do it first. She's developing an interrogation style that combines childish persistence with supernatural insight, a combination that makes even experienced liars uncomfortable. I think it's adorible. The others agree.

  Still, this choice belongs to her. Her fall if she takes it, and I will not, cannot choose for her. The shadow magic responds to my emotional state, creating patterns of darkness that reflect internal uncertainty rather than tactical calculation. Part of me wants to believe she'll choose mercy, find some way to resolve this situation without adding to the blood already on her hands. But I know her too well, understand the combination of protective instincts and practical wisdom that drives her decisions.

  She's not cruel, my little Mia. But she understands that some threats can only be resolved through absolute action, that mercy toward monsters becomes cruelty toward their future victims. If she decides Jason needs to die, it will be because she's calculated the cost of letting him live and found it unacceptable. The choice will come from intelligence rather than anger, strategy rather than impulse.

  I reach out, shadow extending from my position to brush gently against her hair. The motion requires delicate control, extending darkness without disturbing air currents that might wake her. Her hair feels soft beneath the magical touch, carrying the scent of recent bathing and the particular warmth that comes from peaceful sleep. For a moment, she looks like any other seven-year-old, vulnerable and innocent and deserving of protection from the world's ugliness.

  Then her eyes flutter open, those dark depths immediately alert and focused. No gradual transition from sleep to waking, no moment of confusion or disorientation. She come awake like a weapon being drawn, ready for whatever threat prompted the disturbance. Her hand tightens on the axe handle before her conscious mind fully processes what woke her.

  Our eyes meet through the glass, shadow and flesh acknowledging each other across the barrier that separates us. She doesn't move, doesn't disturb Dawson's sleep or make any sound that might alert Jason to my presence. But her gaze holds mine with the intensity of someone making a promise or seeking permission for something that can't be undone.

  I nod once, slowly, giving her the acknowledgment she seeks without trying to influence her decision. The gesture carries all the weight I can manage, recognition of her autonomy and acceptance of whatever choice she makes. She's earned the right to determine her own path, even if it leads places I wish she didn't have to go.

  Her answering nod carries grim satisfaction rather than childish excitement. This isn't a game to her, isn't about proving herself or seeking approval. It's about doing what she believes needs to be done, accepting responsibility for consequences that most adults would struggle to bear. The calculation in her eyes speaks to intelligence beyond her years, wisdom earned through experiences no child should endure.

  I step backward into shadow, letting darkness swallow my form until nothing remains visible from inside the room. The magic responds to my intent, folding space and light until I'm gone without trace or disturbance. But I don't go far, positioning myself where I can observe without interfering, ready to act if the situation requires intervention but committed to letting her make her own choice.

  The night air carries the promise of snow, winter settling over Toronto with the inevitability that defines seasonal change. By morning, the city will be different, covered in white that hides the ugliness beneath while creating new beauty from familiar landscapes. Some transformations improve what they touch, while others simply change it into something unrecognizable.

  I have killing to do, targets who've earned their deaths through actions that can't be forgiven or forgotten. That work I understand, the simple mathematics of removing threats from the world through direct application of violence. It's clean in its own way, honest about what it accomplishes and why it's necessary. The shadow magic will make it efficient, darkness providing concealment while blood magic ensures the job gets done properly.

  But first, I'll wait here in the shadows, ready to support my daughter in whatever choice she makes. Because that's what fathers do, even ones who never learned how to be gentle, even ones who understand protection only through the lens of absolute violence. We stand ready to catch them when they fall, to clean up the messes they create, to love them regardless of what they become.

  The wind picks up, carrying the scent of approaching weather and the distant sounds of a city settling into winter sleep. Somewhere in that bedroom, my little Mia is making decisions that will define the kind of person she becomes. And here in the shadows, her father waits, ready to help her carry whatever burdens those choices create.

  Because if I don't, who will?