Morning seeped into the cave like a reluctant guest, pale light spilling across the earthen floor. The warrior had not moved. His chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm, broken by low groans, the murmur of dreams locked behind clenched teeth.

The girl frowned at him, uneasy, then busied herself with her tasks. She fetched water from the stream, gathered sticks for the fire, and scattered feed for the mule tied beyond the trees. She stayed outside longer than she needed, the air—damp and cold as it was—easier to bear than the silence of the cave.

The shaman watched her go but did not call her back. Her own thoughts were heavy, the visions of blood and chaos still gnawing in the corners of her mind. She set herbs to dry by the fire, whispering prayers over them, though her eyes often drifted toward the forest.

The day crawled by. The girl lingered outdoors, humming faintly to herself, though every sound in the forest made her shoulders twitch. She kept her scarred face hidden from the open path, hiding in small chores, gathering branches, pulling moss from stones.

When the sun sank low, the warrior stirred again. His body shivered with another groan, his fingers tightening into fists. His lips moved as if speaking to ghosts. The sound was faint but unsettling, like the voice of someone half-buried.

The shaman’s gaze sharpened.

Outside, the girl paused, glancing back toward the cave. The forest air had grown heavy, still, as though something vast watched from the trees. She shivered, unaware that the silence was not emptiness—but the first breath of hunters drawing near.

The shaman felt it. Her staff tightened in her grip. Somewhere beyond the trees, unseen, the night was shifting.