Chapter 8 #2
Luna chooses this moment to leap from his shoulder to mine, apparently sensing friction. She nuzzles against my cheek with a soft meow.
“See? Even Luna knows I’m being realistic.” I scratch her head. “Besides, dying free is better than living as a slave. At least this way, I got to choose.”
The muscle in Lucian’s jaw twitches, and I realize my cavalier attitude toward my own mortality is genuinely bothering him. The thought that this near-stranger cares about my survival more than my own pack ever did sends a warm flutter through me.
“Stop talking about dying,” he says gruffly.
“Why? It’s a fact of life.”
“Because I don’t like it.”
The simple honesty in his voice catches me off guard. “Oh.”
We walk in silence after that, but I catch him glancing at my leg more frequently, his expression growing darker each time he notices my increasing limp.
It’s been a few days since I started traveling with Lucian, and while having his protection has been a blessing, my body is beginning to rebel against the constant movement. The fever that comes and goes makes everything feel slightly surreal, like I’m walking through a haze.
As night approaches, exhaustion sets in. I glance at our dwindling supplies, and my stomach growls. We finished the last of our meat this morning, and I can feel my body craving the protein it needs to fight the infection.
“We should stop here for the night,” I say, gesturing to a small clearing surrounded by thick trees. It looks defensible enough, and there’s a stream nearby for water.
Lucian nods, but his eyes are scanning the woods around us with that predatory alertness I’ve come to recognize. “Start the fire. I’ll be back.”
I bristle at the command. “Where are you going?”
“Hunting.” He’s already moving toward the tree line. “Stay put and try not to pick a fight with any wild animals while I’m gone.”
“I don’t pick fights with wild animals!” I call after him, but he has disappeared into the shadows. “They pick fights with me,” I mutter to myself.
The forest feels different without Lucian’s imposing presence.
Smaller sounds seem amplified—the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a night bird, the crack of a twig somewhere in the darkness.
I focus on building a fire, grateful for the familiar task, but my hands shake slightly as I arrange the kindling.
“Luna,” I whisper to my cat, who’s sitting attentively beside me, “do you think our stalker might be waiting for Lucian to leave?”
The thought has been nagging me for days. Someone was hunting for me, leaving those dead animals. What if they’re still out there, watching, waiting for the right moment?
Luna’s ears swivel toward the trees, and she makes a low, chittering sound that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“Thanks, Luna. You’re making me feel really safe here.”
I manage to get the fire started, the flames casting dancing shadows that make every tree trunk look like a potential threat. I keep my knife within easy reach and try to ignore the way my heart jumps at every sound.
Time crawls by. Each minute Lucian is gone feels like an hour, and I find myself straining to hear his footsteps returning. The fever makes everything feel slightly disconnected, as if I’m watching someone else sit by a fire in a forest clearing.
Just when I’m starting to seriously worry, I hear movement in the trees. My hand goes to my knife, but then Lucian emerges from the darkness, dragging a decent-sized deer behind him.
Relief floods through me so intensely, I feel dizzy. A big smile spreads across my face despite the fever burning in my cheeks.
“You’re back,” I say, and I can hear the relief in my own voice.
“Did you doubt I would be?” He drops the deer near the fire and starts pulling out his own knife to dress it.
“Maybe a little.” I watch him work, marveling at his efficiency. “With you around, I will never have to worry about going hungry,” I say gleefully.
Something shifts in his expression at my words; there’s a pleased satisfaction that he tries to hide but doesn’t quite manage to. The corner of his mouth slants upward in what could almost be called smugness.
Leaning against a tree trunk, I watch him cook the meat. My body is aching, and I can feel the fever creeping up again. I’ve run out of the herbal paste, and the infection keeps getting worse. I need a healer or a tonic, but I don’t have access to either.
I wasn’t lying to Lucian when I said I don’t mind dying. For the past few days that he’s been with me and Luna, I have felt free and relaxed. It’s like escaping a prison. I don’t mind dying while I enjoy this freedom.
“You know,” I say as I chew on some meat he has handed me, “this is way better than anything I could have caught myself.”
“Obviously.” His tone is matter of fact, but I catch a hint of smugness again.
I roll my eyes at his arrogance, but I can’t deny he’s right. And despite his cocky attitude, I can see that my acknowledgment of his skills matters to him, even if he won’t admit it.
We eat in comfortable silence, the deer meat helping to settle my queasy stomach. But as the night wears on, the fever gets worse. My skin feels like it’s burning, and everything takes on that strange, dreamlike quality once more.
“I should sleep,” I mumble, settling down near the fire with Luna curled against my side.
Lucian glances at me, and for a moment, I see concern in his eyes. Or maybe I’m wrong. The fever makes it hard to be sure of anything.
Sleep comes in fragments, broken by bizarre dreams and half-waking moments of confusion. At some point, I think I see Lucian walking away from the fire, disappearing into the forest again.
“No,” I call out, or I think I do. My voice sounds strange and distant. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me here.”
The panic that grips me is completely irrational, but in my fevered state, it feels like life or death. I try to sit up, to follow him, but my body won’t cooperate. I don’t want to be left alone. I don’t want to be abandoned. Not like this. Not again.
Then I feel arms around me, strong and familiar. “I’m here,” a voice says—Lucian’s voice, though it sounds different somehow. Gentler. “Don’t be a baby. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You can’t leave me, okay?” The words come out as barely a whisper.
A long silence and then, “Okay.”
But the fever makes everything feel unreal. I can’t tell what is really happening and what is my imagination running wild. At some point, I think I hear Lucian talking to someone else—a conversation conducted in low, urgent tones that I can’t quite make out.
“—getting worse—”
“—need to—”
“—won’t last much longer—”
Fear claws at me. Are they talking about me? Is someone else here?
Then Lucian is lifting my head, his arm supporting my weight as he holds something to my lips. “Drink this.”
“No,” I protest, turning away. The liquid smells bitter, medicinal, and my feverish brain screams danger. “I don’t want—”
“Astra.” His voice is firm but not unkind. “Drink it.”
But I’m caught between dreams and reality, and nothing makes sense anymore.
I try to fight, but he’s too strong, and the bitter liquid is forced down my throat despite my struggles.
It tastes awful—like herbs and something else I can’t identify—and I gag on it.
But in my groggy state, I feel the warmth of what can only be healing magic.
It shrouds my leg, relieving the pain, and I feel my body sink against Lucian’s.
“I know,” he says quietly, and I think I feel his hand stroking my hair. “I know it tastes terrible. But it will help.”
The world spins away after that, fever dreams mixing with brief moments of awareness until I can’t tell what’s real anymore.
I wake to sunlight filtering through the trees and the absence of the burning sensation that has been my constant companion for days. For a moment, I just lie there, afraid to move in case this is another fever dream.
But the ground beneath me feels solid and real, and when I carefully sit up, my head doesn’t spin. The overwhelming heat that has been radiating from my skin is gone, replaced by a normal body temperature.
Confused, I look around the clearing. Lucian is sitting by the remains of our fire, sharpening his knife with methodical strokes. Luna is curled up in a patch of sunlight, looking completely content.
I roll up my pant leg to examine my injury, expecting to see the infection that has been getting progressively worse.
Instead, I find myself staring at wounds that are clearly healing.
The swelling has gone down dramatically; the angry, red streaks that were climbing up my thigh have faded to nothing; and the edges of the cuts are beginning to close.
“What—” I touch the skin around the wound gently, hardly daring to believe it. The infection that should have killed me is...gone. “How is this possible?”
Lucian glances at me. “What is it?”
“My wound,” I mumble, stunned. “It’s better.”
He just arches his brows and returns to his knife, which is already ridiculously sharp in my opinion.
“Lucian, did something happen last night?” I remember the voices, someone holding me.
He frowns. “Like what?”
My lips part, and then I press them together. “Nothing. I must’ve been dreaming.” But I find myself unable to stop staring at him until we’re getting ready to leave.
As we continue walking through the forest, I can’t shake the feeling that something significant occurred overnight.
My leg feels stronger with each step, the persistent ache finally fading.
Whenever we stop and I take a quick peek at the wound, I can actually see the flesh knitting together, the redness growing paler by the hour.
It’s miraculous. Impossible, really.
But how could Lucian have gotten a healing tonic in the middle of nowhere? We’re days away from any settlement, and mercenaries don’t typically carry around rare medical supplies. The more I think about it, the more confused I become.