Page 19

KAIRON

I push through the underbrush, every step a reminder of the chaos left behind. Sunlight filters down in sharp rays, slicing through the damp air. The jungle is quieter today, like it’s holding its breath. Something hangs in the stillness, but I don’t dare look back.

The weight of my sword rests comfortably against my back. A familiar presence that grounds me, reminds me of who I am—what I am. Each stride feels deliberate, unforgiving. My muscles work in a rhythm I’ve perfected over years of survival.

I hear Ava behind me—her footsteps softer, tentative. A small part of me wants to glance back, check on her. But I won’t.

Not after last night.

Her voice echoes in my mind, still raw and vivid. The way she looked at me—like I could be more than just a killer; like there was something worth salvaging beneath the layers of blood and scars. It unsettles me, rattling around like loose bolts in a war machine.

Focus.

The jungle thins as we move forward. Shadows stretch across the ground, casting strange shapes on the mud-slicked path. With each passing moment, the air shifts; anticipation thickens between us without words or glances.

I keep my gaze fixed ahead—never on her.

But still, I listen for her breathing—a steady rhythm that anchors me to this fragile alliance we’ve formed out here in the wilds. I sense her frustration simmering just beneath the surface, but silence wraps around us both like a shroud.

The silence between us isn’t comfortable. It’s brittle. Sharp.

I push forward, my senses on high alert. Every rustle in the underbrush, every distant call of wildlife pulls at my instincts. It should help to have the tension between us hanging like a storm cloud; it doesn’t.

We crest a rise, and there it is—a village nestled into a shallow valley.

The homes, crafted from moss-covered stone and wrapped in vines, blend seamlessly with the jungle around them.

Thick roots snake around the structures like ancient fingers, holding them fast against the earth.

Smoke rises lazily from chimneys, twisting up into the canopy where sunlight fights to penetrate.

Ava lingers beside me, her eyes scanning the scene below. I can feel her relief radiating off her like heat waves in the jungle air.

“Humans,” she breathes out, almost reverently.

I study the villagers as they move about their tasks—lean figures in loose clothing that sways as they walk.

Children chase each other, laughter bubbling up amid clucks from chickens pecking at the ground nearby.

The earthy scent of rootfire mixes with damp soil, creating an intoxicating aroma that pulls at something deep inside me—something I don’t want to acknowledge.

Ava steps closer to the edge of our vantage point, drinking it all in.

I stay back, instincts prickling as I scan for anything useful: tech?

Defenses? But all I see are crude tools scattered about and thatched roofs swaying gently in the wind.

People watch us from doorways and windows like ghosts staring out of fog—curious yet cautious.

I grunt in frustration.

“Primitive,” I mutter under my breath. “No systems. No comms. We’re wasting time.”

Ava turns to me, a frown knitting her brows together. “They might be able to help us,” she counters softly.

“They’re not going to have what we need.” My tone is sharper than intended but this is survival; I don’t have time for hope dressed as na?veté.

The villagers’ eyes follow us—some curious, others wary—and it dawns on me: we look like outsiders here—intruders in their quiet life. I feel the weight of their stares; they know something's wrong with our presence even if they can’t name it.

I take a step back, watching Ava as she shifts between apprehension and determination—a fragile dance reflecting everything this jungle has tried to teach her so far: survival over sentimentality.

Ava moves past me, her focus shifting to a woman struggling with a basket that has toppled over. She kneels, her movements fluid, and I watch as she offers her help.

“Here,” Ava says, her voice warm, almost soothing. She gestures toward the fallen basket and flashes a smile that somehow feels genuine in this chaos.

The woman’s brow furrows, unsure at first. Her eyes dart between Ava and the scattered fruit—vivid reds and greens against the earthy ground. Cautious curiosity dances on her face, but she nods slowly, allowing Ava to assist her.

They exchange a few words—Ava’s hands moving animatedly as she tries to bridge the gap of language.

I can’t catch everything, but I see how Ava leans in closer, making herself small in this moment.

The woman’s lips curl into a tentative smile, and for an instant, the tension of being outsiders melts away.

My irritation flares up like a flare gun igniting in my chest.

How easy it comes to her. This connection—this warmth she wraps around strangers like an old cloak. It annoys me how effortlessly she reaches out when every instinct tells me to stay guarded. To not trust anything or anyone outside of my own bloodshed.

“Do you know what planet we’re on?” Ava asks next, eyes bright with hope as she fumbles through words in a language so foreign I can’t follow.

The woman responds slowly; her English is broken and tangled like roots digging into soil. Words slip through gaps between meanings—some lost completely while others form shapes I can’t decipher.

I scowl from my spot at the edge of their interaction. My grip tightens around the hilt of my blade, fingers brushing against worn metal. This could all go wrong in an instant; every part of me screams that extending trust is foolish.

Yet there’s something good about this—watching them share cautious smiles and fragmented communication. It rattles something deep inside me—a soft pulse of warmth fighting against years of bitter isolation.

Dangerous.

That’s what it is.

An hour ticks by, and my patience frays. They’re no help; just superstitions about forest spirits and vague drawings in the dirt. Nothing concrete. I glance around at the makeshift huts—twisted vines draped over thatched roofs—remnants of a life rooted too deep to adapt to change.

“They’re wasting our time,” I snap, breaking the stillness. “They don’t even understand the world they live in.”

Ava turns sharply, her eyes flashing with something I don’t want to dissect right now—anger, yes, but deeper than that.

“They understand it just fine,” she shoots back. “You just don’t care to listen.”

I meet her glare with my own, but I keep my mouth shut this time. Something shifts between us—an electric current that feels almost familiar.

She mutters under her breath and strides off toward another hut, leaving me standing there like a fool.

Good.

I don’t want her emotions flooding into mine like a tide. I’ve had enough of softening edges and chinks in my armor; I need that anger to fuel me instead.

But I feel her absence—the weight of it settles heavily in my gut as if she’s dragging some part of me along with her.