(Rhydian)

The ground is moving.

Not actually moving — I know that, the rational part of my brain that’s still running knows the ground is the ground and the trees are the trees and we’re heading west toward the settlement and everything is fine. We got out. Elena came and we got out.

But the ground keeps moving anyway.

It started maybe ten minutes after we crossed the gorge. A slow tilt, like standing on a boat, the kind of wrong that your body notices before your brain gets the report. I adjusted my weight. Kept moving. Told myself it was the cold and the night and the particular aftermath of a body that’s been asked to do too much.

That was probably five minutes ago.

Or fifteen. Hard to say.

"Rhydian."

Elena’s voice. Close. She’s been at my left side since the camp, her shoulder under my arm, and I’ve been trying to put the minimum amount of weight on her possible because she’s eight weeks pregnant and I’m not putting weight on—

"Rhydian, stay with me."

"I’m with you," I say. My voice sounds like someone else’s.

"Your grip changed."

"My grip is fine."

"Your hand is shaking."

I look at my hand. It’s on her shoulder and it is, actually, shaking. That’s interesting. I didn’t tell it to do that.

"I’m okay," I say.

"You said that already."

"It’s still true."

But the trees are doing something. The edges of them, where the dark meets the pre-dawn grey, keep shifting when I hold them steady. I know what this is. I’ve had it before, the one time in the mountains when I took a bad hit and walked three miles back to the cave afterward and woke up two days later not entirely sure what year it was.

Blood loss and impact and a body that’s been running on something other than actual reserves since the gorge.

I know what this is and what I need to do is keep walking.

"Three miles," I say.

"What?"

"From the gorge. We’re maybe two miles from the gate now." I keep my feet moving. "I know the distance."

"Yes," Elena says, carefully, the voice she uses when she’s deciding how much to say. "We’re close."

"Then I’m fine."

"Rhydian—"

"I just need to keep—"

My left knee does something unhelpful.

I catch myself. Mostly. I go sideways and Elena goes with me, her arm coming across my chest, and Petra is there immediately on my other side with the quick professional response of someone who has been watching this happen for the last hundred meters and was ready for it.

The ground is very close.

I’m not on the ground. I should note that. I’m still upright, technically, with two people holding me upright, which isn’t the same as being on the ground.

"Okay," Elena says. Her voice is doing the thing where it’s completely controlled except for a specific frequency underneath. I’ve learned that frequency. It means she’s scared and is not letting herself be scared because other things need her more.

"I can walk," I say.

"I know you can."

"I just need—"

"I know." She adjusts her grip. Her arm is tight around me, her hand at my side, and even through everything I can feel that she’s careful about where she puts the pressure. Thinking about the baby even now. Thinking about both of us at the same time.

That’s— I want to say something about that but the words keep sliding away before I get to them.

The trees are definitely moving.

"Talk to me," Elena says.

"About what."

"Anything. The crib. The drills. What you want for breakfast." A pause. "Keep talking."

I understand why she wants that. The brain that stays in the conversation is the brain that doesn’t check out. I know this. She knows I know this because she’s the one who told me, some lesson or other about pain management, about staying present.

"The right side of the crib," I say.

"What about it."

"The angle’s wrong. I’ve done it three times and it keeps being— the joinery pulls when I tighten it." I feel my weight shift and Petra adjusts and we keep moving. "I think the issue is the wood. The grain runs the wrong direction for that joint and I’m trying to—" I stop. The grey at the edge of the trees is brighter now. Dawn coming. "I’m trying to force it to do something it doesn’t want to do."

"So use a different piece," Elena says.

"I know. I just." I stop again. My head is very heavy. "I want to use that piece specifically."

"Why."

"Because it was the first one I picked. From the shed." The settlement lights — there, through the trees, just visible. "I carried it back the first night. Before you knew I was doing it."

She’s quiet for a moment.

"Okay," she says softly. "We’ll fix the joint."

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," she agrees. "Keep walking."

I keep walking.

The grey keeps tilting.

I’m aware of things in pieces now, which is not ideal. Petra’s grip on my right side. The sound of the other wolves around us moving through frozen undergrowth. Elena’s warmth at my left, which is the most consistent thing in my field of experience right now, the thing my body keeps orienting toward.

The gate.

I can see the gate.

That’s good. That’s the gate and the gate is the settlement and the settlement is Senna and the room and the fire that needs tending.

"Gate," I say.

"Yes," Elena says. "Almost there."

"Tell Cade—" I stop. What did I want to tell Cade. There was something. "Tell him the shoulder tell is still there under pressure. He fixes it when he’s calm and loses it when it matters. He needs to practice it— tired. When he’s tired."

"I’ll tell him."

"He’s going to be good."

"I know."

My legs stop cooperating about fifteen meters from the gate.

Not gradually — they just make a decision without consulting me, and the decision is that they’re done, and the ground comes up fast and this time there aren’t enough hands to stop it, we go down together, Elena and Petra and me, and the frozen earth is hard under my knees and there are voices and footsteps and Brennan somewhere saying something about Senna and I can’t track all of it.

Elena’s hands on my face.

Both of them, cupping my jaw the way she does when she wants me to pay attention to her specifically, when she’s about to say something that requires my full focus.

I try to give her my full focus.

The edges of the gate are soft.

"Hey," she says. Sharp. "Look at me."

I look at her. Her face is close, the grey dawn light on her jaw, the scar on her cheek that I stopped seeing as a scar weeks ago. Her grey eyes that I have been looking at for two months and could probably navigate by.

"Stay awake," she says.

"I’m awake."

"You’re not." Her thumb on my cheekbone. Pressing. "Stay with me."

"I’m trying—"

"I know you are." Something moves through her face that she doesn’t hide, doesn’t manage, just lets sit there. Raw and open and entirely her. "Listen to me."

"I’m listening."

She leans forward.

She kisses me.

Not soft. Not the careful lessons of the first weeks or the warmth of the room at night. This is something else — urgent and real and slightly desperate in the specific way of someone communicating something that words haven’t been handling adequately.

When she pulls back her face is a centimeter from mine.

"I’ll always come for you," she says. Her voice breaks on the last word, just slightly, just at the edge of it. "Do you understand? Wherever you are. Whatever happens. I will come." Her hands are still on my face. "But you have to stay awake. You have to give me something to come back to."

I look at her.

The gate is behind her and the dawn is coming and her face is the clearest thing in my entire field of vision.

"Okay," I say.

"Promise me."

"I promise."

Her forehead drops to mine. Just for a second. Her breath is uneven.

"Senna," she calls. Her voice shifts, goes up, carries. "Now. Right now."

Hands under my arms. Multiple sets. Brennan’s voice, organized, directing the movement toward the gate.

I keep my eyes on Elena.

She’s moving with us, her hand not leaving mine, and the settlement lights are warm and close and the gate is open and somewhere inside there’s a fire that needs tending and a half-built crib with a joint that pulls and a bed that smells like both of us now.

I focus on her hand.

I stay awake.