The onions are making me cry. Chemistry. That's all. Strong onions, watering eyes, completely normal biological response to— "You're holding the knife wrong." Kestria's voice cuts through and I blink, refocusing on my hands— she's right, I've been sawing instead of rocking, pieces uneven, some paper- thin and some chunky enough to choke on. "I'm distracted." "I noticed." She bumps my hip with hers. "Here. Let me." I hand over the knife and st ep back, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. The cooking fire's burning well—checked it three times, ke ep checking it— and the pot's simmering with the base I started an hour ago. Smells good. Should taste better once the onions go in. If she cuts them properly. She's cutting them properly. Did I add salt? I added salt. Pretty sure I added salt. "You're spiraling." "I'm not spiraling. I'm thinking." "Your face does this thing when you spiral." Kestria scrapes onions off the board into the pot without looking at me. "Your eyebrows go all—" She scrunches her face in demonstration. "That's not what I look like." "That's exactly what you look like. What are you thinking about?" The jar. The quarter jar. Fenna's wound closing because I had barely enough—spread too thin, took twelve extra minutes to break the fever—and what happens next time? When someone's bleeding gray and I'm standing there with one weak jar and a prayer? Who rations when a child is dying in front of you— "Supplies." "You're always thinking about supplies." "Because we never have enough of them." I grab a root vegetable from the pile and scrub. Dirt, water, motion. "The moonbright paste. What I made from those leftover petals is barely a treatment. And that's all I have." "I know." "And you said that Keer hasn’t found anything either." The vegetable's clean. I ke ep scrubbing anyway, dirt under my nails, water cold against my fingers. "Next attack happens, someone dies." Kestria's quiet for a moment, stirring the pot. Onions sizzle when they hit the liquid. "What do you need?" "More moonbright. Obviously." "Where do you get it?" "There's a field. Near my—" The word catches. "Near the cottage. Where I used to—it grows there. Wild. Biggest patch I've ever found."
Better concentration than anything cultivated, faster processing, proper growing conditions under old canopy. "If I can just get there and back without—" "That's a long way. Full day there and back, at least." "I know." "What about where you were attacked? You found moonbright petals there, right?" My hands stop on the vegetable. "Not enough." Back to scrubbing. "And—the cottage field is bigger. Plus, there's a market. Small one, near the cottage. I need— chickens. More chickens." "More chickens." "For eggs. The pack needs eggs, Kestria. Protein. And Nugget needs friends, she's getting aggressive from loneliness—that's why she ke eps attacking people and eating rocks. Chickens are social animals. She's losing her mind by herself." "The chicken is aggressive because she's lonely." "Yes." "That's your theory." "Yup." I set down the vegetable and grab another one. "And a rooster. We need a rooster or we can't hatch more chickens, and then what? The supply just ends when these ones die? That's not sustainable—" "Mel." "What?" "Eggs?" "Yes." "That's the reason." "A valid one." She's looking at me. The vegetable's going to have no skin left. The pot bubbles. Neither of us says anything. Fire crackles and I'm staring at the vegetable I've scrubbed raw, hands still going because they don't know how to stop. Should start on the carrots? Or check the bread situation. When did we last have bread? Need to figure out flour— "I could go with you." I look up. She's watching me over the pot, wooden spoon paused. "You said it's near your cottage. I obviously know the way." She shrugs. "Two people are safer than one." "Kestria—" "Don't argue with me. You need the flowers. I can help you get them. Girls day!" I grab another vegetable. "So we're getting chickens and a rooster." She resumes stirring. "And maybe a goat." Kestria drops the spoon entirely. "MEL." "Goat's milk! For the pack. Cheese eventually, if I can figure out how to—" I wave my hand vaguely. "You people can't just ke ep hunting forever. What happens when game goes scarce in winter and everyone's starving
because no one thought to diversify?" "Mel." "What?" "Let me get this straight. You want to go to your old home, gather poisonous flowers, stop at a market, and buy a small farm's worth of livestock. All in one trip." "I mean, when you say it like that, it sounds complicated." "It is complicated." "It's efficient. Everything's in the same direction. Market first, moonbright after, then back." Baskets for the flowers, rope for the goat if we get the goat—probably get the goat—cages for the chickens unless I can rig something from spare wood— She stares at me. The pot's boiling now—should adjust the heat— but neither of us moves. "I had goats once." I don't talk about the cottage. Don't think about it unless I have to. But the market, the route—everything pointing back toward the life I built and the life that got burned down, and my mouth's already open. Kestria's eyebrows go up. "At the cottage. Years ago. Two of them." Used to follow me around, bump their heads against my legs, steal food right out of my pockets. "I loved those goats. Was going to breed them, have a whole herd. Make cheese. Sell it at the market." "What happened to them?" "Wolves ate them." Silence. "Came through one night. Killed both. I found what was left in the morning." More silence. The pot bubbles, steady and oblivious, and a log shifts in the fire. I look at her. Her hand's over her mouth. She's failing to hide the grin. "Those were your wolves. Weren't they." Kestria's face goes through guilt, horror, and the desperate need to laugh—all three losing to each other in turns. "Mel, I'm so—" "It's fine." "It's not fine, we ate your—" "It's fine, Kestria. I forgive you retroactively. Circle of life and all that." I dump the vegetables into the pot. Water splashes over the side. "Now I'm going to buy goats for wolves. The irony isn't lost on me." She makes a sound. Half laugh, half choke. "Don't you dare laugh." "I'm not laughing."
"You're definitely laughing." "I'm—" Biting her lip hard, shoulders shaking. "You're just—you're going to buy goats. For the wolves. Who ate your goats." "Yes." "And you're fine with that." "What choice do I have? Stay angry forever? That seems exhausting." I stir the pot, adjusting the temperature down. Finally. Should've done that five minutes ago. "The goats are dead. New goats exist. The pack needs milk. Move forward." Kestria loses the battle. The laugh comes out bright and warm, and my mouth curves. "You're the strangest person I've ever met." She's still smiling at the pot. "We have established this multiple times." "I mean that as a compliment." We finish the stew together, talking about nothing important. What herbs to add. Whether the vegetables are soft enough. She passes the salt before I ask for it. I adjust the heat without being told. Kestria sets her bowl down. "So we're doing this." "Tomorrow. Early. Before anyone can argue about it." "Market first?" "Market first. Then the moonbright field. Then back before dark if we move fast." "With chickens." "With chickens. And a rooster. And possibly a goat." "Possibly." "Probably. Almost definitely." I ladle stew into bowls. "You should rest. Your wound—" "Is fine. I've been resting for days." "You took a poisoned blade to the side." "I didn't die. I'm here. I'm helping." She takes her bowl and settles beside the fire. "Tell me about the market. What's it like?" I tell her. Small trading post, barely a village. The woman who sells chickens always haggles but her prices are fair if you know what you're doing, which I do—years of practice. The route, how long it'll take, what we'll need. The food is warm and the fire is bright and Kestria is here, alive and healing, asking whether roosters are actually necessary or just ornamental. I don't sle ep well. Coin math and goat prices and the faces of children I haven't lost yet, all tangling together until I give up and pack in the dark. Morning comes too fast, and I'm awake before dawn loading supplies into the cart I spotted behind one of the storage structures—wheels rusted but functional, bed solid enough. Rope—check. Water—check. Coin from my
dwindling reserves, enough for chickens definitely, rooster probably, goat maybe if I haggle well and the chicken woman isn't in one of her moods. Prices always go up. Baskets for the moonbright, multiple sizes —need at least three because the petals bruise if you stack too de ep. Extra cloth. Bandages—always bandages. Knife. Where's my—pocket. Good. Nugget watches me from her corner, pink and judgmental. "You're staying here." She clucks. "I mean it. You'll attack someone at the market and I'll get banned and then where will we be?" More clucking. Aggressive. I point at her. Nugget clucks once more, final word, and goes back to pecking the corner. Kestria appears at my dwelling's entrance, dressed for travel, color good despite the early hour. Moving easier than yesterday—no hitch in her st ep, no guarding of her side. "Ready?" "Almost." I stuff the last basket into the cart and st ep back. "Food. Water. Coin. Rope. Baskets. I'm forgetting something." "Knife?" "Have it." I pat my pocket. "Something else." "Bandages?" "Have those. But there's—what am I forgetting?" I count on my fingers. "Two people, full day of walking, possibly longer if we dawdle at the market—I always dawdle at the market—plus water for chickens in transit because dehydrated chickens don't travel well—" "Then we should go." She grabs the cart handle before I can. "I'll pull first. You navigate." "Kestria—" "Don't argue. You're the one who knows where we're going." Fair point. I fall into st ep beside her as we head toward the tree line, cart wheels creaking over uneven ground. Pack's mostly asle ep—a few early risers near the fire pits, nobody paying attention to us. Good. Out of the territory before anyone has opinions about— "No." The voice comes from behind us. I know that voice. It said fuck against my neck and again against my mouth and— I turn around. Keer is standing at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, jaw set. He's been awake for a while—the tension in his shoulders, the stillness. Waiting. "You're not going." "I'm not asking your permission." "Doesn’t matter. I'm not giving it."
"You don't get to—" "You want to walk into human territory. Alone." "Not alone. Kestria's coming with me." I gesture at the cart, the supplies, the entire expedition that is clearly not a surprise outing. "See? Two people." His eye flicks to his sister. They do that thing—whole conversation in a glance—and something passes between them I can't read. Her jaw tightens. His doesn't change. Whatever she's telling him with her eyes, it's not welcome aboard. Kestria's chin lifts anyway. "She's not going by herself. I'll be right there." "That's not good enough." "Why not? I can—" "If anything goes wrong—" "Nothing's going to go wrong." "Something always goes wrong." He's looking at me now. Direct. The full weight of his gaze and—his mouth on my throat. The sound he made. My neck goes hot, pulse kicking, and I hate it. "Every time you think you're safe, something goes wrong." "I need moonbright." Squeakier than I want. "If someone gets poisoned—" "Then we'll deal with it." "Deal with it how? Watch them die?" I st ep forward. "I used everything on Fenna. What I made after wouldn't cover a scrape. One more attack and I'm standing there with nothing." "So we find supplies somewhere else." "When? While people bleed out?" My hands are shaking. Pockets. "I know where this field is. I know the route. I can do this." The muscle in his jaw jumps once. "The cottage area isn't safe." "I know it's not safe. That's why Kestria's coming with me." "Kestria isn't enough." “Wow, really? Kestria, are you going to take that—” I whirl to her. "Tell him. Tell him we can handle this." "I think..." Kestria starts slowly. "I think he has a point." "Kestria." "I'm not saying we shouldn't go. I'm saying maybe more protection wouldn't hurt." "More protection from who?" My voice is somewhere only bats can appreciate. "Everyone has pack duties. Hunting. Pack work. I'm not going to ask someone to abandon their work so I can go shopping—" Oh. "You know what. You're right, Keer. If you're so concerned with our safety, why don't you escort us?" That'll end this. He's the Alpha. He has responsibilities—people to lead, actual problems to handle, a territory to run. He's not going to drop everything to babysit me on a supply run just because he can't stop trying to control every single— "Fine." "See your—wait what? Fine?"
"I'm coming with you." My stomach drops. A full day. Walking distance. His body three feet from mine for hours and—no. The cart. Focus on the cart. Wheels need greasing. Do I have grease? I don't have grease. "You want to go. You're going." He uncrosses his arms and st eps forward, and he's so fucking big, I forgot how much space he fills just by crossing a clearing. "But I'm coming with you. That's the condition." "That's not—I didn't mean—" "You asked." "I was being sarcastic!" "And now I'm being serious." Closer. Close enough that his scent hits—cedar and the heat of skin—and my pulse kicks against my throat. "You go, I go. Or no one goes." Kestria coughs beside me. Pointed. Not subtle. When I glance at her, her face is carefully blank, but her eyes are on her brother and there's a warning in them he's choosing not to see. The coin. Right, the coin—do I have enough? Goat prices went up last season and if the chicken woman's busy she'll try to overcharge, I need to account for the rooster s eparately, roosters always cost more than— "Fine." It scrapes out. "Come if you want. I don't care. Bring coin." I don't not-care. That's different. A jingle. A heavy bag lands in the cart. "Let's go." Already walking past me, toward the tree line. Not waiting. Fucking Alphas. If we don't move now—and I still haven't figured out cages, do I build them or buy them, because buying cuts into the goat fund and I can't show up with— Kestria grabs the cart handle. I stand there watching his back disappear into the trees, broad shoulders cutting through undergrowth. "You coming?" "I've made a terrible mistake." "Yup. He called your bluff. But—" She nods toward the forest. "He's leaving without us." The forest swallows us within minutes. Keer takes the cart from Kestria without asking—just reaches back, closes his hand over the handle, and pulls it forward. She lets go. Doesn't argue. He leads without speaking, cutting through undergrowth, and I'm behind the cart watching his shoulders. The left one has a scar I haven't seen before and that's not— plants. Mugwort. Nettles. Poisonous berries—those ones, the dark purple clusters. Goldenseal, good for infection, should come back for it later. Plants are safe. Plants don't have broad shoulders and a voice that— Paste ratios. Two parts carrier oil to one part extract, but if the moonbright's older growth I'll need to adjust—maybe three parts, maybe four, the dilution shifts when the potency's high enough to burn tissue and I haven't seen this batch yet, could be strong, could be— "So." Kestria breaks the silence. "This is fun."
I don't answer. "Really great team energy. Love the vibe." "Kestria." I shove her shoulder. "Just an observation." Keer doesn't respond. Doesn't turn. "The market's about four hours." Too loud. I know it's too loud. Nothing. "Then the moonbright field. Back before dark if we push." His boots hit the ground steady and hard, not slowing. "Should be simple. Market, flowers, home." "I know the route." Rough. Clipped. Still hasn't turned around. "Great. So we're all on the same—" "We're not on any page. You're doing what you want regardless of what anyone says." "I'm doing what needs to be done. There's a difference." "Is there?" "Yes. Because people need paste, and people need eggs, and I can't sit around—" "You couldn't wait one more day to plan this properly." "I have a plan. Market. Flowers. Home." "That's a list." "A list is a plan—" "Can you two please stop?" Kestria's voice cuts between us. "I will push this cart off a cliff." Silence. He pulls the cart over a root without breaking stride. His forearm flexes and I look at the canopy. "Better. Much better." An hour passes. Maybe more. Keer stays ahead—steady, relentless, pulling the cart over every obstacle without slowing. Kestria fills what gaps she can. "How many hens are you thinking?" "Eight. Maybe ten. D epends on what she has." "That's a lot of chickens." "That's barely enough chickens. Egg production drops in winter. You need surplus to compensate." "You've done the math." "I always do the math." A branch catches the side of the cart. Keer reaches back to free it— one hand on the branch, one on the frame—and the motion twists his shirt across his back. I look at the ground.
Root. Another root. Very interesting roots on this trail. "What about the goat situation? How many?" "Three females for milking, one male for breeding. Four total." "Four goats, ten chickens, a rooster, and baskets of poisonous flowers." "No." From ahead. He doesn't turn. "No what?" "Four goats. No." "We're discussing this." "We're not." My boot catches a root and I stumble. Keer's hand closes around my arm before I've finished falling—fast, instinctive, grip firm on my elbow. He steadies me and lets go in the same motion. Doesn't look back. Doesn't say anything. Just the brief press of his fingers and then nothing, and my arm is burning and I want to scream. His hand was warm. That's not—the trail. Where was I st epping. What was I doing before I had hands on me. Not hands on me. A hand. One hand. On my elbow. Which is a normal place to grab someone who's falling and I need to stop thinking about his hands. "Mel?" "Fine. I'm fine. Roots." Kestria's watching me with an expression I'm choosing not to interpret. The trees thin eventually. Stumps, cleared patches, worn paths that widen the way paths do when regular feet use them. Human territory. My throat tightens. "Market's just ahead. Through those birches." Keer stops. "I'll wait here." "You don't want to—" I stop. Obviously he doesn't. Kestria's already shaking her head. "The scars. The size. The—" She waves a hand at all of him. "Not exactly inconspicuous." Right. Missing eye, torn ear. Built like a sexy lumberjack— "Fine. Wait here." "Take your time." He leans against a tree. "I'll be watching." I push past Kestria toward the birches. Market. Chickens. Rooster. Goat—definitely now. I will buy out the whole damn herd. I grab the large bag of coins Keer threw in the bag and jiggle it, grinning at Kestria. “Lets go shopping”