Apologies for not posting yesterday. Might move the posting date to saturday. Regardless, here is you're chapter..

  ---Jason---

  I shift my grip on the box of cat supplies—litter, bed, food, toys, and what feels like a hundred other "essential" items for a creature the size of my fist. The weight isn't much, but the fact it's awkward as all hell and I can't just hold it longways up make makes it hard to keep steady as we push through the glass doors into the frigid Toronto afternoon. Well, frigid to me, Grace, being Grace probably considers it bomy since it's only about minus ten out.

  "Careful there," I mutter as the box nearly slips from my grasp. A blast of arctic air hits us immediately, and I wince as the temperature seems to drop another ten degrees from when we entered. February in Toronto doesn't fuck around, and I'm finding out weather I want too or not.

  Grace moves silently beside me, her posture rigid in that hyper-alert way she's had since I met her. Four days ago. Just four days since she appeared frozen on my doorstep, though it feels like months have passed since then.

  "What the hell was that back there?" I wonder as we continue walking.

  I can't quite pinpoint why I'm so bothered. Mildred was nice—friendly, even—and under normal circumstances, I probably would have enjoyed the attention. It's not like I find many people to talk too who don't act different after they realize I'm blind, and the white cane's not exactly suttle. When you're blind, people tend to treat you like you're made of glass or simply invisible, or get all gushy about how fucking inspired they are that you do normal shit, which is fucking worse. Even now that I can see, my social skills are... well, let's just say they need work. Lots, and lots, and lots of work. The kind of work you need a hole construction crew working twelve hour days for a year to start fixing. Maybee.

  So why did I react like that? Why did I step away from Mildred and deliberately position myself next to Grace? And more importantly, why am I so concerned about what Grace thought about the whole interaction? After all, she's here for pragmatic reasons, like she said, and nothing more.

  Grace isn't mine. She isn't anyone's. She made that clear with the whole "I will kill anyone who touches me without permission" thing. Plus, she's bound to me by some weird magical death oath that I have absolutely no intention of using. If anything, that creates a power imbalance that makes the idea of pursuing anything with her ethically questionable at best. Also, I've already gone over all of this, so the fuck am I doing it now? Yes, I'm attracted to her. No, I won't do anything about it because of aformentioned reasons.

  Also—and this is the part my brain keeps circling back to—I've known her for *four days*. Four. I don't care what Hollywood says about love at first sight; in real life, four days is barely enough time to learn someone's coffee preference, let alone develop any meaningful relationship. And Grace is... well, Grace. She doesn't drink coffie.

  She hunts squirrels with a bone knife. She casually discusses ripping out people's throats like she's talking about the weather. She genuinley offered to live in a creek when my mom was wary of her. She has a literal status window that lists "psychopath" as a character trait.

  And here I am, plain old formerly-blind Jason Stone, overthinking a brief interaction with a cashier because... what? Because I'm worried it might have bothered Grace?

  It's not like I did anything special by bringing her inside from the cold. Anyone with basic human decency would have done the same. Dad would have. Mom would have. Hell, even Tyran and Worthy would have, and they're substantially less inclined toward self-sacrifice and occasional thoughts of just opening my throat and ending it than I am. I just did the bare minimum, and Grace repaid me a thousandfold by fixing my eyes.

  So, logically, Grace has no reason to care about who I talk to or how I interact with them. She's made it perfectly clear that she's here because of the death oath and practical considerations, not because of any attachment to me personally. hell, she pretty much said as much, while looking directly at me, right before we left to come here.

  So why am I so damn worried about what she thought?

  I glance sideways at her as we reach the curb. Her face remains impassive as always, though something in her posture seems different—almost like she's standing closer to me than strictly necessary. But that's probably just my imagination working overtime.

  "You okay?" I ask, shifting the box to get a better grip. "You got kinda quiet back there."

  *As if she's ever not quiet. Smooth, Stone. Really smooth.*

  "Yes," Grace replies simply, her eyes scanning the parking lot with that predatory focus she brings to everything. "Are you?"

  The question catches me off guard. Grace doesn't usually ask about my state of mind unless it's directly relevant to survival. But before I can formulate a response, I remember something important.

  "I need to text Dad," I say, carefully setting the box down on a nearby bench. "He's supposed to pick us up, but I'll need to let him know exactly where we are."

  I dig my phone out of my pocket with numbing fingers, trying to figure out our next move. Grace stands beside me, her expression slightly troubled as she scans our surroundings with that predatory awareness she never seems to switch off.

  "Well, shit," I mutter, pulling my hands up into my sleeves as the bitter Toronto cold bites at my exposed skin. "Didn't expect that. Dad's like ten minutes away. Fuck."

  "I do not know what to do," she admits, a rare vulnerability creeping into her voice. "I have not experienced something like this, and all I knew had handwear, which neither of us appears to possess."

  Her concern touches something in me. For all her deadly capability, there are moments when she seems completely lost in this world, like now. Is it wrong it makes me want to give her a tight hug? Probably not just for that reason considering, but still.

  "Don't you have socks or something?" I ask, my tone sharper than intended as I tuck my freezing hands under my arms. "Like for the cold or something?"

  "I have two socks," Grace replies, expression perfectly serious as she tilts her head in that way she has when curious. "They are currently on my feet and thus cannot be used to warm your hands. I regret that I do not have hand-coverings for you, however."

  I stare at her for a moment, caught between exasperation and amusement. She's so literal sometimes, yet there's something endearing about it—like she's genuinely trying to solve the problem but can't quite grasp the social nuances.

  "I'll just call Dad to come get us now, then," I say, scrolling through my contacts with clumsy fingers.

  As I wait for him to pick up, I notice a tall guy approaching from the parking lot. He's about 6-4, easily 50 pounds heavier than me, with the kind of effortlessly stylish appearance that speaks of money and confidence. His Canada Goose jacket, name promenantly displayed, probably costs more than my entire wardrobe, and he moves with the easy swagger of someone who's never had to doubt his place in the world. Lucky bastard.

  Dad answers as the guy reaches us, his attention fixed entirely on Grace.

  "Hey, Dad," I begin, trying to focus on the call while keeping an eye on this new development. "We're done shopping, but it's freezing out here. Any chance you could swing back and pick us up?"

  "Jason?" Dad's voice crackles through the speaker. "Sorry, I'm stuck in traffic on Bloor. Some accident has everything backed up. Something about someone running over someone who attacked his son?"

  The tall guy is smiling down at Grace now, his perfect white teeth practically gleaming in the winter sunlight. "Hey there," he says, his deep voice carrying easily despite the wind. "Couldn't help noticing you look a little cold out here. Waiting for someone?"

  Grace's head tilts slightly—her equivalent of confusion. "We are waiting for Jason's father to return and collect us," she states, tone flat.

  I strain to hear Dad's voice while watching this interaction with growing unease. "So you can't come get us for like 15 minutes?" I ask, trying to sound casual while my stomach knots itself into a pretzel. "I don't want to go back into the store and get in Mildred's way, you know? She's the only one running the place, and we might interfere if customers come in all at once."

  That's not entirely true. Mildred had been friendly—overly helpful maybe, but just doing her job. I don't understand why Grace had seemed so tense during our interaction. It's not like anyone would be flirting with me, of all people. Twenty-eight years of not being able to see shit and the various stuff that comes from a lifetime of navigating the world without sight and the reactions from others that tends to bring doesn't just fuck off when a magical woman with combat knives shows up and fixes it with something called Vigger, after all.

  "Sorry," Dad responds, his voice competing with the tall guy who's now leaning closer to Grace. "If it were just a job, I'd drop it and come out, but I'm more than 15 minutes away from where you are now with the accident and being blocked in behind now, and you can't just make that distance vanish."

  "Well, fuck me," I mutter as I end the call, shoving the phone back into my pocket with an annoyed grunt.

  "Sounds like you're stuck," the tall guy says, having clearly overheard. "I'm heading downtown if you need a ride. I'm Kaden, by the way."

  He extends his hand to Grace, who looks at it with that slight furrow between her eyebrows that I've come to recognize as her processing unfamiliar social cues.

  "Grace," she replies, briefly touching his hand in what might be the most awkward handshake I've ever witnessed, not that that's saying much since I've only had sight for about four days, but still.

  "Grace," Kaden repeats, rolling the name on his tongue like he's tasting expensive wine. "Beautiful name for a beautiful woman." He gestures to his gleaming BMW parked nearby. "My car's right there. Heated seats, great sound system. I could drop you wherever you need to go."

  My chest tightens as I watch this guy smoothly hitting on Grace. He's everything I'm not—tall, obviously wealthy, conventionally handsome, and radiating the kind of confidence that comes from never having been told "no." Grace might be dangerous and occasionally terrifying, but she's also undeniably beautiful in a primal, intense way that this guy has clearly noticed.

  What's worse is that Grace seems completely oblivious to his intentions. She's examining his offer with the same tactical assessment she brings to everything, likely weighing the practical benefits of warm transportation against potential threats. The fact that I'm starting to do that, even if only as a thought exorsize, well. Also, said thought expariment comes up with, threat equals about one, while tactical reasoning states that Grace, as I highly doubt he would let me come with them, should take the offer. Granted if she did that I'd be really fucked, stuck in an unfamiliar part of town without proper warm clothing, but. Did say this was a hypothetical and all that, so.

  "What happened?" Grace asks me, turning away from Kaden mid-sentence, which would be funny if I wasn't busy trying to process my own unexpected jealousy.

  "Couldn't you hear both sides?" I ask, confused by her question. "You could before when mom was on facetime."

  "No," Grace says with a slight wince that softens her normally sharp features. "The... static, I believe it is called? It hurts if I listen too deeply to it. If I try to listen through it to the other side of the conversation, it will start to affect me. I do not wish that. I can not afford the whispers to impeed my performance."

  Another piece of the Grace puzzle to file away for later. Right now, I'm more concerned with Kaden, who's looking increasingly annoyed at being ignored.

  "So, about that ride?" he prompts while stepping closer to Grace. "It's getting colder out here."

  "Okay," I say, addressing Grace while deliberately positioning myself between her and Kaden. "So basically Dad can't come get us because he's literally more than 15 minutes away and stuck in a big lineup because of an accident, so... yeah. We're stuck."

  "I just offered a solution to that problem to Grace," Kaden says, his friendly tone taking on a slight edge.

  Grace looks at him, then at me, then back at the store where we just spent nearly a hundred dollars on cat supplies that I'm now clutching to my chest with both hands. For a moment, something almost like uncertainty flickers across her face—an expression I've rarely seen on her.

  "We will wait for Magnen," she says finally. "Jason's father will return for us as promised."

  "Suit yourself," Kaden shrugs, though looking more puzzled than actually offended. "But the offer stands if you change your mind, Grace."

  As he walks away, I find myself battling relief and a strange sort of inadequacy. Of course someone like Grace would attract attention from guys like that. And of course she wouldn't be interested in someone like me, even if she weren't... well, Grace.

  "Are you harmed?" Grace asks, her green eyes fixed on me with unusual intensity. "Your scent has shifted to something I do not recognize."

  "I'm fine," I lie, shoving my cold hands deeper into my pockets. "Just freezing my ass off."

  Without warning, Grace steps closer, her body blocking the wind. It's not an embrace—this is Grace, were talking about here—but still a tactical positioning of her form to shield mine from the elements. It doesn't work that well, I'm five ten, Grace's five six, but that's not the point.

  "We will wait together," she says simply. "And when Kitten is comfortable in your dwelling, I will teach you how to make proper gloves from available materials."

  Despite the cold, something warm unfurls in my chest. "Thanks, Grace," I say, meaning it for reasons I'm not ready to examine too closely.

  She nods once, her expression as unreadable as ever, but something in her stance—in the way she positions herself beside me rather than opposite Kaden's retreating figure—feels like a choice being made. Maybe I'm projecting, or maybe there's something changing in both of us that neither fully understands yet. Nah, I'm just projecting. Definitly just projecting. I'm me, after all.

  Still, standing here in the cold with her suddenly doesn't feel so bad.

  "You lied to me," Grace states after a good five minutes, her voice carrying neither accusation nor anger—just simple observation. "About being fine. Why? Lying harms the pack."

  The way she phrases it strikes me. Previously, she would have followed such a statement with the consequences—describing in graphic detail what her clan did to liars. This time, she simply leaves it as a concern about harm to the group.

  I shift my weight, uncomfortable with being called out so directly. "I... yeah, I guess I did," I sigh, breath puffing out in small clouds in the frigid air. "It's not a big deal. I just didn't like how that guy was talking to you, but didn't want to seem like, well, a possessive asshole about it. Hate guies like that, and don't want to become one. Especially since, well. You were pretty clear earlier you're just staying for pragmatic reasons, so." I shrug, shoulders riseing and falling so my sweater shifts on my frame though the wind continues knifing me, though Grace's form, though shorter, does still help a lot.

  Grace's eyebrows draw together slightly. "The tall one who offered transport? What was he doing that created distress for you? Also, why would, as you say, 'possessive assholes' be involved?"

  "Wait, you didn't—?" I pause, reassessing the situation and Grace's genuine confusion in the tilt of her head and the furrow of her eyebrows. "He was flirting with you, Grace. Pretty aggressively, actually."

  "Flirting," she repeats the word carefully, like she's examining an unfamiliar weapon. "This is the social ritual where one expresses physical or romantic interest in another with the purpus of continueine species through sexual acts, yes?"

  "Yeah," I confirm, rubbing my hands together to warm them. "He was hitting on you. You know, trying to see if you were interested in him." I decide to not think about the rest of what Grace said, because how the fuck would I even continue from that?

  Grace considers this for a moment, her eyes tracking the tall guy as he climbs into his expensive car. "I did not recognize this behavior. In my clan, interest is expressed differently. More... directly."

  I can only imagine what "directly" means in a world where survival is the primary concern. "Well, offering you a ride while basically ignoring me was pretty direct by our standards." I say, shrugging, as well as realizeing that I'm more annoyed about the flirting then the ignoring me bit. Strange.

  "I see." She turns back to me, her gaze unnervingly perceptive. "And this caused you discomfort. Why?"

  The question lands like that one time I got punched in the face in highschool. Before Tyran beat the other guy half to death, that is. Why indeed? I've only known Grace for a week. She's made it clear that her emotions are muted at best. Yet the sight of that guy leaning into her space had twisted something inside me anyway.

  "I, uh—" I swallow hard before just deciding to take a page from Grace's book and be honest. "I find you attractive, okay? Not just physically, though you are... I mean, you look nice. But it's more that you're straightforward. You tell the truth, even when it's uncomfortable. After a lifetime of people walking on eggshells around the blind guy, that's... Nice. Really, really nice." I grimace before: "though I did tell you all that before, I think? Most of it, anyway."

  The words pour out faster than I intended, and I feel heat rising to my cheeks despite the cold. Grace watches me with that unnervingly steady gaze, silent as usual.

  "None in my clan found me attractive," she says after a moment, her voice carrying an unfamiliar note of something almost like vulnerability. "Too muscular. Too dangerous. As I have mentioned before, all but the Druid feared me to some degree. Even Balder, though he, cared, in his way."

  Though Grace had indicated this before, the simple statement still hits me harder than I expected. I find myself moving toward her, arms lifting instinctively for a hug before I remember and freeze halfway, dropping my arms awkwardly to my sides.

  "Sorry," I mutter, taking a step back. "I forgot that you don't like being touched unless you initiate it. Again."

  Something flickers across Grace's face, though gone too quickly to identify.

  "The woman in the store—Mildred," she says. "Was she also engaging in this flirting behavior with you?"

  I blink before, slowly, replaying our interaction with Mildred in my mind. The lingering handshake, the smile, the personal questions, her disappointment when I chose the slide option instead of touch though that last was, well. Still can't see the touch screen, and didn't want to tell the friendly woman that, yeah, I was like, blind till recently and can't actually see the screen and was only made not blind by the magical interdimentional woman who I brought in from the cold and am also now attracted to. Also, she's right there.

  "Wait, was she?" I ask, genuinely surprised. "I thought she was just being friendly. Customer service, you know?"

  Grace's expression doesn't change, but something in her posture relaxes slightly. "You were unaware of her intentions, just as I was unaware of the tall man's."

  "I guess so," I admit, feeling somewhat bewildered. "I don't usually think of myself as someone people flirt with. The whole blindness thing kind of became my defining characteristic, and even though that's gone now, I still don't... I don't know, see myself that way."

  Grace studies me for a moment longer before making some sort of decision. "Remain here," she instructs, then strides purposefully toward the BMW that hasn't yet pulled away. "I will return."

  I watch, mystified, as she speaks briefly to the tall guy through his open window. Their conversation lasts less than thirty seconds before she returns to my side, looking faintly satisfied.

  "I have solved both our problems," she announces while stopping next to me, still blocking the wind, and now close enough that our arms almost touch. "neither problem will end with throat-ripping, as you have requested."

  Before I can ask what she means, the tall guy exits his car and walks toward the pet store, a determined expression on his face.

  "What did you do?" I ask, half-afraid of the answer since Grace can kill people without throat-ripping.

  "I informed him that there is a young woman within who would respond much better to his advances," Grace explains matter-of-factly. "I told him she had expressed sexual interest in tall men who drive vehicles such as his in our previous interactions."

  I stare at her for a moment before a startled laugh escapes me. "You just... redirected him to Mildred? Just like that?"

  "It was tactically sound," Grace replies with the faintest hint of what might be pride. "He seeks a mate. She seeks a mate. Both were pursuing inappropriate targets. I merely corrected their course. Nothing more."

  My phone buzzes with a text from Dad: "Still backed up. Going to be another 15 minutes at least. Sorry."

  I show Grace the message and sigh, my breath forming another cloud in the cold air. "Looks like we're stuck out here a while longer."

  Grace considers this, then moves to stand even more directly in front of me, creating a more affective windbreak with her body. The gesture isn't emotional or affectionate, since Grace doesn't do either of those things, But it just makes it all the more meaningful.

  "Better?" she asks.

  "Yeah," I reply, feeling warmth that has nothing to do with temperature. "Much better."

  As we stand together in the cold, waiting for my dad to navigate Toronto traffic, I find myself wondering what other surprises Grace might have in store—and realizing that I'm looking forward to discovering each one.

  non-explisit torture warning.

  ---Deathblade Mia---

  The dimensional rift closes behind me with a sound like tearing silk, and I'm standing at the entrance to something that looks more like a hospital than a prison. Clean white walls stretch in both directions down a corridor that smells of antiseptic and something else—something metallic that makes my enhanced senses prickle with recognition. Blood, old and thoroughly cleaned but never quite gone. The temperature hits me immediately, maybe eighteen degrees, cool enough to keep you alert but not so cold it interferes with... learning.

  I adjust my grip on the axe handle, feeling the familiar weight settle into my palm like an old friend. The weapon has become part of me over these past weeks, an extension of my will that never leaves my side. Even now, entering what might be the most dangerous place I've ever been, it provides the steady comfort of knowing I'm not helpless anymore. Never helpless again.

  The first level stretches before me, and I take it in with the systematic assessment that's become second nature after dad's training. Cells line both sides of the corridor, bars instead of solid walls so the occupants can see and be seen. Smart choice, I realize with the part of my mind that Dad's deathblade modifications have sharpened. The students can observe each other's progress, learn from example, understand what their own curriculum might involve. And I am here to learn. Just not, this. I've learned enough of that already.

  Some of the cells hold figures hunched on thin mattresses—men and women who radiate the particular kind of defeat that comes from having your certainties systematically dismantled. They don't look broken, exactly. More like... educated. Refined. Their eyes follow my movement with a mixture of curiosity and something that might be hope, as if a seven-year-old with an axe represents some kind of salvation they didn't expect. I almost pitty them. Almost. If there here, then they did something to deserve it. Warden does not do anything without a reason.

  The acoustics are perfect. Every sound carries—the shuffle of feet on concrete, the whispered conversations between cellmates, the distant echoes from deeper levels that make my enhanced hearing twitch with recognition. Screams, yes, but also something else. Grateful acknowledgment. The sound of people thanking their teacher for lessons learned in the same scream they cry out with the paine of said lessons.

  "Ah, a visitor!"

  The voice comes from a side corridor, high and squeaky but with perfect articulation that makes my skin crawl. A black-furred creature emerges from the shadows—humanoid but wrong, maybe four feet tall with the general proportions of a child but covered in dark fur that seems to absorb light. Mouseman. I know the species from briefings, though seeing one up close is different than reading descriptions.

  This one wears a simple gray uniform that looks almost like a school outfit, complete with a little badge that reads "Pip - Educational Assistant." On the left breast, affixed to the pocket." His eyes are bright and intelligent, too intelligent for something that should be vermin, and when he smiles it reveals teeth that are just slightly too sharp.

  "Mistress Mia, yes? Oh, this is most exciting!" His voice carries that distinctive squeak but every word is perfectly enunciated, each syllable precisely formed in a way that makes the childish pitch somehow more unsettling than if he'd simply chittered like an animal. "The Master said you might be visiting us today. Such an honor, such a delightful surprise!"

  He clasps his small hands together and practically bounces on his feet, the enthusiasm radiating from him in waves makeing my tactical assessment training ping with warnings. Too eager. Too grateful. Too happy about whatever role he plays in this place. As uncle Protector would say, 'burn it with fire. It's the only way to be sure. Lots of fire.'

  "I am Pip, and I have been given the most wonderful privilege of escorting you to the Master's current location. Oh, he will be so pleased to see you, so very pleased indeed!" The mouseman gestures down the corridor with a flourish that would be charming if it weren't coming from something that was clearly once a torturer himself. "Please, please, right this way, Mistress Mia. We have so much to show you!"

  I follow him, keeping my distance but staying close enough to strike if necessary. The axe remains ready in my grip, though I'm not sure what good it would do against something that's already been thoroughly educated by whatever advanced methods this place employs for a species who's fundimental bedrock is sadism dressed as science. Still, the weight provides comfort, and comfort is something I've learned not to take for granted.

  We pass through a security door that opens at Pip's approach—biometric locks, I note, sophisticated enough that even breaking his fingers probably wouldn't help—and enter a stairwell that descends into the building's depths. The mouseman chatters happily as we walk, his squeaky voice echoing off the concrete walls in ways that make me want to cover my ears or burry my axe in his fucking skull. Either works, really.

  "Level Two is where we keep the students who showed promise but lacked proper guidance," he explains with the tone of a tour guide discussing museum exhibits. "So many of them thought they understood the principles of educational suffering, but they were working from incomplete knowledge. The Master has been so patient with them, so thorough in correcting their misconceptions."

  We pass Level Two's entrance, and I catch a glimpse of more cells, more figures in various states of... improvement. Some are sleeping, curled on their thin mattresses with the exhausted peace that comes after intense learning experiences. Others sit in meditation positions, staring at nothing while their minds process whatever lessons they've recently received.

  "Level Three is for the more advanced students," Pip continues as we descend further. "Those whose mistakes required more comprehensive correction. The Master takes personal interest in their progress, you see, to insure that each receives exactly the education they need to become productive members of society."

  His enthusiasm never wavers, never drops into anything resembling normal emotion. Every word carries that same bright, grateful energy that makes my enhanced senses scream warnings about predators and broken minds and things that pretend to be harmless while planning your destruction at best.

  But then we reach Level Four, and through the doorway I can see cells that are barely large enough for a person to lie down in. Constant lighting, environmental controls, restraint systems built into the walls themselves. The occupants here move differently—careful, precise, like people who have learned exactly how much space they're allowed to occupy and what happens when they exceed those boundaries.

  "The specialized students," Pip explains, still with that horrible cheerful tone. "Rapists, child abusers, those who believed themselves untouchable. Each receives individually tailored curricula designed to address their specific educational needs. The Master's attention to detail is truly inspiring."

  I think about what it means for a seven-year-old to be touring a facility where child abusers receive "education." The irony isn't lost on me. I'm here seeking the same knowledge that's being used to punish people who hurt children. But then, I've never been a normal seven-year-old, and the modifications Durge and Kavuks made to my mind to stop me from shattering have left me capable of appreciating ironies that would horrify most people. Dad's training, at my request, only enhanced that.

  Level Five makes me pause despite myself. The cells here hold creatures like Pip—mousemen of various colorations, all wearing similar gray uniforms, all radiating that same grateful enthusiasm. But unlike my guide, these ones show signs of recent education. Bandages, careful movements, the particular stillness of people managing significant pain.

  "Oh, Level Five!" Pip's excitement actually increases, which I hadn't thought possible. "My old colleagues, receiving the most wonderful correction of their previous misconceptions. And look, look there!" He points to a cell where a black-furred mouseman lies strapped to some kind of table while a small figure in black plate armor works at him with tools I can't quite make out from this distance.

  The armored figure is maybe five feet tall, moving with mechanical precision as it applies whatever lesson is being taught. Dure Go Veth, I realize. One of the war dwarves, though I didn't realize they could exist this close to the surface. The torture—because that's what it is, regardless of what Pip calls it—continues with methodical efficiency while the subject makes sounds that might once have been screams but have been refined into something more articulate.

  "That's my old cell!" Pip practically squeaks with delight, pointing at the torture table with the kind of enthusiasm most people reserve for childhood homes or favorite vacation spots. "I spent such wonderful months there, learning proper gratitude and appropriate responses to educational opportunities. The Master's techniques are so much more refined than what we practiced in our crude ignorance."

  The mouseman being worked on turns his head slightly and sees us watching. His eyes—too intelligent, too aware—meet mine for a moment, and I see something that makes my tactical instincts start screaming. Not quite gratitude, not quite madness, but something in between that speaks to complete psychological rebuilding.

  "Thank you," he gasps between applications of whatever the Dure Go Veth is doing to him and screams. "Thank you for showing me—for teaching me—for helping me understand—"

  "See?" Pip beams up at me with pride that would be touching if it weren't completely abhorrent. "Such progress! Such appreciation for the educational opportunities being provided. The Master's methods truly do work wonders."

  We continue down, passing Level Six where former students work as guards and maintenance staff, moving through their duties with that same grateful efficiency. Level Seven holds archives and laboratories, glimpses of equipment and documentation that speak to this being less a prison than a research facility dedicated to the systematic study of psychological modification through applied pain.

  By the time we reach Level Eight, I'm beginning to understand the scope of what I'm seeing. This isn't just a place where bad people get punished. This is a university, a center of learning where the Master—Warden Jason—has perfected techniques for reshaping minds and personalities through precisely applied trauma. The students who enter believing themselves beyond redemption gradually discover that no one is beyond education, that proper application of suffering can transform even the most corrupted.

  Level Nine is different from the others. The architecture becomes more complex, incorporating elements that make my enhanced senses twitch with warnings about dimensional instabilities and reality distortions. The cells here hold things that aren't quite human—entities from other realities, other fictional narratives, creatures whose fundamental nature required entirely novel educational approaches. Mia twitches at this, at the suspission of her nature as a character. I do not.

  At the center of it all, in a chamber that manages to feel both clinical and cozy, I find him.

  Warden Jason looks exactly like the variant who failed to save me and instead saved another girl. Same height, same build, same face that could belong to any young man you might pass on a Toronto street. He's wearing clean clothes—simple pants and a button-down shirt that wouldn't look out of place in an office building. His hair is neatly combed, his posture relaxed, and when he turns to acknowledge our arrival, his expression carries the calm satisfaction of a teacher reviewing successful student coursework.

  He's standing next to a large tank filled with swirling darkness that moves with purpose and intelligence. The thing inside—the soulrider, I realize—shifts and coils like liquid shadow with too much awareness, occasionally pressing against the transparent walls with appendages that seem to exist in more dimensions than the container--or reality--should allow.

  "Ah, Pip," Jason says without turning around, his voice carrying the kind of quiet authority that makes everyone in the room automatically pay attention. "Perfect timing. Our guest has arrived, I see."

  "Yes, Master!" Pip practically vibrates with pride at having completed his assignment successfully. "Mistress Mia, just as you requested. She seemed very interested in the educational programs during our tour."

  Jason finally turns to face me fully, and his eyes—calm, intelligent, completely sane—take in every detail with the kind of assessment I've learned to recognize in dangerous people. He notes the axe in my hands, the way I've positioned myself near the exit, the careful distance I'm maintaining from both him and the tank.

  "That will be of no use here, little one," he says, nodding toward my weapon with the tone of a teacher gently correcting a student's misconception. His voice carries no threat, no anger, just simple statement of fact. "Unless, of course, you're one of the ones who have come to kill me? You wouldn't be the first, or last. Though I will have to extract who sent you, so I can educate them on why child soldiers are fundimentally flawed."

  I consider lying, playing at being something I'm not, but there's something in his manner that suggests deception would be both pointless and counterproductive.

  "No," I say, my voice steady despite the circumstances. "I haven't come to kill you."

  "Then you've come to learn." It's not a question. Jason dismisses Pip with a gesture, and the mouseman scurries away with obvious reluctance, clearly hoping to observe whatever conversation is about to unfold. "You can help Veth Grim give your colleague a name," Jason calls after him. "I'm sure he'd appreciate having something to call himself beyond 'the black-furred one in cell thirty-seven.'"

  Pip's excited chatter fades as he disappears back toward the stairwell, leaving Jason and me alone with the writhing darkness in its tank. The Warden turns his full attention to me, and I feel the weight of assessment from someone who has made it his life's work to understand consciousness and how to modify it.

  "You want to learn from me," he says, growing serious in a way that makes the air in the chamber feel heavier. "Do you know what you're asking for?"

  He steps closer to the tank, placing one hand on its surface while the thing inside reacts to his presence with increased movement. "I torture people, Mia. I hurt them. Yes, I educate them, I help them become better than they were, I teach them lessons they could never learn through any gentler method. But the process..." He trails off, watching the soulrider's response to his proximity. "This thing reacts to my very presence, now. Healer demanded it when it was gifted to me after being extracted from a lovely young woman, not much older than you are now, a little more than twice you're age. My lessons, well. You saw my lessons on the way down here."

  "The process is suffering. Pure, refined, precisely applied suffering that breaks down everything they think they know about themselves and rebuilds it according to better principles. It changes them completely, transforms them into grateful participants in their own reconstruction." He turns back to me, his eyes holding depths that remind me of what I saw in the mouseman's face. "Is that really what you want to learn?"

  For a moment, the chamber is silent except for the subtle sounds of the facility's systems and the distant echoes from other levels. I think about the variant of this man who chose to save someone else instead of me. I think about twenty minutes in a place where bad people did things that should have been impossible in such a short time. I think about the hollow spaces in my memory where Durge burned away trauma that would have destroyed me, and how even with that protection, I remember that they hurt me.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  More than they should have been able to hurt anyone in twenty minutes.

  I reach up and pull off my face with a wet sucking sound that echoes throughout the chamber.

  ---

  The moment I remove Mia's face, my body begins the process of returning to its true form. I feel my bones shifting first, the artificial shortening that compressed my normal height beginning to reverse. My spine elongates with wet pops, each vertebra settling back into its proper position with sounds like breaking kindling. The sensation is neither pleasant nor entirely unpleasant—more like stretching muscles that have been cramped for too long, but amplified throughout my entire skeletal structure.

  My arms and legs follow suit, growing longer as the false compression releases. The joints in my knees and elbows crack audibly as they expand, tendons and ligaments snapping back into configurations that match my actual proportions. The shadow skinning technique requires precise manipulation of bone density and muscle mass, and the reversion carries all the same physical adjustments as the initial transformation. It is my speciality.

  The facial changes are the most dramatic to an outsider's perspective. As Mia's features melt away like wax, revealing the hollow black voids where my eyes should be, I feel the bone structure of my skull shifting. My jaw lengthens slightly, my cheekbones rising to their natural prominence while the soft curves of childhood dissolve into the sharper angles of my true face. The silver hair lengthens and lightens, changing from Mia's uneven waves to my own roughly cut locks.

  Within moments, I stand at my actual height—somewhere between ten and twelve years old in appearance, though my true age is not important. Not for one who lives in the space between spaces. My pale, slightly translucent skin carries the faint patterns beneath the surface that mark all First Corpse members, spiritual scarring made visible through supernatural enhancement, exactly as it should be.

  "She does," I say simply, my voice returning to its usual mechanical precision as the last of Mia's vocal patterns fade away. "Which is why I ensured she would never arrive here."

  The logic seemed flawless when I planned it. Mia possesses the potential for considerable violence, enhanced by her Deathblade modifications and traumatic experiences. Allowing her access to Warden Jason's educational methods would provide her with tools for revenge that could destabilize multiple realities if applied indiscriminately. Therefore, prevention through misdirection represented the best solution. Furthermore, the experiences that she would learn here would make her hollow. She will not become such while I stand. Not another. Not again. Never again.

  A hand emerges from my shadow before striking me upside the head with enough force to snap my neck to the side. Before I can fully process the attack, a failior on my part, the rest of the body attached to that hand pulls itself from the darkness—Deathblade Mia herself, axe gripped in one small fist while her other hand now rests on her hip in the universal posture of a child preparing to deliver a lecture.

  "I should kill you for putting me in that closet," she says, voice flat while glareing at me with those too-old silver eyes that hold depths no seven-year-old should possess.

  I blink, processing this information while simultaneously recalibrating my understanding of recent events. The shadow manipulation I used to render her unconscious should have left her in a state of temporary paralysis, not confined in any particular location. The implications suggest either a failure in technique or complications I failed to anticipate. I will investtigate this, but not now. Not while the girl remaines in this place.

  "I did not put you in a closet," I reply, voice equally flat. My memory of the incident remains clear—I approached her from behind, applied a precisely calculated amount of shadow magic to induce unconsciousness, and left her in a location where she would be found shortly. "I knocked you out. Nothing more."

  The sound of heavy footsteps draws our attention to a side corridor, where a figure in black plate armor emerges with the measured pace of someone confident in their ability to handle whatever situation they encounter. The Dure Go Veth I observed earlier torturing the mouseman on Level Five removes his helmet with hands that move with practiced efficiency, revealing features that undergo their own transformation as the disguise falls away.

  The armor itself seems to contract and flow, pieces folding and merging as the wearer's frame expands. The five-foot tall figure grows rapidly, bones lengthening and muscles expanding until a massive man stands before us—easily over seven feet tall with the kind of broad shoulders that suggest supernatural strength. His face emerges from the shifting features with the mathematical precision of blood magic rather than the organic fluidity of shadow or primal magic, each bone and muscle settling into place with mechanical accuracy.

  Etienne "écorcheur" Tremblay stands before us in his true form, twin fleshing hatchets at his hips and that meticulously maintained mustache framing a face carved from winter stone. His gray eyes reflect nothing but cold calculation as they take in our small group, and when he speaks, his French Canadian accent cuts through the chamber's silence like his weapons through flesh.

  "Boo."

  The word is flat, delivered without inflection, and mechanical in it's delivery.

  Mia's posture shifts immediately upon recognizing him, the casual authority of a child scolding an adult replaced by what ever dynamics of family these two share. "Why are you here, dad?" she demands, though the word carries more weight than simple familial connection. As, from what I gather, it should.

  Warden Jason straightens slightly, his calm demeanor never wavering despite the sudden appearance of multiple individuals he hadn't expected to encounter in his facility. "I asked Etienne to be here when I sensed you arriving," he explains with the patient tone of a teacher addressing a student's question. "Or rather, when Petro—the dog who was supposed to be watching you, and as such will not be getting any bacon because of that failure—told me you had tied him up."

  Jason reaches up and pulls off his own face with the same casual motion I used moments earlier. But unlike my shadow skinning technique, his transformation utilizes primal magic—the flesh literally flowing and reshaping itself as his bone structure changes as uposed to it simply feeling like my flesh was shaped like cley. The young man's features melt away to reveal something entirely different.

  The being that emerges stands nearly seven feet tall, his frame carrying the broad shoulders and lean musculature designed for explosive speed rather than simple sustained endurance. His facial structure elongates into a pronounced muzzle filled with triangular, serrated teeth arranged in multiple rows like those of deep-ocean predators. Thick fur covers his transformed body, ranging from sandy blond to darker patches that provide natural camouflage, while his hands have become something between human fingers and predatory claws.

  But his eyes remain unchanged—winter-blue depths that hold vast, carefully contained violence while retaining enough of Jason's essential gentleness to create cognitive dissonance for anyone who knows both forms. This is Hunter, the predator within the man, given autonomous form through protective necessity. He's also the only myn who will spar with me outside other hollos. As such, I enjoy this man's company.

  "I wanted to be sure Mia didn't do anything..." Hunter pauses, his enhanced senses clearly detecting something in the air between us that makes him reconsider his choice of words. "Well, Mia-ish, considering the other variant."

  I note Mia's immediate tension at the comparison, her small frame going rigid with barely controlled rage that flares bright enough for my enhanced perception to catalog its intensity on their own. The reference to "the other variant" carries implications about alternative versions of herself that clearly trigger defensive responses. Or something more concerning. I will have to watch her, no-one wants another Grace clusterfuck, after all. The voidborn sisterhood broke the reality they were sent too, and, well.

  "Mia is not hollow," I state with the flat precision of my kind. The distinction matters more than these adults appear to understand, representing the difference between someone who can still be helped and someone who can only be given to the first. "Thus, Mia is a child. Thus, Mia is to be protected."

  The declaration produces a visible positive response from her—shoulders relaxing slightly, the grip on her axe loosening just enough to suggest my words have provided some form of validation she needed to hear. Children require acknowledgment of their essential nature, even enhanced children who carry weapons and plan revenge against those who will, perhaps, hurt them. I would know. I used to bee one.

  Etienne's massive frame shifts slightly, drawing our attention back to him as he considers the situation with the careful assessment of someone who has learned that family relationships require constant navigation. "Mia is my daughter," he states, each word weighted with implications that extend far beyond simple genetics. "Whether I like that or not, she is mine. And as her father, I must be better than my own."

  Hunter's muzzle twists in what might be amusement, teeth flashing in an expression that would be terrifying on anyone who didn't know the man well. "Considering you're father—what, shot you're childhood dog and then became you're first skinning subject directly because of shooting said dog, not that I would have done anything different, though maybe just eaten the bastard?—that's not really a high bar to go for, man."

  Pip re-appears in the coradoor before stopping, shrugging, and pulling off his own face, bones shifting and re-arrangeing till Warden jason stands where the creature had stood, dressed identically to the version of himself that had turned out to be Hunter wearing his face.

  I reach into my shadow, feeling the familiar sensation of darkness yielding to my will as I extract a sack from the space where I store items requiring careful preservation. The bag itself is made from heavy canvas, designed to contain struggling occupants while preventing their escape. The contents shift and move as I lift it, producing the kind of sounds that suggest multiple small entities attempting to free themselves from their restraints. Which, as I know what's in this particular sack, is exactly what is in this sack.

  Opening the sack reveals three white-furred mousemen, each bound to provent any possibility of escape while maintaining their essential functions. These are not the common brown and gray specimens that form the rank and file of mouseman society, nor even the black-furred specialists who served as interrogators and torturers. These are the aristocracy—the white-furred leadership caste who believed themselves perfect practitioners of suffering until they encountered Jason's superior methodology. Which, considering they took him at fifteen and caused him, well. Silly, silly mouse.

  I place the sack in front of Warden Jason while simultaneously noting Hunter's immediate reaction. The predator moves away from the bound creatures with obvious revulsion, his muzzle twisting into an expression that combines fear with fundamental loathing. His enhanced senses clearly detect something about the mousemen that triggers instinctive rejection, possibly their scent or the particular quality of their consciousness that makes them effective at their chosen profession. If you were wondering if I will go into detail about this, 'not my job, buddy.' Just because I know I'm a character and you're eading my POV doesn't mean I'm going to do anything about it, and my story is not for now regardless. I can not be healed. They, perhaps, can.

  "A bribe, then?" Warden Jason asks, examining each of the bound creatures with clinical interest. He clicks his tongue as he evaluates their condition, clearly noting details about their health, psychology, and potential educational value that escape my notice. With practiced efficiency, he passes them off to two Dure Go Veth who appear from side corridors at his gesture.

  The leade armored figure moves with the kind of precise confidence that suggests considerable experience in handling difficult subjects. I realize that this is in fact the real instructor Grim , the one torturing the mouseman on level five. Maybee? You see why I just raise the dead? Lot less confuseing then all this face-wearing bullshit.

  "Put them on Level Five," Jason instructs, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to having his orders followed without question. "I'll be along just after I finish up here."

  "Yes," I reply, my voice maintaining its characteristic emotional flatness even as I acknowledge the weight of what this transaction represents. "Mia is a child. Not hollow. Redeemable. Will not become Deathborn as it stands. If she goes down this path, though? It will shatter what humanity remains. I will not allow that."

  Warden Jason reaches into his own storage—not a shadow pocket like mine, but a dimensional space accessed through blood magic—and withdraws a garment I've never seen before. The cloak appears to be made from bone-white material that carries an unsettling beauty, soft as living tissue but holding otherworldly durability that suggests supernatural enhancement. Across its surface, Hebrew characters--the language of protection magic--flow in elegant script, each letter seeming to breathe with contained power.

  "Healer, strangely enough considering he's the Mr. Fix-It of the Jason variants, actually suggested I make this," Jason explains as he hands me the garment. The Hebrew inscriptions catch the chamber's lighting, creating subtle patterns that shift depending on viewing angle.

  I don the cloak immediately, feeling its weight settle across my shoulders as if it had been made for me. Which, according to the Warden, it had. The moment the bone clasp fastens against my throat—warming slightly at my touch in recognition of my unique spiritual signature—I sense all of its properties flowing through my mind as if it was a part of me. The protection magic is extensive, creating barriers against mental attack, consciousness manipulation, and various forms of supernatural assault that my tactical mind catalogs with appreciation alongside the standard protection magical capeabilities.

  But more than protection, the cloak carries something else. Through the Hebrew-inscribed skin, I sense the presence of another consciousness—Dr. Thornwick, the woman who directly contributed to my current deathborn status. whose transformed essence now provides my defense against the very weapons she once infested me with. Her awareness flows through every protective spell, her knowledge serving to guard rather than harm, her greatest weapons transformed into my strongest protection. Tipical Tyran. Mine mind, Travelers, and not this one. Don't worry, you'll get used to it.

  "Seems buddy likes his bodyguard," Hunter observes with a grin, noting my obvious satisfaction with the garment's capabilities.

  The word 'buddy' triggers memories that warm something deep inside my cold mind—Traveler's Tyran, my candle in the darkness, my friend, though now a deathknite with his Eliza, as he should. He calls me Al, while I think of him as Buddy, just as 'Bodyguard' intended. The cloak represents not just protection, then, but also acknowledgment of relationships that matter despite my inability to experience them fully. Friends who make me more than the child of a broken man and and the Ururuk Shaman who stitched his shattered mind back together.

  Etienne reaches into his own shadow storage before withdrawing a larger sack that clearly contains something other than my gift of mousemen. He dumps six figures onto the chamber floor—three men, three women, all dressed in normal clothes that would allow them to pass unnoticed on any Toronto street. Jeans, t-shirts, jackets, the kind of mundane garments that provide perfect camouflage for predators hunting among normal people.

  But their eyes are wrong. Empty. Like looking into murky water and seeing nothing looking back, no awareness or recognition of consequences for their actions. They're beaten, bound, and hogtied with the efficient brutality that characterizes Etienne's approach to pest control. I approve.

  "They raped my daughter," Etienne states, his voice carrying the cold precision of winter's death. "Make them suffer."

  "I teach," Warden Jason corrects sharply, though his clinical eyes are already examining the six bound figures with the interest of a professional evaluating potential students.

  "That one," Mia interjects, pointing at one of the women with the kind of precision that suggests perfect recall of traumatic events. "That's the one who offered me a sandwich before they grabbed me the first time. Who did..." She stops, unable or unwilling to complete the description. If my, and Durge's clenzing of the child's mind are anything like normal, it will be unable. Those memories are not for a child. Not if she wishes to remaine such.

  I move to place a comforting hand on her arm, then immediately dodge the fist—thankfully not the one holding the axe—that she throws in my direction. Her reflexes remain sharp despite the emotional stress of confronting her attackers, and her combat instincts properly identify my approach as potential threat rather than the support I offered. Smart girl.

  "Durge was not brought into this?" Warden Jason asks, his tone carrying bemused interest more than anything else.

  "Durge is currently on trial for Grace," Hunter growls, the words emerging with the kind of barely contained violence that suggests personal investment in the outcome. Or the individuals involved, perhaps.

  "If he is found guilty?" Warden asks, his interest clearly piqued by the implications of Durge facing judgment for his actions regarding this Grace.

  "He will not be sent here," Hunter cuts off whatever speculation Jason might have been developing.

  "Would he accept that fate?" Warden continues, his curiosity now fully engaged. "Knowing what I do? Knowing what he will be taught?"

  "He would," Hunter notes quietly, the words carrying weight that speaks to intimate knowledge of Durge's psychology and moral framework. "If he thought it would assist Grace—the one he broke—he would. His justice would demand nothing less. He would demand nothing less."

  Warden Jason considers all of this information, weighing variables that include educational potential, resource allocation, and the broader implications of various courses of action. "They will be educated," he decides, gesturing toward the bound attackers. "I will teach Mia, let Mia assist. But this ends here. Once they are educated correctly, this ends."

  His eyes focus directly on Mia as he delivers the next part of his decision. "Mia is a child. As such, she should not be dealing with any of this. However, returning you to society would require breaking you—breaking who you have become—and you did not choose that transformation. As such, I will do this, but afterwards, you will not return here, girl."

  The wave of his hand creates a dimensional rift that deposits all of us on a random Toronto street corner. The transition happens so smoothly that only my enhanced senses detect the reality shift involved in moving from his underground facility to surface-level civilian space. The winter air carries the familiar sounds and smells of urban life, a sharp contrast to the antiseptic environment of Jason's hell.

  I immediately note Magnen Stone—though not my variant but this reality's version—sitting in a car and glaring at something outside my field of vision. A Middle Eastern man stands near the vehicle, screaming while waving what appears to be an axe with obvious intent to cause harm to Magnen. The fact the man hasn't realize that he is standing in the street, and Magnen is in a several hundred pound motorized vehicle yet, amuses me.

  Etienne moves with the fluid grace that characterizes everything the man does, approaching the axe-wielding man from behind with steps that produce no sound on the concrete sidewalk. Magnen clearly sees Etienne's approach, but the screaming man remains focused on his intended target, unaware of the massive presence now directly behind him. On Ore, that would have been rewarded by being beaten to death and then eaten. here, well. We will see, won't we?

  Etienne places one enormous hand on the man's shoulder before surprisingly gently given his reputation, removing the axe from his grip with the kind of strength that makes resistance impossible. He examines the weapon briefly before breaking it with a sound like snapping twigs, the blade parting as easily as if it were made of plastic rather than steel.

  "It would have broken before it did more than split Magnen's scalp," Etienne notes conversationally, apparently addressing the man whose weapon he just destroyed. "And then Grace—being Grace—would have turned you into a hat for Jason. Or maybe gloves, considering his current cold hands."

  Traffic accelerates around us as the immediate threat resolves, and I note with professional interest that Deathblade Mia has somehow positioned herself in Magnen's backseat, her axe concealed but readily accessible. Her infiltration skills continue to impress, particularly her ability to move unseen even when multiple enhanced individuals are maintaining tactical awareness of our surroundings.

  Hunter vanished during the dimensional transition, likely returning to his own responsibilities now that the immediate situation has been addressed. His protective instincts satisfied by ensuring Mia's safety, he can focus on other priorities without concern for ongoing complications. Those probably involve eating people, but. Waste not, want not, and some people forfitted their humanity through their actions against said humanity.

  I move to enter Mia's shadow—a simple matter of stepping into darkness and remaining there till I know what the child has planned—but encounter unexpected rejection. The shadow refuses my presence, pushing back against my attempt to infiltrate with force that suggests both impressive skill and concerning implications. For someone new to shadow magic, her ability to block my access represents remarkable talent combined with direct, and as she knows I would be watching her, dangerous, intent.

  I step into a different shadow, moveing through the city's extensive network of dark spaces to find another solution. Kate the Initiate would be an excellent choice—her training provides both the skills to handle dangerous children and the authority to prevent situations from escalating beyond manageable levels. Also, she is one of the best shadow practissioners I have encountered, and no child, not even a deathblade varient of Mia Stone, would be able to resist her. If Mia harms Magnen, Grace, and this reality's Jason will become involved. Etienne, as Mia's father will assist her, or at least protect her. If I don't handle this carefuly, it will start a Jason war. I do not want to start a Jason war. The last one was bad enough.

  Alternatively, Rolf might serve equally well. Mia likes Rolf, according to available intelligence, and his Twelfth Corpse specialization in protection makes him suited for dealing with enhanced children who need guidance rather than to be ripped apart with bare hands and then, given Slaughterhounds are Slaughterhounds, probably eaten. His massive presence and mathematical approach to violence might provide exactly the kind of structured authority that could redirect her revenge impulses toward more constructive channels. Or, given Slaughterhounds are Slaughterhounds, they'll just beat on each other till I can get something more permanent in place to stop the girl from doing something that a lot of people will really regret.

  The alternative—allowing her to pursue independent action, since Etienne, despite his objections is, in fact, a Jason variant—could destabilize multiple realities if she decides to, say, kill Magnen. Or Jason, and I won't even get started on the Dawson's reaction to this one being harmed in any way. Jason wars tend to get violent quickly, and have a nasty habit of drawing in variants who might otherwise remain uninvolved in local conflicts.

  Before any of that can happen then, and before the kid gets herself killed and starts a fucking interdimensional incident in the process, I need to find a way to head this off. The conviction that Etienne is, in fact, a Jason variant adds urgency to the situation—whether that assessment is accurate or not, he is one of Travveler's people, and Traveler will back him if he asks it.

  Time remains a factor, though not yet a critical one. Mia's immediate focus appears to be either scouting or simply following Magnen, and scouting takes time.

  The cloak's protective presence provides comfort as I navigate through shadow networks, Dr. Thornwick's consciousness contributing tactical analysis while simultaneously serving as reminder that even the most corrupted individuals can be reformed through appropriate educational experiences. The Hebrew inscriptions glow softly as the enchantments maintain their barriers, ensuring that whatever challenges await, I'll face them with comprehensive protection against the kinds of attacks that once destroyed other children's minds. That once shattered mine, as my father had been shatered by his new flesh.

  Finding Kate or Rolf represents the optimal solution—colleagues who understand both the complexity of protecting enhanced children and the necessity of preventing actions that could destabilize the delicate balance between multiple realities. The question becomes not whether intervention is necessary, but how quickly it can be implemented before Jason's start killing each other and everything else around them.

  The shadows carry me forward through Toronto's darkness, seeking allies while time remains to address problems through guidance rather than force.

  ---Grace---

  As I watch the tall man and Mildred emerge from the pet store, I find myself cataloging their interaction with the same precision I would use to track prey through snowfields. Their bodies shift toward each other—a mutual gravitational pull that seems both instinctive and deliberate. His arm drapes across her shoulders, her hand settling at his waist in a gesture that marks territory as clearly as scent markings on a boundary stone. They exchange laughter at something I cannot hear before climbing into his vehicle and departing with a burst of speed that sends slush spattering across the parking lot.

  Tactical assessment: successful redirection. Two potential disruptions neutralized simultaneously without requiring violence. Optimal outcome achieved with minimal effort.

  Something unfamiliar settles in my chest—a warmth that has nothing to do with body temperature. I examine this sensation with the same careful attention I would give to an unknown plant or unfamiliar animal track. Satisfaction, yes, but deeper than the clean completion of a hunt or successful navigation of dangerous terrain. Something... personal.

  The wind shifts, carrying the scent of approaching snow as I consider why I redirected the tall human toward Mildred in the first place. Certainly, it removed potential complications from our environment. But the initial impulse came when I detected Jason's discomfort—not at being excluded from the conversation, but specifically at the tall man's sexual interest in me.

  I glance at Jason, who stands shivering despite his attempts to appear unaffected by the cold. His scent had shifted dramatically during the encounter—a complex bouquet of chemicals that spoke of possession, concern, and desire, carefully suppressed beneath layers of self-restraint. Why does he not simply state his continued attraction, as he did that first night in his dwelling? He made his interest clear then, and again today, yet holds himself back now when another attempted to mark taratory.

  More puzzling still: why do I care? Yes, Jason is my guide to this strange world, and maintaining his positive disposition toward me serves practical purposes. Yet this does not fully explain the knot that formed in my stomach when Mildred's fingers lingered on his, or the inexplicable relief I felt when he positioned himself beside me rather than pursuing her obvious mateing interest.

  Such responses have no tactical value. They provide no survival advantage. They make no sense within the framework I have lived by for twenty-one years.

  My attention returns to Jason, whose shivering has intensified despite my attempt to shield him from the wind. The violent tremors wracking his frame indicates a dangerous tempreture regression. His attempt to conceal his discomfort is unsuccessful—physiological responses override conscious control. His lips have taken on a bluish tinge that triggers an unexpected surge of concern within me.

  This situation is tactically unacceptable. Jason's core temperature is dropping to potentially harmful levels. Though he displays admirable resilience for someone without vigger, his biological limitations cannot be overcome through willpower alone.

  I assess our options as I would any other. Magnen remains unavailable. The pet supplies sit beside us in their box. The street remains empty of potential assistance. I must take direct action.

  "We will acquire other transport," I announce, reaching a decision. "Inform Magnen that we have found an alternative means of returning to your dwelling."

  Jason nods through chattering teeth, fumbling with his communication device. I wait precisely thirty seconds for him to complete this task before speaking again.

  "Come," I say, the same as I would when ordering youngbloods to strip a kill. "Bring that staff. It's 8 minutes marching."

  "What?" he barely manages before I grasp his arm firmly, the box gripped in my other hand, as Jason will need all his focus for what is to come.

  I launch us forward, careful to maintain a grip that supports without causing tissue damage. The cold air rushes against my face—familiar, almost comforting in its bite, though I recognize it presents genuine danger to Jason. I calculate our trajectory, adjusting our path to avoid obstacles while maintaining optimal speed.

  As we move, I become aware of a strange sensation—energy flowing from my system into his. My vigger is responding instinctively to his needs, reinforcing muscle fibers, accelerating cellular respiration, preventing micro-tears, maintaining skeletal alignment. This automatic response surprises me—I have never experienced such unconscious sharing of vigger before.

  "What the hell?" Jason yelps as we narrowly avoid a mailbox, scent spikeing with vissiral taror before said fades almost as quickly.

  "Do not speak," I snap, genuinely concerned. "I cannot lose focus, and your voice is distracting."

  I concentrate on maintaining our pace while continuously monitoring his condition. Though I did not consciously initiate the vigger transfer, I must now maintain it. If it falters, his muscles will tear, bones will fracture, and ligaments will separate under stresses they were never designed to withstand.

  The consequences of such failures in my clan would be clear—mercy-killing to prevent suffering when vigger cannot repair the damage. I have performed this duty seven times in my life, each instance deemed necessary by the Druid. The memory of a young girl whose broken leg shattered beyond repair flashes through my mind—her stoic acceptance as I approached with my blade, her single tear as I promised to make it quick, the Druid's nod of approval afterward.

  Would such methods be employed here? I doubt it. This world seems to preserve those my clan would deem burdens. Jason himself would have been culled had he been born among us, his blindness marking him for death before he reached his third summer. Yet here he attained adulthood, developed skills, found purpose—lived a life of value despite what my people would consider a fatal flaw.

  As we run, I notice Jason's expression shift from fear to something like exhilaration. He begins laughing, the sound whipped away by our speed but the vibration evident through my grip on his arm. His joy at this experience strikes me as strangely beautiful—like watching a flame dance in perfect harmony with the wind that should extinguish it.

  I adjust our trajectory as we approach his dwelling, carefully calculating our deceleration to prevent injury. We arrive on his porch, and I release his arm, immediately assessing him for damage. His breathing is rapid but strong, his color improved from the exertion. No signs of musculoskeletal trauma present.

  "How?" he asks between breaths. "Shouldn't I have, like, two broken legs, a dislocated shoulder, and a fractured skull right now?"

  His question reflects sound reasoning, but rather than address it immediately, I focus on our current tactical situation. "Do you have a key? Or else we shall still have the problem of being locked outside of a warm dwelling with a hearth."

  "Yeah," he responds, extracting a metal key from his pocket and unlocking the door. "Always bring my key on the off-chance I have to get in myself. Like now, I guess."

  We enter the dwelling, immediately greeted by Dawson's enthusiastic welcome. The canine's tail oscillates with such force that his entire posterior region moves in synchronization. Something small connects with my lower extremities—Kitten, seeking attention through physical contact. The tiny creature's behavior toward me remains puzzling—in my world, predators do not seek affection from potential threats, regardless of those threats haveing saved said creature previously.

  Jason kneels to scratch Dawson's ears and run a hand across Kitten's back, the feeline stretching to put her paws on his shin. Jason smiles, gently picking up the creature and ruffling her fir before gently placeing her back on the floor, at which point she runs off before falling over with a startled mu. The small kindness he shows these creatures reinforces my growing understanding that his compassion extends universally, not selectively. This trait would be considered dangerous weakness among my people—yet here it appears to be valued, even encouraged. Interesting.

  "Back in a minute." Jason grunts: "need to put my shoes away and that." With that, he vanishes into his room and closes the door.

  When he returns, I have positioned myself on the seating platform called a couch with both animals in my lap. Their warmth and weight create an unexpected sense of... contentment? Thouh the exact sensation remains difficult to categorize.

  "I apologize," I say, keeping my attention on the animals to avoid meeting his gaze. "I am not well used to what I was required to do. Without intervention, you would have started to lose function in your hands and feet, which is something I could not allow. I did my best to ensure you did not fall, although once again, I am ill-used to assisting those without vigger."

  "So, what you did wasn't, I don't know, conscious?" Jason asks, his expression conveying confusion while his scent conveys a mixture of worry, excitement and, loss?

  "No?" I respond, suddenly realizing I lack clear understanding of my own actions. "What exactly did I do? I simply ensured that you did not fall."

  "You kept shooting little bits of vigger into my muscles so they didn't rip or whatever, keeping me upright and unbroken the whole 8 minutes here."

  His explanation forces me to confront the reality of what transpired. "I... I did not do this knowingly, no. If I had, I would have informed you beforehand. Forcing vigger into another without reason—such as when I forced it into you to fix your eyes, as otherwise I would have been required to kill you out of mercy so you did not become prey to the horrors of the cold—is an offense that would have resulted in my flogging at best by my kin, and more than likely execution, given how they behold me."

  "Horrors what?" Jason sputters, his expression shifting to shock though remarkably less than might be expected given the subject matter.

  I recognize that further explanation is required and proceed accordingly. "There are creatures of the cold and chill," I explain, moderating my tone to ensure clarity. "Things that would bring you a fate much worse than death. Spirits of all-consuming hunger that strike when we consume our own in desperation instead of removeing their meat to be returned to the clan in the lean times. Beings of savage violence who seek only to rip and tear until it is done, then move on regardless of the host's wishes."

  As I speak, I continue stroking Kitten, drawing comfort from the rhythmic motion and the creature's responsive purring. "Those who are blind and cannot be assisted by vigger, those crippled beyond the ability of our powers to fix, are cut down and given the peace of death rather than be taken by a true monster and used to slaughter those they once called friend, kin, and perhaps more."

  I raise my eyes to meet Jason's, feeling an unexpected need to reassure him. "Although as I was able to fix your eyes, that is no longer necessary, for which I am... Glad."

  The admission surprises me even as I speak it. Gladness is not an emotion I typically acknowledge experiencing. Yet I cannot deny the relief I felt when his eyes accepted vigger, when death became unnecessary, even if it was only due to the fact that I would, at least for a short while, have a guide in this strange world I have found myself.

  "On the one hand," Jason responds slowly, "killing people is... well, we don't do that. But the way you explained it makes a certain amount of sense, given the context."

  His ability to consider my explanation without immediate moral condemnation strikes me, like many of the other strange things about this man that I have come to know over these four days. My clan's practices would horrify most in this world, yet Jason seeks to understand rather than simply judge, even when it directly involves his own possible death.

  "Thank you," I say, continuing to pet both animals. "I was unsure if I would be able to elucidate that correctly, as you are not of my world, both figuratively and literally. I was concerned you would react to my declaration with violence that would harm you more than me, despite you're, ability to hear about my world and not judge."

  Even as I say this, I recognize the absurdity—Jason could not harm me physically even if he wished to. Yet his opinion has somehow become... important. The realization is unsettling.

  "So," he says, clearly changing the subject, "can you teach me vigger? I know you said you weren't sure last time I asked, but, well, if I can do that?" He shrugs while gesturing with a hand in the air.

  I interrupt before he can continue, recognizing a more immediate concern. "Before I answer, I would suggest that you explain to your clan head how you arrived home so he does not worry. I would do it, but I do not know your artifice well enough to do so correctly."

  Jason's reluctance to lie is visible in his expression as he suggests using "the bus" as an explanation. The ethical concern he exhibits over even minor deception stands in stark contrast to my world's pragmatic approach to truth. There, the necessity of survival overrides absolute honesty except among rangers, whose oaths bind them to truth among our own kind.

  When he explains what a "bus" is, I make the connection to similar conveyances in my world. "The sled-teams," I observe. "Yes, I understand. You would need many to bridge a city of this size, however."

  "True," Jason agrees before asking an unexpected question. "You good? You were frowning at Mildred earlier. Did she smell funny or something, or was it all just because, you know, she was flirting with me?" He shrugs: "still not used to, probably going to find out that I got flirted with a bunch more than I figure, and i don't know what to do with that."

  I sit motionless on the couch, carefully maintaining the precise balance required to accommodate both Dawson and Kitten. The small orange creature has curled into a tight ball against my stomach, her tiny body vibrating with purrs as she sleeps. Dawson's larger form sprawls across my legs, his weight substantial but not uncomfortable. The white blaze in his fur contrasts with the black of my borrowed sweatpants, creating a visual pattern I find oddly pleasing.

  The living room is quiet except for the soft ticking of a clock on the mantel and the gentle hum of the heating system. Outside, snow falls in lazy spirals, visible through the window beyond Jason's shoulder. The temperature difference between this space and my homeland remains striking—here, warmth is constant, reliable, taken for granted.

  Jason sits in the armchair across from me, his posture relaxed as he browses through something on his phone. Occasionally, his eyes flick up to observe me with the creatures, his expression softening in a way that creates an unfamiliar warmth in my chest. I am still adjusting to these small emotional responses that seem to occur with increasing frequency in his presence even after so short a time.

  "They seem comfortable with you," Jason remarks, setting his phone aside. "Especially considering you've never had pets before."

  I consider this observation. "Animals respond to confidence and clear intent," I explain. "I do not project fear or uncertainty, so they detect no threat. It is similar to approaching prey—calm deliberation rather than hesitation."

  Jason's lips twitch, suppressing a smile. "Most people don't compare petting a cat to hunting prey, but I see your point."

  I tilt my head slightly, studying his expression. "You find my perspective amusing."

  "Not in a bad way," he clarifies quickly. "It's just... refreshingly different. You see connections most people miss because you're not constrained by our cultural assumptions."

  His words create a strange sensation—something like pride, though without the tactical advantage such recognition would carry in my homeland. Here, Jason's approval serves no practical purpose, yet I find myself valuing it nonetheless.

  "You good?" Jason asks again. "You were frowning at Mildred earlier. Did she smell funny or something, or was it all just because, you know, she was flirting with me?" He shrugs: "you never really answered that question. Also, do you know someone named Mia? Dad's asking me if she knows you."

  The question catches me off-guard, despite the fact he had asked this same question previously. I had not realized my reaction to the shopkeeper was so visible. I sit perfectly still, calculating the optimal response. His perceptiveness continues to surprise me, as I had believed my expression remained neutral during our encounter with Mildred. I should not have underestimated his ability to read subtle cues, especially now that he possesses sight.

  "She was attempting to secure a mating opportunity with you," I state factually, my voice steady despite the unfamiliar sensation still lingering in my chest. "Her posture, scent markers, and pupillary dilation all indicated sexual interest. The extended physical contact during your handshake was particularly obvious."

  Jason's eyebrows rise slightly, his cheeks flushing with a warmth visible even across the room.

  "I genuinely didn't notice," he admits, his voice carrying notes of both surprise and embarrassment. "Twenty-eight years of not being able to see visual cues means I've got no practice spotting flirting. I always just assumed people were just being nice, you know?"

  I consider this, noting how his self-perception has not yet adjusted to his new circumstances. "You possess many qualities that would attract a potential mate," I observe clinically. "Physical symmetry, intellectual capacity, resource stability, and kindness—all valued reproductive traits."

  Jason makes a choking sound, his eyes widening comically. "Jesus, Grace," he gasps, half-laughing as he recovers. "When you put it like that, it sounds like I'm being evaluated for a breeding program."

  I tilt my head, curious about his discomfort. "Is that not the fundamental purpose of flirtation? To assess reproductive compatibility before continueing the species?" Before: "also, no. I do not know anyone named, Mia." Even as I speak there is a flicker. Silver hair. Kind eyes. Warm hands. Safety. I push the images and sensations away. They have no tactical value.

  "Well, technically, I guess, but—" He runs his fingers through his hair, a gesture I've noticed he makes when flustered. "Most people don't think about it that bluntly."

  "Is that why you did not respond to her advances? Because you were unaware?"

  Jason hesitates, his gaze meeting mine with unexpected intensity. "Partly," he acknowledges. "But mostly because I was concerned about what you would feel. Even if I had recognized what she was doing. Which, like I said, I didn't." he shrugs again, shoulders riseing and falling with the movement.

  I tilt my head, studying the conflicted expressions flickering across his face. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"

  He sighs before running a hand through his hair again. "It's complicated," he begins, his voice softer now. "I'm not sure I fully understand it myself."

  "Try," I encourage, surprised by the gentleness in my own voice. "Please."

  Jason nods, his eyes never leaving mine. "I am attracted to you, Grace. I've said that several times now, and I meant it every time."

  "Then I don't understand," I counter, genuine confusion coursing through me. "If you find me attractive, why do you hold yourself back?"

  "Firstly," he says, holding up one finger, "I've only known you for..." He pauses, calculating. "How long has it been exactly?"

  I process the question with immediate precision. "Three days, fourteen hours, twenty-seven minutes, and approximately twelve seconds, if we're measuring from when you first found me on Tuesday at 5:08 PM. Three days, twelve hours, four minutes, and seventeen seconds if we're measuring from when I woke up at 7:31 PM."

  A small smile touches his lips, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. "Right. So there's that. Not even four full days."

  "And that's significant?" I ask, genuinely curious about this human metric for relationship progression.

  "For some people, yes. For me..." He hesitates. "Maybe. But more importantly—" His expression grows serious again. "The deathoath creates a power imbalance that I can't just ignore."

  I frown. "But you've made it clear you don't intend to command me."

  "And I don't," he confirms with such immediate conviction that warmth spreads through my chest—an involuntary physiological response I find both puzzling and pleasant. "But the fact remains that I could, Grace. And more to the point—you know I could."

  I start to protest, but he continues.

  "I'm just Jason," he says with a self-deprecating shrug. "Just a formerly blind guy who's only seeing now because of your direct intervention. Even if you told me otherwise—even if you insisted with complete sincerity that your actions were entirely your own—I'd always worry that anything you did was partly motivated by that power imbalance and you're knowledge of it."

  He looks down at his hands, then back to me, vulnerability clear in both his expression and scent. "I'd be scared, actually. Scared that I could never truly know if your feelings were...real. Or if they were influenced by the oath and the power it gave me, whether you realized it or not."

  "That's why you won't start anything," I summarize, the pieces fitting together in my mind.

  "Yes." The single word carries the weight of a mage-smithing hammer.

  "I will speak of this no further, then." I say, slowly. "If it, concerns you so."

  "Thanks, Grace." Jason says with a sigh, shoulders slumping. His posture creates a strange tightness in my chest similor to, though not identicle to, the feeling when the shop keeper was attempting to secure his affection.

  "You didn't like what she was doing," Jason says, not a question but an observation. "Your hand moved toward your knife three times while she was speaking to me."

  "Yes," I admit, choosing honesty as I always do with Jason. "Her behavior... bothered me in a way I cannot fully articulate. It was similar to watching someone approach a clan member with hidden intent."

  Jason's expression softens, a small smile forming at the corner of his mouth. "Were you jealous, Grace?"

  The directness of his question matches my own usual approach, leaving no room for evasion. I consider the sensation again—the heat in my chest, the tension in my muscles, the heightened awareness of every point of contact between the shopkeeper and Jason.

  "I do not know," I reply honestly. "Such emotions are... muted for me, as I have told you. What I felt was not tactical assessment alone, but something less familiar. Something I have not experienced before."

  Kitten stretches in her sleep, tiny claws extending momentarily before retracting. Her paws flex against my stomach, seeking comfort before settling again. The simple trust of this vulnerable creature, who by all logic should fear me, what I am, what I represent, continues to affect me in ways I struggle to categorize.

  "For what it's worth," Jason says, his voice dropping slightly, "I noticed how you positioned yourself between me and her. And how you redirected that guy to her instead."

  I straighten my shoulders, feeling strangely exposed. "It was tactically sound. Two individuals seeking mates were pursuing inappropriate targets. I merely corrected their courses. Nothing more."

  "Tactically sound," Jason repeats, his lips curving into a fuller smile now. "And had nothing to do with you not wanting either of them around us."

  I do not respond immediately, unsure how to process his gentle teasing. The warmth in his eyes, so different from how most looked upon me in my world, creates an unexpected resonance within me—another unfamiliar sensation that I cannot properly classify.

  "Perhaps," I finally concede, "my assessment was influenced by factors beyond pure tactical consideration."

  Jason's smile widens, a genuine expression of pleasure that softens his entire face. "Well, for the record, I prefer your company too, Grace. Deathoath asside, I still like you being here, you know?"

  We fall silent again, the snow continuing its silent descent outside. Dawson shifts, his warmth a steady presence against my legs. Jason watches me with an intensity that I feel despite the distance between us, his blue eyes studying my face as if seeking something beyond my words.

  "What are you thinking about?" he asks eventually.

  I consider the question with my usual precision. "I am contemplating the differences between our worlds," I answer truthfully. "In mine, your blindness would have meant death. Yet here, you built a life of meaning and purpose despite it. And now that you can see, you navigate multiple realities with remarkable adaptability."

  I pause, feeling my way through unfamiliar emotional territory. "It suggests that perhaps my world's understanding of strength and weakness might be... incomplete."

  Jason's expression softens further, a smile warming his features. "That might be the closest thing to a philosophical question I've heard from you, Grace."

  I nod once, acknowledging his observation. "My experiences here have introduced... variables I had not previously considered."

  As I speak, Kitten stirs, tiny eyes blinking open. She stretches again before beginning to climb up my chest, miniature claws pricking through the fabric of my borrowed shirt. When she reaches my shoulder, she settles there, pressing her small face against my neck and resuming her rumbling purr.

  Jason watches this with visible delight, his entire face lighting up in a way that creates another warmth in my chest—one I'm becoming increasingly familiar with, despite my inability to precisely name it.

  "She trusts you completely," Jason observes.

  "Yes," I reply, feeling the tiny creature's heartbeat against my skin. "Despite knowing nothing of me. Despite having no reason to believe I will protect rather than consume her." I meet Jason's eyes across the room. "Much as you did when I first arrived."

  The parallel hangs in the air between us, neither acknowledged nor denied. Outside, the snow continues to fall, blanketing the world in silence while inside, warm and safe, two creatures sleep against me without fear—and across the room, a man who once took me in from the cold watches with eyes that see far more than I once believed possible.