Part Thirteen — Something With Too Many Legs

　We didn't run into the thing that had spooked the merchant.

　We ran into something else entirely, which felt, in hindsight, like the world's way of easing us into danger instead of throwing us straight into the deep end.

　It came out of the underbrush without much warning — six-legged, armored along its back like it had been assembled out of a knight's leftover plate, and about the size of a small horse if that horse had decided to also be furious about something.

　Fenrik spotted it first.

　He went rigid mid-step, ears pinned flat.

　"That's a ridgeback," he said, low. "They don't usually come this close to a road."

　"Dangerous?"

　"Dangerous enough."

Good. Good, that's useful information, thank you. Very reassuring.

　It came at us fast for something that size, and I want to be honest about what happened next, because it wasn't clean and it wasn't easy.

　Both of those things mattered more to me than I expected.

　Doran took the first hit meant for Fenrik, his blade catching one of the thing's forelegs at an angle that made it stumble rather than gut him outright — but it cost him a gash along his forearm that started bleeding immediately, deep enough that his grip on the sword faltered for half a second.

Okay.

Okay, that's — that's actually dangerous.

This isn't a training exercise.

　I could have ended it there.

　I want to be honest about that too.

　I had enough anti-mana in me to put a real hole through its shell if I let go of the control I'd spent years building. But I hadn't tested what "real hole through its shell" actually looked like yet, not against something alive and moving.

　And the last thing any of us needed was me overcorrecting and taking out half the treeline along with it.

　So instead, I did the harder thing.

　The controlled thing.

　A thin, precise line of anti-mana, purple-red, aimed at the joint where its foreleg met its body — the exact kind of pinpoint work my mother had drilled into me one leaf at a time.

　It worked.

　Mostly.

　The leg buckled.

　The creature shrieked and reared back off-balance, and Fenrik — faster than I'd given him credit for, faster than his own tired mornings suggested — closed the gap and drove a blade up under its jaw before it could recover.

　It went down loud.

　Then it went down quiet.

　And then it was just the three of us, breathing hard in a clearing that smelled like blood and disturbed dirt.

　"You're hurt," I said, already moving toward Doran, who was pressing his good hand over the gash like that was going to do much on its own.

　"I've had worse."

　"That's not actually reassuring, you know that, right?"

　He let out a short, pained laugh, which I took as tacit permission to actually look at the wound.

　It wasn't as bad as the blood made it look — deep, but clean, nothing that wouldn't heal with proper care.

　Still, my hands weren't quite steady as I tied off the makeshift bandage.

　I noticed that about myself with a kind of distant unease.

That's new.

I didn't used to shake over things like this.

...No.

That's not true.

I just haven't had anything worth shaking over in a while.

　Fenrik crouched by the ridgeback's body afterward, breathing hard, staring at his own hands like he wasn't entirely sure they'd done what they'd just done.

　"That's the first thing I've killed since I started walking alone," he said quietly. "Feels different with people around. Better, worse — not sure which."

　"Better," Doran said, from where I was still fussing over his arm. "Trust me on that one. Worse is doing it with nobody to carry the weight after."

He'd know.

Whatever's behind that scar, he'd know.

　I didn't say anything to that.

　I just finished the bandage, tighter than strictly necessary, and let my hand rest on Doran's arm a beat longer than the task required.

You're both fine.

Everyone's fine.

That's — that's the important part.

　Something in my chest had gone very still and very quiet during the fight, in a way I didn't examine too closely.

　It hadn't come out.

　Nothing had needed it to.

　But I noticed, walking away from that clearing, that I'd been keeping careful, unconscious count of exactly where Doran and Fenrik were standing the entire time.

　The way you count something you can't afford to lose track of.

Filing that one away too, I guess.

Add it to the list.

　We made camp early again that night, closer together than usual, and nobody objected to it.

　"Fork's not far now," Doran said, testing his bandaged arm with a wince. "Day, maybe two."

　"We still taking it?" Fenrik asked.

　Doran considered that for a long moment, watching the fire.

　"Haven't decided yet," he said. "Ask me again when we're standing at it."

Fair enough.

One thing at a time.

　I settled back against my pack, watching the two of them settle into an easier quiet than they'd managed the first few nights — closer now, in a way that had nothing to do with the distance between our bedrolls.

Three sets of footprints.

Still three, tonight.

That's what matters.