Jonas had never touched a woman before.
Not like this.
Not as someone with hands that obeyed, muscles that moved, and a heartbeat strong enough to drown out fear.
Her armor was warm. Bent. Splintered. Her blood slicked the edge of his fingers as he pressed them to the wound just above her hip. She groaned but didn't stir.
She's alive.
He didn't know what to do.
He had no training. No background. No sense of how this world worked. But some primal instinct surged up—like muscle memory that wasn't his.
He looked around. The clearing was scattered with bodies—some human, some not. One man wore a helm shaped like a falcon's beak, another had tusks and clawed gauntlets. No banners. No heraldry he recognized.
He reached out, not with thought—but with touch.
He pressed his palm to the ground.
And felt.
Something rippled. A tremor beyond vibration—like a current. The very texture of the earth shifted, and he could tell: this soil was scorched by alchemical fire. Someone had used Praxis here—he didn't know how he knew the term, but it came as naturally as breath.
He blinked.
"What the hell…?"
He didn't have time to ask more.
The woman stirred.
Her fingers twitched. One eye cracked open—a grey storm of pain and distrust—and locked onto him.
She went for her sword.
"Easy!" Jonas lifted his hands. "You're hurt. I'm not— Look, I'm not going to kill you."
Her hand found the hilt anyway.
She wasn't beautiful in the way he had imagined women during those long, lonely nights in the hospital. She was real. Her jaw was sharp, her brow furrowed in pain. Her nose had clearly been broken at least once. There were scars—one by her lip, another under her eye. Her breastplate shifted with each breath—form-fitting and practical, not decorative.
She was a knight. And she looked like she wanted to kill him.
"You were… unconscious," Jonas said. "I woke up next to you. I—" He hesitated. "I think I helped."
She squinted. "Accent's off," she rasped. "Where are you from?"
Jonas hesitated. Where was he from?
"Far," he said. "Another world, maybe."
She didn't laugh. She winced instead and tried to sit up. Pain made her drop back.
"Name's Caldra Vey," she muttered. "Knight-captain of Alarshold." She tilted her head, struggling to see past the blood in her eye. "You a Seeker?"
"A what?"
"Then why did the relic choose you?"
"…What relic?"
She frowned. Then coughed—wet and painful.
Jonas steadied her. "You need help."
"No," she hissed. "I need a sword and a horse."
He looked around. "I've got half of that, maybe."
There was silence for a moment.
Then she sighed. "Praxis… yours is strong. I can smell it."
"You can smell …what?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Everyone smells like something. Yours smells like old blood, fresh soil, and something sweet. Sugar root, maybe."
Jonas blinked.
He could smell her too.
Not just sweat and blood. But iron polish. Leather oil. The faintest trace of herbs—lavender, crushed into her cloak's lining.
Their senses spoke before their words did.
She tried to rise again. This time he caught her elbow and helped her sit.
"Fine," she muttered. "You saved my life. That's worth a name."
"Jonas," he said. "Jonas Reeve."
"Jonas Reeve of Nowhere." Her lips twitched—almost a smirk. "You're not one of ours. Which means you'll be hunted the second you set foot past this wood."
He swallowed. "Why?"
"Because relics don't choose outsiders."
He stiffened. "Relics? You keep saying that. What are they?"
Caldra's eyes darkened. "They're fragments. Ancient. From before the Praxis fractured. Each holds power tied to a sense."
"And you think… one chose me?"
"It's in you. I can tell. The way you looked around. Tensed before I moved. Your tongue keeps tasting the air. You don't even know you're doing it."
Jonas flushed.
His mouth was dry. And yes, he kept tasting—something in the wind, in the smoke. Like bitterness and grief.
"I don't understand any of this."
"You will," Caldra said, pulling herself to her knees. "But first, we have to move. Scavengers will come. And not all of them are beasts."
Jonas nodded. He reached out, offering his hand.
She hesitated—then took it.
Her grip was strong.
Real.
As they stumbled into the forest, she leaned on him, breathing hard. Jonas didn't mind.
She was warm.
Alive.
He could get used to this.
Even if the world made no sense, and relics were being hunted, and he didn't know who he was anymore…
He was moving.
He was free.
And for the first time, touch, smell, and taste weren't just survival tools.
They seemed to be power.