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Chapter 3 - Under The Weight Of Ashes

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows along the rough wooden walls of the hut. Veyr sat on the dirt-packed floor with his back against the wall, a half-carved piece of bone resting in his hands. His knife moved in steady strokes, shaving it down into something sharp and useful — a fishing tip, a hook, maybe a trap barb. He wasn't sure yet. Out here, tools often told him what they wanted to become.

Ellie's quiet humming drifted from the table as she sorted through what little remained of their supplies. Dried roots, strips of smoked rabbit, a handful of glass jars filled mostly with dust and hope. She was pretending not to watch him but Veyr could feel her gaze the way he felt wind through cracks — persistent, searching, cold.

He didn't complain. Couldn't. If she needed to keep an eye on him, that was fine. He was the one who let everything fall apart.

His hands tensed around the bone.

Not now.

He forced the thought away, smoothed the last edge of the hook with his thumb, set it aside, and pulled a second bone from the leather pouch at his waist.

Ellie didn't speak. She didn't need to. The silence between them was… familiar.

She carried the jar to the shelf, cheeks flushed from the heat of the fire, fingers still red from washing roots in cold water earlier. She tried to make as little noise as possible — it always felt wrong to disturb him when he looked like that: distant, focused, locked behind something only he could see.

He thinks I don't notice.But she did. Oh, she did.

Every time his eyes darkened. Every time his jaw clenched at a memory he never said out loud. He believed he had to carry it alone, because after The Shattering maybe he thought he'd already failed her once.

She wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault. Wanted to scream it, cry it… shake it back into his chest until he believed it. But the words always tangled in her throat. She owed him everything. Breath. Shelter. Life.

And deep down, a terrifying whisper: What if I'm only a burden now? Something he drags with him out of guilt?

She bit the inside of her cheek, set the empty jar down, and tried not to crumble under her own thoughts.

"Veyr?" she asked softly.

He looked up immediately — the kind of too-fast reaction a hunted creature learned.

"What is it?"

She forced a small smile. "Nothing. Just…" She hesitated. "Thank you."

His brow furrowed. "For what?"

"For… dinner. The soup. And all of this." She shrugged toward the walls. "Everything you keep together."

Veyr stared at her like he wasn't sure whether to scold or hug her. Then his head dipped in a minimal nod. "There's nothing to thank me for. We survive. That's all."

She pulled her sleeves over her thin wrists and whispered under her breath, "You survive because of me… or despite me?"

He didn't hear. Or pretended not to.

Her question lingered in the back of his mind even though she hadn't said it aloud. He could read it in the tightness of her shoulders, the way she carried herself lighter whenever he was near — as if she wanted to relieve him of her weight by simply being smaller.

He hated that.

He hadn't saved her because he had to, but because something inside him couldn't imagine a world where she wasn't. That was all the reason he needed.

The knife slipped as he cut into the second bone. A bead of blood welled on his thumb. He wiped it on his trousers without a word.

"Time to sleep," he said at last, trying to keep his voice neutral. "We move the snares tomorrow."

Ellie nodded obediently, though her eyes shimmered with thoughts left unspoken. She crawled beneath the furs near the fire, curling up like the small child she wasn't anymore, and watched him until her eyelids turned heavy. Within minutes, her breathing softened, steady and fragile in the quiet.

He waited. Long after her eyes had closed. Long after her fingers loosened from their worried grip on the blanket.

".... never did I waste a second, thinking I'd be better off without you...", he murmured, barely above a whisper, unsure if she was awake enough to hear, or dreaming beyond his reach.

Only then did he rise.

He moved quietly across the hut, past tools and half-finished traps and the battered wooden table, until he stood at the doorway. His coat lay heavy over his arms. His two short blades rested against his lower back — a comfort and a curse. They would keep her safe. Or they would fail. Just like he had once.

Ash drifted across the threshold like old snow.

Never again.

His dark eyes smoldered with a determination too fierce for day. He stepped outside into the night with that fire burning deep in him — sharper than his blades, louder than his guilt.

Whatever hunted the Fallen Lands… would not take her from him again.

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