Chapter 3

He walked until his legs burned and the world narrowed to weight and breath.

Anna sagged against him, limp in his arms, her head lolling with each step. She had gone quiet—not unconscious, but distant, eyes half-lidded, breaths shallow and uneven. Blood had slowed beneath the tight binding, though warmth still seeped through his torn shirt and into his skin.

Thomas did not turn toward his people.

He knew the way home by heart—the bend in the hills, the place where the rocks split like an old scar. He did not take it. He could not. To return now would mean bringing her, wounded and white, into the center of everything the elders feared. Or leaving her behind to die alone.

Both paths were closed.

So he turned higher into the rocks, where the land broke into shelves and shadows. He followed a narrow cut only goats and boys knew, climbing until the road disappeared and the plane widened below them again.

By midday he found the cave.

It was shallow but dry, hidden behind a curtain of stone and brush. He laid her down carefully on a bed of sand and old leaves, easing her back against the rock. When his arms finally released her, they shook violently, empty and aching.

“Anna,” he said softly.

Her eyes fluttered open. She groaned when she tried to shift.

“No move,” he said quickly, kneeling beside her. “Please. You hurt bad.”

She nodded faintly, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “My leg,” she whispered. “I can’t feel it. It’s ... gone.”

Thomas swallowed.

“No gone,” he said, though he was not sure. “Sleeping. Shock.”

He had heard traders say the word. He hoped it meant something reversible.

He fetched water from a skin at his belt and let it drip slowly between her lips. She coughed, then drank, clutching weakly at his wrist. Her hand was cold.

“Stay with me,” he said. “Look. Look at me.”