Barrett took another bite of the stew, barely pausing to chew. It was thick and chewy, spiced just enough to burn pleasantly on the tongue, the heat lingering in his chest long after he swallowed. He knew he was eating too fast, but restraint had never been his strength. Especially not when it came to food.

  The days had fallen into a rhythm as he recovered. Wake. Train. Eat the stew. Rest. Train again. Eat more stew. Repeat. It was simple. Honest. The kind of routine his body understood. And somehow, he never grew tired of it.

  Not that he ever had. There had been stretches in his younger days where he’d lived off tilapia, broccoli, and brown rice for months on end, chasing an ideal he could measure in the mirror. Compared to that, this stew felt like a feast.

  “You don’t seem like you’re getting sick of that,” Rebby said lightly.

  “Not a chance,” Barrett replied between mouthfuls. “Seriously—what the hell is in this stuff?”

  He heard her giggle, soft and amused. “I told you already. It’s my secret recipe.”

  Barrett finished the bowl and set it aside on the stone floor, the sound hollow and solid. He shifted until his back rested against the edge of the bed.

  “So,” he said after a moment, voice slower now, more deliberate. “Why are you helping me?”

  He’d been circling the question for days, poking at it from different angles, never getting close enough to grab hold. All he knew was that Rebby lived alone, rarely left his side except to fetch more stew or head out “gathering”—whatever that meant. The space around him felt like a cave: stone beneath his hands, dampness in the air, the faint echo of water somewhere nearby. It reminded him a little of “Team Donovan HQ”. That was his most recent name for it—not that it needed a name.

  Despite everything, he was comfortable. Too comfortable.

  And that was what bothered him.

  “What do you mean?” Rebby asked.

  “I mean…” He rubbed a hand over his face. “People don’t usually do this. Not without wanting something. Most of the time, if someone’s being nice to me, they’re trying to sell me something or scam me.”

  She laughed warmly, clearly unoffended.

  “I just like you,” she said simply.

  The words caught him off guard. He frowned, shaking his head. “You just met me. You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

  “Sure I do,” she replied. “Haven’t you ever liked someone quickly? Seen them do something and thought, yeah…I’ve seen that kind of person before?”

  Barrett leaned back, considering it. His mind flicked to Maku, the pranks, the grin, the way trouble seemed to follow him like a shadow. “Huh,” he admitted. “Yeah. I guess I have.”

  Rebby giggled. “I can tell you have a good heart. You risked your life for your friends.”

  The word friends hit harder than he expected.

  His jaw tightened. “Damn it,” he muttered. “I need to find them.”

  He pushed himself to his feet, tugged his beater over his head and tossed it aside. The air was cool against his skin as he dropped into a plank and started cranking out push-ups, muscles burning almost immediately.

  “Hope you don’t mind,” he said between breaths.

  After a moment, Rebby asked, “Does that routine increase your stats at all?”

  “No idea,” Barrett replied, shifting his hand placement, widening his stance. “Haven’t checked.”

  “You haven’t looked at your stats recently!?” she said incredulously.

  “Negative.” He lowered himself again, voice steady despite the strain. “Stats are just numbers. A real man doesn’t need to look at numbers to decide if he’s going to fight.”

  Rebby burst out laughing.

  He finished the set and rolled onto his back, chest heaving. “Something funny?”

  “You,” she said, still amused. “You’re an interesting person, Barrett Donovan.”

  “Huh.” He stared up at the unseen ceiling. “That’s one way to put it.”

  After a brief rest, he pushed himself up again and went back to work. This time he blew past his previous count, muscles screaming, sweat slicking his skin. When he finally collapsed, a grin spread across his face.

  He had tripled his previous record.

  For the first time in days, hope stirred.

  His strength was coming back, and then some. All he needed now was a way back to his team. But blind, alone…it felt impossible. They’d barely escaped together. How was he supposed to manage on his own?

  “Damn it, Grimm,” he muttered. “I could really use you right now.”

  “Who’s Grimm?” Rebby asked.

  He’d almost forgotten she was there. Easy to do since she was so quiet, and he couldn’t see a damn thing.

  “He’s my bond,” Barrett said with a faint chuckle. “We see ‘eye to eye’ on a lot of things.”

  When she didn’t laugh, he added, “Sometimes I can actually see what he sees. Ability thing.”

  “Oh,” Rebby said brightly. “A form of Linked Sight.”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  Barrett blinked. “You know about it?”

  She laughed again. “You should’ve told me you had one of those skills, silly.”

  He opened his mouth to ask why—

  —before a notification chimed in his mind.

  [Rebby has sent you a request.]

  Barrett froze.

  —Lance—

  Lance ran.

  He’d been running for days now, through undergrowth and fog, through tangled roots and knife-edged branches, through moments where his lungs burned and moments where they felt like they might simply give up. He’d learned the rhythm of it: sprint, hide, breathe, listen. Always moving. Always just ahead of the orcs.

  Never far enough.

  The forest had begun to feel smaller. Paths narrowed. Choices thinned. Every turn carried the same quiet pressure, the sense of hands closing in. They weren’t chasing wildly anymore. They were guiding them.

  Herding.

  Lance swallowed and risked a glance to his side.

  Tanya kept pace with him easily, long strides eating ground despite the fatigue written into her posture. She was tall, broad-shouldered, and built like an athlete. Dirt streaked her face, sweat darkened her hair, but her expression stayed sharp, severe, and focused.

  Barrett had always made a big deal about her legs.

  Lance had never really understood it.

  She met his glance and gave a short, reassuring nod—no words, just a silent confirmation that she was still there. Still with him.

  They vaulted a fallen log together, boots thudding almost in unison, and kept running. The forest thinned ahead, trees giving way to jagged stone and open air. Tanya drifted closer as they ran, lowering her voice.

  “They’re steering us,” she said. “Toward the cliffs.”

  “I know,” Lance answered.

  He’d picked up a lot from her in the time since they’d been cut off from the others, like how to read broken branches, how to forage and scavenge, how to cover their trail. She wasn’t loud like Barrett, wasn’t joking or posturing.

  But she was deadly in her own way.

  “I can draw them off,” she started. “Buy you time—”

  “Stop.” Lance cut in, sharper than he meant to. He glanced at her, then added more quietly, “We’re staying together.”

  Something in his tone made her pause. She searched his face for a heartbeat, then nodded once. No argument. No protest.

  They pushed harder toward the cliffs, boots pounding stone now, breath tearing in and out of their chests. Lance’s mind raced, not with panic, but calculation.

  If there was a way up, he wanted to see it before the orcs arrived.

  If there wasn’t…

  Well.

  Better to face the end together than be hunted apart.

  —

  As they reached the cliff’s edge, hope collapsed in on itself.

  The rock face curved inward, sheer and unforgiving, rising nearly twenty feet straight up. No handholds. No ledges. Just stone. Even at full strength it would have been a brutal climb. In their current state, it was impossible.

  Lance stared at it anyway, like willing the cliff to change its mind.

  Behind them, the forest whispered.

  They turned together, backs to the rock, the rock pressing cold against their shoulders. Lance could feel his hands shaking now, the adrenaline finally breaking through the numb exhaustion. His knives felt heavier than they should have.

  Tanya noticed.

  She placed a steady hand on his shoulder and met his eyes, calm where he felt anything but. There was dirt on her face, blood drying at her temple, but she smiled anyway, small and rare.

  “Let’s do this,” she said quietly. “For Team Donovan?”

  Lance snorted despite himself. “Man…I wish Coach was here. He’d know what to say.”

  She huffed a laugh. “Probably some dumb one-liner.”

  “I’ll never be a memory,” Lance said, forcing his voice deeper, straighter.

  Tanya smiled wider this time.

  Something inside him settled. Not courage exactly, but resolve. He lowered into a stance, blades angling forward, breath slowing as his body remembered what to do.

  The treeline parted.

  One by one, shapes emerged with green skin, heavy armor, and weapons stained dark. Fifteen of them at least. Maybe more behind. They didn’t rush or shout.

  They strolled.

  Lance swallowed, then exhaled slowly. The orcs were savoring this. Meat cornered against stone.

  Most of them didn’t bother speaking. Only one stepped forward, larger than the rest, axe resting casually on his shoulder.

  “Humans,” it said, lips curling. “Throw weapons down. You come with us.”

  That was new.

  Lance glanced at Tanya.

  “They won’t let us live,” she said quietly. “Remember what Barrett told us.”

  His jaw tightened. He shifted his grip on the knives.

  “Thanks,” Lance said softly. “For everything.”

  “Save it,” Tanya replied. “We’re getting out of this. I’ve still got some moves you haven’t seen.”

  The orc grinned—and then vanished.

  It crossed the distance in a blur.

  Lance’s body froze. His mind screamed. This was it.

  He flinched. Eyes squeezed shut.

  The blow never landed.

  Steel rang—sharp and clean.

  When Lance opened his eyes, reality had taken a sharp left turn.

  An old man stood between them and the orc, one foot forward, posture relaxed. He wore a faded aloha shirt, a panama hat tilted low, flip-flops planted on stone like he was carved there. In his hand was a blade, long and curved, holding the orc’s axe frozen mid-swing.

  The old man glanced back at Lance and smiled.

  “Don’t look at me like that, kid,” he said cheerfully. “Didn’t do it for you.”

  The orc snarled and wrenched its weapon free, roaring as it swung again.

  The old man moved first.

  Two clean flashes of steel.

  The orc’s head hit the ground before its body realized it was dead.

  The old man flicked the blade once and turned back, completely unbothered.

  “I did it for this beautiful lady,” he said, nodding at Tanya. He winked.

  Lance and Tanya stared.

  Then the rest of the orcs charged.

  The sky fell.

  A white blur descended from above, feathers spiraling like a storm caught in slow motion. Lance squinted, then realized the cloud was a woman, floating, silver feathers orbiting her body at terrifying speed.

  She landed lightly in front of them.

  She glanced at Lance, giggled, and winked.

  Lance felt heat rise to his cheeks despite himself.

  She was, without question, one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen outside of a screen or a dream. Long silver hair fell in careful braids down her back, threaded through with metallic feathers that caught the light when she moved. Her eyes were a deep, unyielding blue—sharp enough to pin him in place with a glance.

  What made it worse was the contrast. She wore simple leather armor, practical and unadorned, yet carried herself with an effortless poise, as if silk and steel would have looked equally natural on her. Every step, every turn of her head, had the quiet confidence of a princess who had never needed a crown to command a room.

  Then she launched.

  Her sword glowed as she moved, every strike impossibly fast, impossibly clean. Orc weapons shattered mid-swing, intercepted by razor-feathers that sliced, peeled, dismembered. Every attempt to touch her ended in pieces falling to the ground.

  The old man joined her, blade dancing, movements effortless.

  The fight wasn’t a fight.

  It was an execution.

  Moments later, silence returned to the cliff.

  Only bodies remained.

  That’s when Lance noticed him.

  Atop the cliff stood a third figure—arms crossed, armor gleaming silver, braided hair threaded with feathers that caught the light. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

  He just watched.

  The massacre below seemed to bore him.

  Lance swallowed. “Who the hell are these people?”

  Tanya didn’t answer right away.

  She stared up at the armored figure, uncertainty and something like fear flickering across her face.

  “…I don’t know,” she said. “But I don’t think they’re from Earth.”