Barrett stood at the heart of the cavern Rebby liked to call the theater. It was an immense cavern where sound lingered, and footsteps echoed back like distant applause. He wore only his boots, camo pants, and the faded stars-and-stripes bandana knotted around his head. The air was cool against his skin, damp stone breathing around him.

  He was beginning to fall in love with the way Rebby let him see himself.

  The third-person perspective was intoxicating. Angles of himself he’d never seen before—muscle shifting beneath skin, weight transferring through his stance, the subtle tension before movement. It felt less like watching and more like understanding. Like seeing the machine instead of just pulling the levers.

  And damn, the machine looked good.

  He’d even started with a light warm-up, just enough to wake everything up and draw a sheen of sweat across his frame.

  Oooh yeah, lookin’ juicy.

  Barrett thought as he grinned widely for the first time in a while.

  Some guys admired engines or weapons, things built to be powerful.

  Barrett Donovan preferred a different marvel entirely. His own body, forged rep by rep into something worth staring at.

  Rebby moved faster now, darting through the upper reaches of the cave, circling him in wide, fluid arcs. The sensory fusion between them had deepened; the nausea that once overwhelmed him had dulled to something manageable. He could track her. Anticipate her motion. Stay upright.

  Mostly.

  He doubled over suddenly and vomited onto the stone.

  Still, it was progress.

  When he straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Rebby was already near him again, hovering just out of reach.

  “Not too bad that time, eh?” he said, breathless but grinning.

  “Not bad at all,” she replied, genuinely pleased.

  Barrett rolled his shoulders, feeling the heat under his skin, the strength humming through his limbs. “I can feel it,” he said quietly. “There’s so much more power in me now. When I was first hurt…I thought that was it. Thought I’d peaked.” He exhaled slowly. “Thought I was done.”

  “You’re stronger now,” Rebby said simply.

  He laughed under his breath. “Yeah. Thanks to you.” Then, more seriously, “Listen…I need to thank you. Properly. For everything.”

  “Oh, Barrett, there’s no—”

  He raised a hand, stopping her gently. The words caught in his throat for a moment before he forced them out. “You showed me kindness when you didn’t have to. You helped me without knowing who I was, without asking for anything back.” His voice softened. “And I’ve been…kind of an ungrateful ass about it.”

  Rebby answered awkwardly. “You don’t have to thank me.”

  He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. I don’t really have the words for it. Just—being here with you, training like this…you taught me something I didn’t even know I needed.”

  She laughed lightly. “You’re a pretty sensitive guy, Barrett.”

  “Yeah,” he admitted, a darker chuckle following. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  There was movement above him, the whisper of motion through air. Something struck his chest, and he reacted on instinct, catching it.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “It’s your coat!” Rebby said brightly. “I, uh…made a few improvements. Hope you don’t mind.”

  A faint pulse rippled through the fabric in his hands.

  [You have been given: Spiderweave Coat[C]]

  [A coat woven from enchanted spider silk harvested deep within the central forest. Each thread is thinner than hair yet stronger than steel, layered and interlocked through an organic lattice that disperses force on impact rather than resisting it outright. The surface of the coat shimmers faintly when struck by light, the weave shifting almost imperceptibly, alive in a way that suggests instinct rather than craft. Burn marks and tears knit themselves closed over time, the silk remembering its original form. Despite its durability, the coat is remarkably light, resting on the body like a second skin. Movement feels unrestricted, as though the garment anticipates the wearer’s intent and yields accordingly.]

  “Spiderweave?” he repeated.

  “Made it myself,” she said, pride creeping into her voice. “Try it on.”

  He slipped it over his shoulders. The coat settled against him like it had always belonged there. It was weightless, flexible, and warm without being restrictive. He could feel the protection in it, subtle but undeniable.

  Using Rebby’s vision, he turned, taking himself in. The weave shimmered faintly in the cave light, elegant and lethal all at once. Threads of red and silver had been worked into the damaged places, reinforcing what had once been torn and burned, but the true beauty lay beneath that: the entire weave pulsed faintly as one seamless whole.

  “Amazing,” he breathed. “Rebby—”

  “Hey,” she cut in quickly, teasing. “Don’t get all emotional again. You just needed it. Given how much trouble you seem determined to get into.”

  He smiled anyway. “Can I…hug you?”

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  There was a pause. A long one.

  It stretched longer than he expected, long enough for doubt to creep in. His chest tightened. He worried he’d crossed a line—misread the moment. For once, there was nothing clever or crude behind the question. Just gratitude, plain and unguarded.

  “I…” Rebby said at last, her voice soft, careful. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  The gentleness in her refusal landed heavier than any sharp rebuke could have.

  “Oh—sorry,” he said quickly, awkward heat rising in his face. “I wasn’t trying anything weird, I just—”

  He never finished the thought.

  There was the faint sound of a step, the whisper of movement in front of him, and then warmth—lips pressing softly against his. He froze, stunned, before the moment crashed over him in a rush: relief, affection, something dangerously close to hope. Without thinking, he leaned into it.

  His arms came around her, careful at first, then surer, and he kissed her back.

  Time slipped its grip. The world narrowed to that single point of contact, the quiet heat between them. It felt endless, and for Barrett Donovan, it still wasn’t enough. Not even close.

  She pulled away.

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” she said softly. He could hear the emotion trembling beneath her words. “It’s only going to make things harder.”

  Barrett had no quip ready, no practiced line to deflect the weight of it. Instead, he drew her in, resting her against his chest, one hand lifting to her head in an almost childish gesture. She settled into him, small and warm, and for a moment neither of them spoke.

  “I’m afraid of losing you,” she whispered.

  “You’re not going to,” Barrett said quietly, without hesitation.

  Around them, the cave breathed in slow, ancient rhythms with water dripping somewhere in the dark, and stone holding their warmth as if guarding the moment, while the outside world waited, patient and cruel, just beyond the reach of the shadows.

  —Maku—

  Maku and Rei walked side by side through the forest, the air growing heavier with every step toward what people had started calling the spider bridge. The name had stuck; half gallows humor, half desperate attempt to make the horror manageable.

  Leaves crunched softly beneath their boots. Somewhere in the distance, water lapped against the shore, steady and indifferent.

  Rei broke the silence first.

  “So,” she said, glancing sideways at him, “where did you learn all this fortification and strategy nonsense anyway?”

  Maku let out a quiet chuckle. “Would you think less of me if I said video games?”

  “Yes,” Rei replied instantly, without missing a beat.

  He sighed theatrically. “Then obviously I learned it at the National War College…where I was studying to become both a doctor and an astronaut.” A grin tugged at his mouth.

  She rolled her eyes. “And you think this is actually going to work?”

  Maku shrugged, hands slipping into his pockets. “Might.”

  Rei stopped walking.

  “Might?” she repeated, turning fully toward him. “That’s not exactly inspiring confidence.”

  Maku slowed as well, then casually tilted his head, gesturing back the way they’d come. “The fortifications aren’t for us.”

  She frowned. “Explain.”

  “If things go bad,” he said evenly, “we jump on the raft and leave before the spiders finish crossing. The walls buy us time. That’s it.”

  Rei stared at him, then barked out a laugh. “Wow. I really did underestimate you.” She shook her head. “Thought you were just another version of Barrett.”

  Maku’s smile faded, just a little. “Barrett told me to save Team Donovan.” He looked ahead again. “Not die for a bunch of strangers who won’t survive either way.”

  Rei studied him for a moment longer, then nodded and resumed walking. “Fair.”

  They continued in silence until Rei spoke again. “Where is the rest of Team Donovan, anyway?”

  Maku smiled faintly. “Teaching our bird to fly.”

  She shot him a look. “I’m sorry—what?”

  “Grimm thinks he can find our lovable oaf,” Maku said.

  Rei stopped. “Wait. You think Barrett’s alive?”

  Maku shrugged. “No clue.” He started walking again. “Either way, we’ve got villagers to check on.”

  As the clearing came into view, the noise hit them first—voices, tools striking earth, the low murmur of coordinated labor. Villagers moved with purpose now, digging trenches, stacking sharpened logs, hauling stones into place. Fear had been redirected into motion.

  Rei exhaled. “Whew. I already feel better.”

  They stepped fully into the clearing just as an older man approached them, posture straight despite his age.

  “Sir Maku. Lady Rei.” He bowed lightly.

  Rei shot Maku a look. He only smiled.

  “Wexel, my good man,” Maku said warmly. “What news do you bring?”

  The elder’s face lit up, pride shining through the lines carved into it by years of hard living. “Excellent news! The ditch is nearly complete, the outer wall is reinforced, and the inner barricade is coming along nicely. At this pace, we’ll be ready well before those nasty creatures arrive.”

  “Fantastic,” Maku said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Truly.”

  Wexel hesitated, then leaned in closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret.

  “And…one more thing, my liege.”

  Maku bent slightly to hear him. “Yes?”

  “I took the liberty,” Wexel whispered, eyes gleaming, “of burning all the rafts.”

  Maku froze.

  “You what?”

  Wexel straightened, clearly pleased with himself. “Can’t have cowards thinking they can flee and leave us to do the fighting, right?”

  Maku slowly lifted his gaze to Rei.

  She met it with a look just as cold.

  The forest seemed to hold its breath.

  —Granny Ida—

  The field lay still, emptied of everything but wind and waiting. A single tree stood at its center, leaves whispering softly as the wind passed through them. Beneath it, Granny Ida and Pippy waited, their faces tilted upward toward a small, unmoving shape perched on one of the higher branches.

  Grimm didn’t stir.

  For a long moment, neither did they.

  Chirp-chirp.

  Pippy cupped her hands around her mouth. “Remember, little fella,” she called, voice carrying more hope than confidence, “‘Life is either a daring adventure…or nothing at all!’”

  Granny glanced sideways. “Who said that?”

  “Helen Keller,” Pippy answered automatically, never taking her eyes off the bird.

  Granny hummed in approval, but her attention shifted from the branch to the girl beside her. Pippy looked thinner somehow. Sharper around the edges. Weeks of fear and loss had carved lines that shouldn’t have been there yet. And still—she stood. Still she tried.

  That took strength, whether the girl believed it or not.

  “You cannot swim for new horizons,” Pippy continued, voice louder now, steadier, “until you have the courage to lose sight of the shore!”

  Granny reached out, resting a warm, steady hand on Pippy’s shoulder. “Why don’t you try a quote from someone even greater than Faulkner,” she said gently.

  Pippy blinked, confused. “Greater?”

  Granny smiled and winked. “Try one from Pippy’s heart.”

  The suggestion hit harder than any memorized line. Pippy sucked in a sharp breath. For a second, fear flickered across her face. Then she straightened, nodded once, and stepped forward.

  Above them, Grimm shifted uneasily.

  Chirp—chirp—chirp.

  His tiny body trembled, claws gripping bark as he peered down at the ground far below. Granny could see it clearly now: the pull. The bond. That quiet, aching need to find Barrett.

  Pippy clasped her hands together, as if in prayer, and spoke softly.

  “Please, Grimm. We know you care about Barrett as much as we do. Think about what he’d do right now.” Her voice wavered, then steadied. “And know this, if you fall…Granny and I will be here. We’ll catch you.”

  The bird chirped once.

  Then again.

  He took a hesitant step forward. Another. A third.

  And then he leapt.

  For one terrifying heartbeat, he dropped straight down with feathers tight and wings locked.

  Then instinct took over.

  His wings snapped open, catching the air. He dipped low, wobbling, then climbed, higher and higher, until he was nothing but a dark shape against the sky, flying hard toward whatever fate awaited him.

  Pippy’s breath finally escaped her in a shaky exhale. She reached for Granny’s hand, squeezing it tight.

  Granny squeezed back.

  “Well done, Coach Pippy,” she said softly.