The old pick-up’s engine coughed and sputtered, the hum of its dying core faltering as the chassis lurched, sending a fresh cloud of ochre dust into the cab. Sweat slicked Chinakah’s palms on the cracked steering wheel. Beside her, Leonotis pressed his cheek to the hot glass, the grit on the window imprinting a faint pattern on his skin. His knee bounced, a nervous rhythm against the worn seat, each distant shimmer on the horizon a potential glimpse of Stylwater. He tightened his grip on the tree-branch sword Gethii had reshaped for him, the newly wrapped leather on the hilt a comforting roughness against his palm. In the truck bed, Gethii stood impassive against the jolts, the midnight wind tugging at his dark locs as his hand rested near his own blade.

  The world outside was a blur of thorny scrub when shapes detached themselves from the deeper shadows of a roadside copse. Sunken eyes glared over jutting cheekbones from faces smeared with dirt and desperation. Chinakah stomped on the brakes. The truck fishtailed, tires screaming on the loose gravel, and slewed to a halt inches from a dusty ravine.

  “Don’t move an inch!” a voice, thin and reedy like a dry reed, pierced the sudden silence. A man, all angles and protruding bones, waved a sword so rust-pitted it looked more like a strip of bark. “Everything you got! Now!”

  Before a word could be uttered in the cab, Leonotis was a blur. He scrambled over the side of the truck bed, his small face set in a surprisingly fierce scowl. “You’ll get nothing!” His voice was higher than he’d intended, a slight quaver at the edges, but his chin jutted out. He hefted his tree-branch sword, its point newly sharpened by Gethii’s knife.

  A dark sliver—an arrow—sliced the air, aimed for the boy’s exposed side. Gethii didn’t seem to move so much as simply *be* there. Steel sang, a bright, ringing note in the darkness as his blade met the arrow, deflecting it harmlessly into the scrub.

  Leonotis didn’t pause. He launched himself at the nearest figure, a youth whose tattered clothes hung on a frame almost as slight as his own. The young bandit’s eyes, already wide with a mixture of bravado and fear, stretched further as the small boy charged. Leonotis swung his tree-branch sword, a wild, desperate arc that connected with a sickening *thwack* against the bandit’s shin. The youth yelped, hopping back and clutching his leg.

  “Leonotis!” Chinakah’s voice tore from her throat, raw and sharp with terror. “Get back!”

  Gethii was already a whisper of motion. He dropped from the truck bed, landing silent as a cat. His sword became a silver ribbon in the oppressive heat, not cutting, but deflecting, binding, a pommel striking a wrist here, the flat of his blade slapping a cheek there. There were grunts, the clatter of dropped weapons. It was over before Leonotis could raise his sword again, the would-be ambushers groaning on the ground, clutching bruised limbs, their fight extinguished.

  Chinakah practically fell out of the cab, her hands shaking as she grabbed Leonotis, her fingers digging into his arms. “Are you hurt? Oh, spirits, are you hurt?” She spun him around, her eyes darting over him. “What in all the hells were you thinking?” The words were a torrent, relief and fury battling for dominance in her tone.

  Gethii’s sword slid back into its sheath with a sigh of oiled leather. His brow furrowed as his gaze lingered on a torn shoe on one of the fallen men, the way another’s ribs showed starkly beneath a threadbare shirt. “They have nothing, Chinakah,” he said, his voice low. “Sticks and rusted iron. Look at their faces.” He gestured with his chin. “Driven by an empty belly, not malice.” A deep sigh escaped him, the lines around his eyes deepening. “The road to the capital… it will not be so forgiving.”

  Hours later, the gurgle of a narrow stream was the only sound accompanying the pop and hiss of their small fire. But it had not always been so quiet.

  "You think heroism looks like dying young?" Chinakah had said, her voice low and controlled, which was somehow worse than shouting. She hadn't looked at Leonotis when she spoke. She'd looked at the fire, as if the fire had personally disappointed her. "You think I took care of you all this time — fed you, clothed you, lost sleep over you — so you could throw yourself at a rusty sword like a goat that has decided to argue with a butcher?" She'd clicked her tongue, that needed no translation. "And you." She'd turned to Gethii then, one finger extended. "You let him climb out of that truck. You, a grown man, with eyes in your head."

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  Gethii had said nothing. There was nothing to say.

  "And when you get yourself killed," she'd continued, turning back to Leonotis, her voice dropping to something almost gentle, which made it worse still, "what should I say at the eulogy? That it was fine because Leonotis was brave?" She'd pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose. "Sit down. Eat. And do not speak to me for one hour."

  The hour had long passed. Leonotis poked at an ember with a twig, the silence stretching taut between them. "If… if those memories come back," he finally ventured, his voice barely above a whisper, his face turned away from the fire's glow, "my black ase… it might come back too, right?" He didn't look at either of them. "Then I wouldn't need this." He nudged the tree-branch sword with his foot.

  Chinakah’s breath hitched. She reached out, then hesitated, her hand hovering. “That… yes, Leonotis. It could.” A shiver traced her spine; the thought of that dark, volatile power returning to the boy beside her was a cold knot in her stomach.

  Later, the fire had burned low. Chinakah’s breathing was a deep, even rhythm from her bedroll. Leonotis shifted, nudging Gethii who sat apart, the faint scrape of leather against steel the only sign he was awake as he cleaned his blade. “Master?” The whisper was lost almost immediately in the night sounds. “Before… when I had all my… before. Did you like me then?”

  Gethii’s hand stilled. The firelight caught the planes of his face, leaving his eyes in shadow. He opened his mouth, then closed it, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "I barely tolerate you now," he said, the jest falling flat, thin. He heard the hollowness in his own voice. "It's… possible," he managed, the word a dry leaf skittering away.

  Leonotis’s shoulders slumped. His fingers twisted the edge of his blanket. “My old diary… I found it.” His voice was so low Gethii had to strain to hear. “Under a floorboard. It didn’t feel like mine when I read it.” A small, choked sound escaped him. “I… I don’t like him. The one who wrote those things.” He finally looked up. “I want to be good, Gethii. I’m scared if it all comes back… I won’t be. I don’t want to be that… that other boy.”

  "Is that why you went head first into danger today?" Gethii said.

  Leonotis looked down ashamed at his actions. "Yes," he said quietly.

  The fire crackled, spitting a spark into the sudden, heavy quiet. The stream murmured on, oblivious.

  “Is my father… is he still alive?” Leonotis’s voice was a fragile thread, woven with a desperate, childlike hope.

  Gethii stared into the flames, the image of a shadowed, monstrous tree creature tearing through the savannah flashing unwanted in his mind. He swallowed. “Maybe,” he said, the word a careful, measured offering, his gaze steadfastly on the fire.

  A crease appeared between Leonotis’s brows, his eyes clouding with a pain that looked too old for his face. “Chinakah said… something dragged him away. Big. And dark.” His small hands clenched, knuckles white. “I want to be stronger. Strong enough to find him. To save… anyone.”

  A tightness gripped Gethii’s chest. He saw the boy’s fierce, fragile hope and it resonated with something old and buried within himself. He turned, offering a small, hesitant smile. “Then stronger you will be, Leonotis.” The words felt true. “Tomorrow. Another skill. More precision, less… enthusiasm.” He tapped the tree-branch sword. “And very little ase needed. A good place to start.”

  The change in the boy was instant. His eyes widened, the shadows within them receding as a spark ignited. “Really? A real sword skill?”

  “Yes,” Gethii affirmed, a surprising warmth spreading through him. “Now, sleep. It’s a long road.”

  Leonotis burrowed into his blanket, his sword clutched close. His breathing soon softened into the even cadence of sleep, a small smile lingering on his lips.

  Gethii watched him, the firelight playing over the boy’s peaceful face. After a long moment, he reached for the tree-branch sword lying beside Leonotis. His fingers traced the contours he himself had carved. And there, at the very base of the leather-wrapped hilt, almost invisible against the dark wood, was a single, impossibly tiny leaf. It was a vibrant, tender green, its delicate edges unfurling as if reaching for the dying embers. A prickle ran up Gethii’s arms. He turned the hilt over. He’d spent time shaping the sword, smoothing the rougher edges. He would have noticed a leaf. He was sure of it. He ran a thumb over the soft texture of the new growth. A sign, then. A fragile, stubborn thing, just like the boy beside him, pushing its way towards the light.