Every inch of her body ached. The manthing was not much larger than her, but it was denser than steel. Whether a creature or a wish, it was [i]heavy[/i], and dragging it through the woods had been draining. Samaire could feel her thighs beginning to tremble in her cautious crouch. She needed to [i]rest[/i]. As much as she could rest with the manthing watching, its eyes reflecting in the wavering light.

Not unlike glass.

Spirits, what was she doing?

They watched each other for several long moments, the flames flickering between them. It shifted, cleaning its wound with its tongue, as if it didn’t know what to do with its hands. Emerald eyes narrowed, watching its movements suspiciously. It did not move like a man or a thing of shadow. There was something feral about it, like the wolf-nursed boy Jonas had told her about as a child. The boy that spoke only the tongues of nymphs and wolves and that fought with teeth and nails like claws. But the wolf child had been a man simply raised by the wilds—Samaire did not think this thing had ever been a man. It moved on hands and feet, like a child pretending to be a beast, edging closer to the flames. It settled beside the flames, tending its wounds, regarding her as suspiciously as she did it.
	
The heat was already sinking into her bones, softening her muscles like rain to earth. She dropped back onto her haunches, numb fingertips steadying her in the dank earth. The leather was cold and stiff, and Samaire removed them with a sharp tug of teeth, resting them beside the fire to warm. Even as the heat eased her aches, her fingers and toes screamed in protest as feeling flooded through her veins. 

Her pack dangled above her—she needed to make camp, and she swore beneath her breath. She couldn’t bear the thought of moving for another minute, yearned for nothing but the warmth of a bed—[i]a warm body, dexterous hands, a voice of song and sunlight[/i]. Samaire cursed again, pushing herself to her feet, stumbling as she righted herself.

The routine was familiar, if not particularly enjoyable. A bedroll was placed near the heat of fire, on the driest patch of earth she could find, a heavy blanket and a knife—far easier to wield in close quarters than her blade if the manthing slipped its chain—a round of bread wrapped in cloth. Samaire dropped to the comfort of her bedroll, unlacing her boots to dry her feet, burning with the needles of hot blood running through iced veins. Her armor soon joined the leathers around the flames, mail and steel glittering almost like gold. Samaire yearned for proper gold for a moment, shimmering and soft to touch.

There was no softness on the road.

The bread was a little stale, but she would not thumb her nose at nourishment.  She would have to hunt throughout the days ahead. Tonight, she was grateful for the ease of her meal, too exhausted to strap into her armor to track rabbits or deer.  Her eyes found the manthing again, her lip curling. It had eaten food in the cell, she remembered. She ought to share her bread—but her muscles protested at the memory of dragging it through mud and brambles, and she could not bear the thought.

Instead, she spoke again, watching carefully.

“<Dawn we leave>,” she kept her voice sharp, even as she struggled to remember the words, the lilt of a language she’d once sung sweetly, her fingers curling around the knife in her bedroll, “<You stay far>.”