The world ahead was scorched.

  Grass, long dead, crunched underfoot as Norn pushed forward across the desolate plain. Each step released tiny clouds of ash that clung to his boots before being swept away by the bitter wind. The girl trailed behind, her thin tunic catching the wind like a flag left behind in battle, the frayed edges fluttering with each gust that swept across the barren landscape. The horizon offered nothing but ash-colored plains, jagged trees like broken fingers clawing at the sky, and a heaven bruised with dust and memory.

  He didn't look back. But he knew she was there.

  Her feet barely made sound. She walked like a ghost, a skill born of necessity rather than training. The soft whisper of her footfalls merged with the wind's mournful sigh as it swept across the deadlands, creating a rhythm as familiar as his own heartbeat after days of travel together.

  She's too quiet.

  That's either good... or terrifying.

  The thoughts circled in his mind like hungry birds. He found her silence unnerving, not because he craved conversation, but because it reminded him too much of himself. Of what the world had molded him into. Of what it might be molding her into, right before his eyes.

  The sun climbed higher, harsh and unforgiving. Heat shimmer rose from the cracked earth, distorting the distant horizon until it wavered like a mirage. Sweat beaded on Norn's forehead, trickling down to sting his eyes with salt. He wiped it away with a grimy sleeve, leaving a smear of dirt across his brow.

  Water was becoming scarce. The waterskin at his hip sloshed with less conviction than it had yesterday. Two days, maybe three, before it would be empty. Then they would need to find a stream, a pond, anything that hadn't been poisoned or dried to dust.

  By midday, the sun bore down mercilessly. Heat radiated from the ground in visible waves, turning the air into a furnace that scorched lungs with each breath. Norn crouched in the tall grass, one hand bracing a small bow he'd scavenged days earlier from an abandoned hunting lodge. The wood was warped, the string fraying in places, but it had served him well enough when meat was scarce and hunger was constant.

  Ahead, a spindly deer sniffed at the dry soil, ribs like old shipwreck beams beneath skin stretched too thin over bone. Its coat was patchy, missing in places where disease or malnutrition had taken its toll. One of its antlers was broken off at the base, the jagged edge a testament to some past violence survived. Its eyes were dull, glazed with the simple misery of existence in a world that offered little sustenance and much danger.

  The girl was crouched behind a stone, watching with unwavering attention. The rock beneath her hands was sun-hot, nearly burning to the touch, but she didn't flinch away. She didn't speak, didn't move, but her grip on the rock she picked up was tight—too tight. Her knuckles whitened with the pressure, betraying the tension that ran through her body like wire. Ready to defend herself. Ready to run. The rock was a poor weapon, but it was better than bare hands against whatever might emerge from the scorched landscape.

  Norn's fingers tensed around the bow. The string creaked softly as he drew it back, the sound barely audible above the wind's constant whisper. The arrow—one of three he had left, each precious beyond measure—rested against his knuckle. His breathing slowed, became deliberate. The world narrowed to a single point: the thin space behind the deer's shoulder where heart and lung lay vulnerable.

  Don't miss. Can't afford to.

  The thought wasn't just about conserving arrows. It was about energy. About hope. About proving to the silent girl watching from behind the stone that they weren't going to starve, not today. That there was still purpose in continuing forward when the horizon offered nothing but more desolation.

  THWIP.

  The arrow flew true.

  The deer dropped with a soft thud, legs folding beneath it like collapsing tent poles. No dramatic leap, no struggle—just the quiet surrender of a creature already half-dead, meeting its end with neither protest nor surprise.

  The girl startled—but not from the kill.

  From his stillness.

  She had expected him to move, to rush forward, to claim his prize with the eagerness of the hungry. Instead, he remained crouched, watching, listening. Checking that the sound hadn't attracted something worse than hunger. Something with teeth and malice. Something that hunted humans rather than deer.

  Only when he was certain did he stand, gesturing for her to follow. They approached the fallen deer with caution, eyes scanning the horizon for movement, for danger. The blood pooled dark and thick beneath the animal, seeping into the parched ground that drank it greedily after so long without moisture.

  They dragged the body beneath a hollowed tree, its trunk blackened by some long-ago fire, its branches reaching toward the sky like supplicant arms. Here, smoke could blend into the dead branches, becoming indistinguishable from the background haze that permanently stained the horizon. Cooking meat in the open was an invitation to raiders, to Reavers, to any desperate enough to kill for a meal they didn't have to hunt themselves.

  Norn worked the knife like it was part of his hand, stripping the hide with practiced efficiency. The blade sliced through connective tissue with barely a sound, separating skin from muscle in long, confident strokes. He worked methodically, starting at the hind legs and moving forward, careful not to puncture the organs that would taint the meat with bile and waste.

  The hide came away in one piece, a ragged map of the creature's suffering—patchy fur, old scars, the story of survival written in flesh. He set it aside; it would be useful later. Nothing could be wasted. Not the hide that could become shoes, pouches, patches for worn clothing. Not the sinew that could be dried and used as strong thread. Not the bones that could become tools, weapons, needles.

  Next came the gutting, messy but necessary. He slit the belly with a single stroke, careful to angle the blade away from the organs that spilled forth in a steaming mass. The smell was strong—metallic, earthy, primal. He worked quickly, removing the entrails and burying them a short distance away. Some could be useful—the heart, the liver, rich in nutrients they desperately needed—but much would only attract scavengers they couldn't afford to face.

  The air smelled of blood and wet fur. The coppery tang coated the back of the throat, a reminder of life in its rawest form. Flies had already found them, buzzing in lazy circles around the carcass, settling on eyes that no longer saw, on blood that no longer flowed.

  The girl sat nearby, watching with wary eyes. Not disgusted—just alert. Measuring. Learning. Her gaze followed his hands as they separated muscle from sinew, as they jointed limbs with precise twists of the blade. She was memorizing, he realized. Adding this skill to whatever catalogue of survival she kept in her head.

  He caught her gaze once. Held it.

  A moment of understanding passed between them—the silent acknowledgment that this was life now. This was what it meant to continue. Blood and bone and the constant arithmetic of survival: calories consumed versus calories expanded, distance traveled versus safety found, risk taken versus reward gained.

  Then returned to work.

  "Three days. If we ration."

  He muttered it aloud without thinking. The words fell between them, practical and emotionless. A simple calculation of meat divided by need. She didn't respond. She didn't need to. The math was clear enough to both of them.

  When the deer was reduced to manageable portions, he built a small fire in the hollow of the tree. The smoke curled upward through the dead branches, dispersing before it could form a column that might be visible from a distance. He fed the fire with small, dry twigs that produced more heat than smoke, careful to maintain a flame just strong enough to cook but not large enough to attract attention.

  The meat sizzled as it touched the heated stones he'd arranged around the flame. Fat dripped and popped, the scent mouth-watering after days of dried jerky and foraged roots. He turned the strips with the tip of his knife, ensuring they cooked through without burning. Undercooked meant illness they couldn't afford; burnt meant waste they couldn't sustain.

  The girl watched the meat with undisguised hunger, her eyes fixed on the darkening strips as they transformed from raw to edible. Her stomach growled audibly, a sound that seemed to embarrass her—she pressed a hand against her middle as if to silence it, as if hunger were a weakness rather than a simple fact of existence.

  When the first strips were done, Norn handed her a portion without ceremony. She took it with hesitant fingers, careful not to touch his hand in the exchange. The meat was hot, almost too hot to hold, but she didn't drop it. Instead, she blew on it gently, the steam curling around her face in wispy tendrils before she took a small, careful bite.

  The expression that crossed her face was beyond words—somewhere between relief and revelation, the simple animal pleasure of food when truly hungry. She chewed slowly, savoring each bite, making it last. When she'd finished, she licked her fingers clean, not wasting even the residue of fat that clung to her skin.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Some of the meat they ate immediately, replenishing strength needed for the journey ahead. The rest Norn sliced into thin strips to be smoked over the low fire, preserving it for days when hunting wasn't possible, when movement through hostile territory took precedence over food gathering.

  They slept in a crevice between scorched boulders that night, the rocks still holding the day's heat even as the temperature dropped dramatically with the setting sun. The sky above bled stars into a black canvas, countless points of light that seemed both eternal and indifferent to the small dramas playing out beneath them.

  Norn sat awake, blade in hand, sharpening with slow, deliberate motions. The soft shnk-shnk of metal on stone was the only sound besides the girl's quiet breathing and the distant howl of what might have been wind or might have been something hunting in the darkness beyond their small haven.

  The girl gnawed jerky. It trembled slightly in her grip. Exhaustion and relief warred in her features—the day's successful hunt meant survival for a little longer, but survival itself was an exhausting prospect in a world determined to reclaim every life it could.

  That night, Norn dreamed of ash again.

  Not fire—ash. The aftermath. Bastian's bell tower cracking under the weight of its own destruction, stonework that had stood for generations reduced to rubble in moments. His mother's face, reaching for him through smoke that stung his eyes and scorched his lungs. Her lips moving, forming words he could never quite hear, a final message lost to the roar of collapsing buildings and the screams of the dying.

  He awoke with a twitch, hand instinctively reaching for a dagger that wasn't there. His fingers closed on empty air, panic flaring briefly before memory returned. The dagger was beside him, within reach but not in hand. Safe. As safe as anything could be.

  The girl was already sitting upright, arms around her knees. Her eyes reflected starlight, making them seem larger than they were, bottomless pools of watchfulness in the darkness. She hadn't cried out when he jerked awake, hadn't flinched at his sudden movement. Just watched, silent and still.

  Neither of them mentioned the dream.

  Some things didn't need words. Some things were better left in the quiet spaces between breaths, between heartbeats, between moments of desperate survival.

  The next day dawned cooler, a mercy they accepted without comment. Clouds had gathered overnight, not enough to promise rain—a rarity precious beyond measure—but enough to filter the sun's harshest rays as they set out again.

  They passed through fields of broken sunflowers, once a vibrant crop that had fed and sustained a community now long gone. The heads hung low, twisted to the side, petals blackened like burnt paper. Their stems stood like sentinels marking a forgotten grave, a testament to abandoned agriculture and the hopes it had once represented.

  Norn walked ahead, picking a path through the dead stalks that would leave minimal trace of their passing. Each step was placed with care, avoiding branches that might snap loudly, ground that might hold footprints too clearly. The skill was automatic now, ingrained from years of being both hunter and hunted.

  The girl followed exactly in his footsteps.

  Not beside. Not behind.

  Exactly.

  Stepping where he stepped, avoiding what he avoided. Learning by observation, adapting to survive. Her feet were smaller than his, but she stretched her stride to match his prints, minimizing their trail, making it seem as if only one person had passed this way.

  When he looked back, she didn't stop.

  Just met his eyes, then looked forward again. A silent communication: I'm watching. I'm learning. I'm surviving. It wasn't trust—not exactly. It was partnership born of necessity, of shared danger, of the understanding that two pairs of eyes were better than one for spotting threats before they became fatal.

  Still scared. But walking.

  She hasn't run yet.

  The realization came with a strange mixture of relief and wariness. Relief, because traveling alone meant sleeping alone, meant no one to keep watch, meant exhaustion that eventually led to mistakes, to death. Wariness, because responsibility for another life was a burden he hadn't sought, a complication in calculations that were already complex enough.

  They stopped to drink from a small, stagnant pool hidden between rocks. The water was silty, tasting of minerals and old vegetation, but it was wet. Norn showed her how to use a scrap of cloth to filter the worst of the sediment, how to sip slowly to avoid stomach cramps, how to look for signs that the water might be poisoned rather than merely unappetizing.

  She learned quickly. One demonstration was all it took before she was mirroring his actions, adapting them to her smaller hands, her different strengths. She didn't ask questions, but her eyes did—watching, absorbing, filing away information for future reference.

  They stopped at dusk, this time in a cave behind a jagged hill that might once have been part of a larger formation before some cataclysm had shattered it. The entrance was narrow, easily defended, opening into a space just large enough for two people to sit without touching. The walls held ancient soot marks, evidence that others had sought shelter here long before them.

  As the fire flickered, casting dancing shadows across the rough stone walls, the girl sat across from him, knees hugged to her chest. The firelight caught in her eyes, turning them to liquid amber, revealing depths that might have been fear or might have been something else entirely.

  Then she whispered:

  "...What happened to your family?"

  The question hung between them, unexpected as a raindrop in desert. Her voice was rough from disuse, the words emerging awkwardly as if she'd forgotten how to form them with a tongue grown accustomed to silence.

  His hand stilled on the blade he was cleaning. The cloth paused mid-stroke, frozen in the moment of revelation. The question shouldn't have surprised him—it was the most natural thing in the world to ask in times of catastrophe, the first thing survivors sought from each other: who did you lose? But somehow, coming from her, after days of silence, it struck him like a physical blow.

  But his mouth moved anyway, driven by something deeper than thought.

  "Gone."

  No elaboration.

  No anger.

  Just gone.

  The word fell between them like a stone dropped into still water. It was both truth and evasion—they were gone, yes, but that single syllable did nothing to capture the horror of their going, the violence of their taking, the void left behind in their absence.

  She didn't push further.

  But he saw her fingers brush the ladder-shaped scar on her forearm. Her touch was light, almost unconscious, but he recognized the gesture for what it was.

  A quiet me too.

  They shared a silence that spoke more than words could have—the understanding that passed between two people who had lost everything, who carried their wounds both visible and hidden, who continued moving forward not because of hope but because stopping meant surrender.

  He throws a jerky at her, the motion abrupt but not unkind. It lands in her lap, a peace offering of sorts, a way to break the heaviness that had settled between them.

  "First light, then we're out of here."

  The words were practical, emotionless. A return to the business of survival after the brief, dangerous detour into memory. She nodded once, accepting both the food and the dismissal of further conversation, and turned her attention to the dried meat with the single-minded focus of the truly hungry.

  They left the cave at sunrise, emerging into a world transformed by morning light. The harsh edges of the landscape were softened briefly, the long shadows lending a deceptive beauty to the desolation that surrounded them. Dew had settled overnight, turning ash to mud that clung to their boots in heavy clumps.

  The girl squinted at the golden horizon, eyes stinging from the light. For the first time, she didn't flinch when the sun broke fully over the distant hills, bathing them in warmth that would soon turn to oppressive heat. It was as if some part of her had accepted this reality, had begun to adapt to it rather than merely endure it.

  "...Do you think we'll find a town?" she asked, voice tinged with a hesitant hope. The question was childlike in its simplicity, but the eyes that watched for his answer were old beyond their years.

  Norn didn't answer immediately.

  He wanted to lie.

  He wanted to believe.

  He wanted to offer certainty in a world that had none to give. Towns meant people, and people meant danger as often as they meant safety. For every community that had rebuilt, that offered shelter and trade and some semblance of civilization, there were a dozen others that had devolved into brutality, into fiefdoms ruled by whoever had the most weapons, the most food, the most willingness to use violence to maintain control.

  But all he managed was:

  "Maybe."

  And it was enough.

  The simple honesty of the answer seemed to satisfy her more than false reassurance would have. She nodded once, accepting the uncertainty as part of the new reality they inhabited. Hope was a luxury neither of them could afford in abundance; better to parcel it out in small doses, to temper it with realism that might keep them alive long enough to see if it was justified.

  Later that day, they crossed a ridge where the land sloped toward a distant forest, the trees a smudge of green on the horizon that promised water, shelter, the possibility of game more substantial than the occasional scrawny rabbit or bird they'd subsisted on. It would take days to reach, but the sight alone was enough to quicken their pace, to lend purpose to steps that had begun to grow mechanical with exhaustion.

  The girl no longer walked behind him.

  She walked beside him.

  Her steps still light, still cautious—but beside. Close enough that he could hear her breathing, could sense the rhythm of her movements syncing with his own. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to suggest the beginnings of something that might, one day, resemble trust.

  He didn't say anything.

  But when the wind shifted, he looked down at the dirt between their footprints and saw only one pair for a moment, blurred together by time and ash. Their separate journeys merging into a single path forward, distinct but parallel, independent but connected.

  "Trust isn't given. It's stolen—one scrap at a time."

  The thought came unbidden, a remnant of wisdom from before—from a father whose face was becoming harder to recall with each passing season, whose voice sometimes escaped him in the quiet moments before sleep. But the truth of it remained, a lesson that had served him well in a world where trust was as rare as rain and often just as life-giving.

  And for the first time in years—

  He wasn't walking alone.

  The realization didn't bring comfort, exactly. But it brought something else—a shifting in the weight he carried, a redistribution rather than a lessening. The burden of survival remained, heavy as ever, but somehow more bearable when shouldered by two rather than one.

  They continued toward the distant trees, two small figures in a vast landscape of destruction, moving forward not with hope, but with determination. Not with certainty, but with purpose. Their shadows stretched behind them, elongated by the setting sun, merging into a single dark shape against the blistered earth.

  One step at a time. Together.