Sleep never came, but stillness did.

Anise let her eyes close halfway, enough to dull the ache behind them, enough to pretend her body wasn’t unraveling thread by thread. The stone at her back was cold, seeping through her clothes, but she welcomed it. Pain anchored her. It reminded her she was still moving forward, even when every part of her begged to stop.

Thygon’s presence filled the hollow without sound. She didn’t need to look to know where he was—near the opening, watchful, carved from patience and shadow. Men like him didn’t relax. They endured.

She wondered how many nights he had survived like this. How many times he had told himself this is only temporary and meant it.

The fire flickered low, its light barely touching his face, but she caught fragments when it did—the scar along his jaw, the tension held in his shoulders as if he were always braced for impact. He handled silence the way others handled conversation. Comfortably. Carefully.

Anise swallowed and shifted her weight. The movement sent a sharp reminder through her side, and she bit down on the sound before it could escape. Weakness was a currency she couldn’t afford. Not now. Not with him watching.

She had learned long ago that survival often came with strings.

“I know,” she said quietly, breaking the hush, “that this isn’t safe.”

His head turned just enough to acknowledge her.

“I can feel it,” she continued. “Like the ground beneath me is already gone.”

“It is,” he replied. No cruelty in it. Just fact.

The honesty startled her more than reassurance would have. She pulled her knees closer, fingers brushing the hidden weight beneath her clothes—the signet, cool and unforgiving against her skin. Its presence steadied her, even as it terrified her. Everything hunted her because of it. Everything would continue to.

“Then why help me?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. The fire popped softly, a single spark leaping and dying.

“Because leaving you would be easier,” he said at last.

She frowned. “That doesn’t sound like a reason.”

“It is,” he said. “Just not a kind one.”

Anise let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Something in his words felt earned, not rehearsed. He wasn’t trying to be her savior. He wasn’t pretending this was anything more than a choice he’d made—and might unmake if it cost too much.

Strangely, that made her trust him more.

The forest shifted outside the hollow, branches groaning, wind threading its way through needles and bone. Every sound felt too loud, too deliberate. Anise imagined eyes in the dark, waiting for the moment her guard slipped.

She didn’t let it.

“If we leave at dawn,” she said, testing the idea aloud, “I can walk. I won’t slow you down.”

His gaze flicked to her side, to the way she favored it despite her effort. “You already are,” he said calmly. “And you will again.”

Her jaw tightened. “Then why keep me?”

Thygon looked at her fully then, and for an instant she saw something raw beneath the restraint—something old and scarred and deeply buried.

“Because,” he said, “you’re still walking.”

The words settled into her chest, heavy and unfamiliar.

Anise leaned her head back against the stone, eyes finally closing for real this time. Not in trust. Not in surrender. But in defiance—of fear, of exhaustion, of the certainty that the world wanted her broken.

If the hollow was only a pause, then she would use it.

Dawn would come. And when it did, she would be ready to move again.