Blood and Bowstrings

The woman steps out of the shadows like something conjured—bow in hand, bloodied arrow dangling from her grip, her voice unnervingly steady against the howling night. She says she means no harm. She says they need to move. She says her name is Charity.

Glenda has faced violence before. She has stitched wounds in jungle heat while gunfire cracked through the trees, has held men together with gauze and willpower when medicine failed. But this is different. This woman with the calm eyes and the crimson-stained weapon isn't begging for help—she's offering it. And that, somehow, is more terrifying.

With Kain bleeding and something still prowling beyond the firelight, there's no time for interrogation. Trust becomes a currency spent in the dark, gambled on instinct and the desperate hope that not every stranger in Clivilius wants them dead. As they carry Kain toward the distant flicker of camp, Glenda finds herself caught between the memories of wars she's survived and the growing certainty that this world demands a different kind of soldier.

The firelight ahead promises safety. But even fire casts shadows—and Glenda has learned that shadows here have substance.