They stood over the body, breathing hard.
Talo bent to examine it, lifting one thick, clawed paw.
"This'll feed us for days," he said.
Rasha wiped her brow. "We'll have to stay put?"
"Yeah," Talo said. "Take the day to cure it right, or it rots in the sun."
She nodded. No hesitation.
"Then we stay."
They found a hollow between two thornbushes — sheltered from the worst of the wind.
Cicadas hummed faintly nearby, and a pair of lizards basked on a sun-warmed rock just out of reach. The light here filtered in through patchy leaves and wind-stirred grass, dancing across the ground in soft flickers.
Talo showed her how to stake rough racks out of broken branches. How to slice the meat into clean, long strips. How to stack the fire low and slow, smoking the meat instead of searing it.
The work was steady. Methodical. Sacred in its simplicity.
The air filled with the rich, clean smell of sage smoke and meat. The wind tugged at their hair as if inspecting their progress. Overhead, birds circled slow in the thermals, but none dared come close.
Talo whistled softly as he worked, surprising her with the sound.
"You're good at this," Rasha said, pausing to wipe sweat from her brow.
Talo shrugged, half-grinning. "You pick it up when you live outside long enough."
They worked until the racks were full and the fire was properly managed — slow smoke curling into the high air like incense offered to unseen spirits.
Talo straightened and stretched, cracking his shoulders.
"No sense just sitting around," he said. "You should practice a bit. It'll help when we hunt next time."
Rasha tilted her head. "Practice how?"
He grinned. "Survival fighting."
They cleared a space near the racks, smoothing the dust.
Rasha inhaled deeply, then shifted her stance — not into one form, but several.
She moved through the stances she had memorized over the years:
Wide-shouldered grounding stance. Low sweeping strike. Balanced forward thrust.
A pair of sparrows fluttered from a nearby bush as her foot grazed the edge of a root. Talo crossed his arms, watching, impressed.
"You've got good bones," he said. "But forms are only good until you get hit."
He dropped into a crouch, feet light on the dirt. "Let's see if you can move when it's not clean."
They sparred for a long while, rough but focused. No fancy rules — just testing instincts, reactions, breathing.
The sounds of their movements — scuffs, grunts, sudden impact — mingled with the distant rustle of leaves and the soft hissing of the smoke.
Rasha was quick — sharper than she realized — but Talo's experience showed in the way he flowed around her strikes, turning weight against her.
He corrected her gently:
How to shift her weight before a dodge. How to roll her shoulder through a missed blow. How to retreat without showing weakness.
"You're better in a fight than you think," he said, after she drove him stumbling back with a sharp elbow to the ribs.
She grinned — flushed, sweaty, alive.
They collapsed back near the racks, laughing breathlessly.
Lunch was simple — some of the early-cured meat, hot from the smoke. The flavor was rich with the bite of smoke and desert herbs.
They ate cross-legged, sharing grins and bruises like war medals.
And when they finished, Rasha leaned forward, thoughtful.
"You know…" she said slowly, "you're good at thinking sideways."
Talo blinked. "Sideways?"
"You think about things different," she said. "Not just head-on."
She hesitated, then continued.
"Why don't you come up with ideas for ways I could use magic? Something that isn't about hurting. Something useful."
He grinned lazily. "Sure. Let's see…"
Talo threw out ideas:
Heating a rope to make it snap at the right moment.
Brightening a stone until it glowed as a signal.
Sending a shimmer across water to confuse reflections.
The fire crackled beside them. A beetle clicked in the underbrush. The world listened as they played.
Rasha tried each — laughing at the failures, savoring the small successes.
Some ideas flared beautifully. Others sputtered.
And then — one simple trick: creating a single, focused point of heat at the tip of a stick — just enough to glow brightly. It would be easy to carry, easy to raise — something that could be used as a signal without setting fire to the world.
She demonstrated, coaxing the heat carefully to the tip — a steady ember, glowing like coal but holding its shape. Gentle. Controlled. A light without flame.
She smiled and looked over at him.
"Why don't you try too?"
Talo blinked, surprised, but his mouth tugged into a crooked grin.
"Alright. Show me again."
She did — steady hands, soft breath — and he mirrored her.
But instead of a quiet glow, the stick burst into flame — a torch, sudden and fierce. The fire flared tall and hot, licking nearly a foot into the air before he stepped back instinctively.
"Whoa."
He blinked at the torch, then quickly stamped it out in the dirt, the scent of scorched bark curling around them.
"That… wasn't what you did, right?"
Rasha shook her head slowly, eyes fixed on where the flame had been.
"No… but it's still good."
They sat in silence for a beat, watching the smoke curl upward from the blackened wood.
"It suits you," she said softly. "Yours doesn't just glow. It burns."
"And yours doesn't?" he asked, brow furrowing.
She smiled faintly. "Mine listens."
Another silence — heavier this time, but not uncomfortable.
He tossed the stick aside and met her gaze.
"So what does that make me?"
She considered.
"A weapon," she said, then softened. "But one who chooses when to be drawn."
Talo snorted. "That supposed to make you the wise one?"
"No," she said. "The flamekeeper."
He grinned, but his eyes lingered on her longer than usual.
And somewhere between them, the roles were already forming — not spoken, not agreed upon, but inevitable.
She would be the priestess.
He, her guardian.