hey spent the rest of the day harvesting the creature.
Not rushed.
Not careless.
They worked in steady silence, each task handled with quiet respect.
Before anything else, they prepped every section of meat that could be cured for storage.
It was a process they'd been gradually refining during their travels—starting with low fires and salted wraps, learning from trial and error how to extend what little they had.
Now, Rasha could ignite the ember kiln with a flick of her wrist, her fire controlled enough to flash-dry the meat without burning it. She could guide the flame to breathe just long enough to cure each piece to perfection—and then extinguish itself, obedient.
With what they gathered today, plus what remained from days spent hunting and training, they had enough dried meat to last for months.
A smart choice on Talo's part. They didn't know if Merrick would offer work, or if the price of food on the other side of the river would be something they could afford. They might have to earn every bite.
Then they turned to the rest of the Shadowmaw.
They stripped the thick, dusky fur first—preserving full panels that could be stitched into cloaks, tunics, and boots. The best cuts were saved for the hoods they would craft—deep, warm, fur-lined against the seasons to come.
The hide beneath was tough, flexible. Perfect for reforging their battered gear. Belts, packs, sheathes, shoes—everything they had was carefully replaced or reinforced with Shadowmaw leather.
Talo showed Rasha how to work the rougher patches into lashing strips, how to fashion heavier carrying straps from the better pieces. Rasha learned quickly, her hands steady with the slow, purposeful work.
They used everything.
Especially the teeth.
The great curved claws were bundled neatly for future crafting, and every remaining tooth—large and small—was packed away in oiled cloth.
That night, beneath a wide, quiet sky, they built a low fire tucked against a rise of stone. The two largest fangs—natural blades shaped by the creature's life—rested near the firelight, gleaming faintly. Talo studied them for a long moment, running a thumb along one curved edge.
"We're going to spirit-forge them," he said, voice low, certain. "It's time we made something that lasts."
The blade portions—fourteen inches from tip to root—were already strong, their natural edges shaped over time by life and instinct. Still, Talo worked them further—sharpening each curve with care, refining the edge with a stone until it could catch the light like glass and promise a clean cut.
But sharpness wasn't enough.
These were meant to be more than tools.
More than weapons.
The hilts, carved from three smaller teeth each, had been polished and fixed into place—the teeth curving gently upward and outward from the base, cradling the hand when gripped. Their straighter edges braced against the base of the blade, while the outward curve flared beneath the fist—an elegant, primal design. Secure. Natural.
He started first.
Talo placed the first fang across both palms and drew in a steady breath. He closed his eyes, guiding the warmth within him into the weapon.
The spirit within the fang stirred—and resisted. Fierce. Wild. Unwilling.
A crackle of energy sparked between his hands, and for a moment, the air grew sharp with pressure.
When he finally drew back, the bond had locked—but not cleanly.
The blade had darkened entirely, its surface now a deep, muted shade—no longer pale, but storm-colored and raw, the faint sheen of strain etched into its length.
Still whole.
But scored.
Talo muttered a soft curse under his breath.
Rasha stepped closer, steady. "Let's do the next one together," she said simply.
He glanced at her, then nodded.
Side by side, they worked—patient, guiding, honoring the life that had shaped the weapons.
The second fang responded differently. It met them without resistance, yielding not in weakness but with quiet honor.
As the spirit settled, the blade lightened—pale ivory, smooth and flawless.
When it cooled, Rasha knelt, cradling both finished weapons in her hands.
One darker, rough-edged, bearing the scar of struggle.
One smooth, light, whole.
Twin blades—two halves of the same story.
And she felt it—the weight of them, not just in her hands, but in her chest.
She drew in a breath, firm and full.
"Yin," she said to the darker one.
"And Yang," to the lighter.
As the names left her lips, something shifted.
Her forehead mark began to glow—faint, steady—and the light rippled down her arms, through the carved spirit markings etched into her skin.
It flowed into the hilts—and at the place where each blade met its grip, a symbol bloomed.
The same one that shone at her brow.
Delicate.
True.
Pressed into the bone itself—then fading into stillness.
She stared at them for a long moment, hands motionless.
And then, silently, she thought:
I made these. With him. With resolve. With strength. With a bond sharper than any edge.
Talo watched, a slow smile growing on his face. "You found yours already," he said softly. "I'll know when mine's ready."
She didn't press him. That hope—whatever shape it would take—was his to keep.
They packed the extra claws and teeth carefully, bundling them into their new gear.
"What about these?" she asked, gesturing to her old daggers.
Talo shrugged easily. "Keep 'em," he said. "They'll be your throwers now."
They spent a few more minutes checking their packs, tightening straps, making ready for the long miles ahead.
The fire burned low, crackling softly, sending warm sparks into the cool night air.
Rasha wasn't ready to sleep yet—not really.
The day's weight still clung to her skin: the battle, the forging, the quiet understanding growing between them.
She sat near the fire, tracing a fingertip idly across the back of one hand, watching the ember-glow dance across her skin.
Talo, already stretching out his blanket nearby, yawned and fell asleep quickly—exhaustion pulling him under with the ease of someone who trusted the world around him.
Rasha watched him in the firelight, her heart tightening strangely.
It felt good to have someone nearby.
Someone real.
She let herself lie back slowly, settling into her own blanket—close enough that their arms might brush, but not touching.
For a long while, she stared upward, watching the stars wheel across the blackness—a slow, silent river overhead.
Sleep drifted closer.
Then—in a soft, half-conscious motion—Talo shifted.
One of his legs slung heavily across hers, and his arm wrapped loosely around her waist, pulling her slightly closer in his sleep.
Rasha froze—startled—then melted into it.
The weight was warm.
Steady.
Comforting.
She turned her head slightly, catching the slow, deep rhythm of his breathing.
A quiet laugh fluttered through her chest—not mockery, not nervousness—just something light.
Something amazed that she could feel this again.
Talo stirred, mumbling something under his breath.
And then, softly, he said her name.
"Rasha…"
It wasn't sharp.
It wasn't desperate.
Just a murmur—tender, unguarded, the way a child might call out in a dream.
Tears pricked unexpectedly at the corners of her eyes.
She hadn't been called like that—gently, lovingly—since her parents.
Since a time before exile.
Before loneliness became armor.
Slowly, she shifted her body closer to his, allowing the full weight of his arm to settle over her like a second blanket.
Not desperate.
Not claiming.
Just… warm.
For the first time in so long, she let herself fall asleep not watching the stars,
not guarding her heart,
but simply…
Protected.
Above them, the constellations wheeled onward—
silent witnesses to two lives
threading slowly together
beneath the sleeping sky.