I wondered, not for the first time, if today would be the day I died.

The chimaera's roar shook the forest, a deep, guttural sound that made the ground beneath me tremble. My heart pounded in my chest as I tightened my grip on my knives and took in the sight of the beast in the clearing. It was an ancient thing, stitched together from half-remembered stories and old legends no one wanted to believe anymore. We'd intercepted it just in time, stopping it before reaching the village. We had saved them from a massacre. But these creatures didn't belong here. The highlands had been their world once; until we broke it, like we break so many things. Was this one more scar to carry, another reminder that the world does not care for heroes or their stories?

Another roar interrupted my thoughts.

Focus, I told myself.

Beside me, Atlas held his ground. I shot him a glance, and—was that a smirk on his feline lips? Of course it was. He lived for this, the rush of battle, the heat of danger. He was moving before I could even blink—overconfident knucklehead—throwing himself into the fight with that reckless grin. He reached the chimaera as I started running, his powerful strides closing the distance in seconds. With a few quick, precise strikes, he severed the snake tail, cutting off its poison before it could even be a threat. Typical Atlas.

"Show-off," I muttered.

With the most dangerous part gone, I focused on the remaining parts. I looped my snare around the goathead and my knife shone blue with magic as I repeatedly slashed into its eyes, blinding it. The lionhead answered with a whirlwind of claws and teeth, but I dodged its strikes, feeling a rush of wind as the powerful bites barely missed me.

Atlas met each attack head-on. He was like a wall, standing between me and those deadly jaws, holding the line and giving me the space to fight with everything I had. Every time I landed a hit, the creature howled in pain.

"Try not to get yourself killed," I called out to him.

"Who, me?" he replied, "I'm barely getting started!" Beneath the chaos, I almost thought I could hear him laughing.

I felt the knife cut clean through the monster's flesh, and the goathead tumbled to the ground, lifeless. But of course it wasn't enough to make it retreat. With a sudden lurch, the lionhead, the only one still attached to the monstrous body, unleashed a desperate attack on Atlas.

Instinct took over as I leapt in front of him, my knives raised just in time to meet the blow, colourful sparks exploding as pain bloomed along my arm, a constellation of shallow cuts and burns where the beast's strike had grazed me.

"I had it under control!" Atlas shouted.

"You're welcome," I said, wincing from the pain.

"Are you alright?"

"Peachy!" was all I could manage, a burning sensation radiating towards the rest of my body.

Sweat stung my eyes, blurring my vision as I dodged the wave of relentless attacks. Each time the chimaera struck, it came closer—each dodge left me more breathless than the last. I could hear Atlas' sword swings getting slower and heavier. It felt endless, this fight, as if time itself had stretched to the breaking point.

Finally, the lose of blood made the creature falter.

Without hesitation, I ran toward Atlas. He clasped his massive hands and launched me onto the chimaera's back in one practised motion. I landed and found the soft, exposed flesh of its neck where I stabbed again and again. Finally, with a last, desperate roar, the beast collapsed to the ground and died.

I hit the ground, breathless, the adrenaline still running wild through my body. This is going to hurt later, I thought. Atlas stood by my side, panting. He raised a furry paw, and I gave it a high five, my hand dwarfed by his.

As the battle's excitement faded, leaving only exhaustion, our focus shifted to making camp. We slipped into a comfortable silence, falling into familiar routines.

I gathered wood while he unpacked our supplies, setting out his favourite pots and pans. As he neatly organized them on a rock, I could almost taste the warmth of a filling dinner.

"You know," I called out, "one of these days, I'm going to take over the cooking, and you'll be stuck with firewood duty."

Atlas chuckled. "I'd love to see that."

The sun started setting, casting long shadows across the forest floor. I cleared a pit, the fire crackling to life beneath my hands, producing flames that danced in the growing darkness. I watched the warrior place a large pot filled with water over the fire and add some herbs. As it started bubbling, he seasoned some of the meat that he'd cut into small squares and added it to the boiling mixture.

There was something absurdly serene about this seven-foot leoninn warrior, so at ease as he chopped meat into perfect squares and sprinkled seasoning with a careful hand.

"You're staring again," Atlas said, not looking up from his work.

"You make it look effortless," I replied.

"Stick around. You might learn a thing or two."

He cut some vegetables before stirring the pot with a wooden spoon. As he adjusted the heat, the rich smell of meat and herbs mixed with the air. His big, calloused hands, used to gripping a sword, skilfully handled the pot as he tasted the stew, and added a pinch of seasoning. It was clear he enjoyed it, and it was hard not to be amazed by how smoothly he switched from warrior to chef.

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"Goat thigh stew," Atlas announced, handing me a brimming bowl. Steam curled and rose into the cold night air. I was so hungry I ripped it out of his hands.

"Don't judge me," I managed to say between mouthfuls. "Fighting makes me ravenous."

"Everything makes you ravenous," he grinned, showing just a hint of his fangs. "One day, I might have to cook an entire chimaera just to keep up with you."

"Hey, you're the one spoiling me with these meals." I gulped some water to help me swallow.

He shook his head. "I suppose I'll take that as a compliment."

Once, I would have hesitated to eat creatures like this chimaera—beasts with strange abilities, maybe even some sort of intelligence. But survival has a way of dulling the edges of morality, blurring the lines between what's right and necessary. I drained the last of the stew and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

"That was delicious! I'm going to wash up in the river, and maybe take a bath while I'm at it."

"If you need a bodyguard, I'm your leoninn," Atlas said.

"Thanks, but you can keep an eye out for monsters from here."

"Will do, but only because you asked nicely."

"And don't peek!" I added, and he huffed back.

Killing monsters and hunting for treasure always sounded heroic, but the reality? It left you soaked in blood, drenched in sweat, and smelling like you'd rolled through an ox pen. By the time I reached the water's edge, I couldn't strip down fast enough. My eyes instinctively scanned the surface for any danger, even though I knew no creature lurked in waters this shallow. Old habits die hard, though. You learn to stay on guard, even when you're exhausted, even when it's safe.

I stepped into the cold, the sand shifting beneath my feet. My hand instinctively brushed against the scar on my chest, the hollow place where doubt always found me in moments like this. This life—dangerous, chaotic—it hadn't been my choice, not really. But now, I wasn't sure I knew how to be anything else.

"Hey, don't stay in too long, or you'll freeze," Atlas called behind me. At least the company wasn't bad.

"Maybe I like the cold," I splashed some water in his general direction.

"Sure you do. Don't blame me if you turn into an icicle."

¨At least I'd be a clean icicle."

By the time I got back, Atlas was lounging against a fallen log, stripped down to his undergarments, eyes fixed on the fire. His fur, like all leonins, naturally repelled dirt and dust, so it wasn't often you'd catch one bothering to wash. They didn't seem to feel the cold either—his thick coat kept him perfectly warm through the night. He could practically sleep out here in a snowstorm while I'd be buried under layers, still shivering.

I settled down near the fire, trying to ease the tension in my aching muscles. Across from me, Atlas pulled out his sword and started wiping the enormous double blade with a cloth. He moved like the weapon was part of him: every swipe was precise, every gesture careful. He polished the engravings on the guard until they gleamed. Once satisfied, he slid the blade back into its sheath with a sigh, almost like the sword itself had been a job well done, and put it away safely.

"Next time, you should do the dishes," I said.

"Deal," he replied, stretching. "As long as you promise not to burn the stew."

"That happened once. Maybe twice. You make it sound like a tragedy." I sighed. "Guess I'm on cleaning duty until the end of my days..."

"How's your arm?" he asked, his light blue eyes flicking to the gashes on my upper arm. The firelight reflected in his pupils, narrowing them into slits.

I glanced at the wound "Looks like it's stopped bleeding."

"You were reckless. You're not as fast as you think you are."

"Excuse me?" I said, putting my hand on my chest in mock offense. "I certainly am!" I picked at the wound. "These blisters itch like hell."

"Stop that." Atlas rummaged through the pack beside him, then stood, making his way over. "Let me dress it."

"There's no need," I groaned, but one stern look silenced me. His large claws handled the delicate work with gentle precision, his touch oddly comforting despite the occasional sting of pain, the warmth of his palms contrasting with the coldness of the ointment.

"Is there anything you don't know how to do?"

"Turns out I still have some surprises left," his eyes met mine briefly before returning to the bandage. "Rei gave me some tips before we left. She wouldn't approve of how you've been throwing yourself into danger, though.."

"She's always been the voice of reason."

"Her wisdom's been missed."

"Are you saying I lack it?"

"Me? Never."

I smiled, but there was something about the silence afterward that gnawed at the edges of my thoughts. "I can't believe we're finally going home soon, seeing our friends again."

Atlas didn't reply right away, just gave the bandage a final tug before retreating to his seat by the fire. For a while, we stayed like that, listening to the sounds of the crackling fire and the rustle of leaves. I knew better than to ask what was weighing on his mind.

"It was quite the fight today" he said eventually. "But we came out on top, as always."

"We do make a good team."

"The best." He grinned, revealing his large fangs completely, and gave me a playful punch on my unbandaged shoulder that nearly threw me off balance.

"Careful, big guy, you'll do more damage than that chimaera. By the way, that stew you cooked might have been your best yet. Almost as impressive as your swordsmanship."

He smiled, proud. "I've nearly finished that book Gwar gave me on cooking herbs."

"You've been collecting herbs? Since when?"

"Since I realized how much you enjoy doing that little dance when you eat something you like."

I felt my face heat up. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't."

"It's not ringing any bells at all."

He rolled his eyes. "However, I would rather kill chimaeras than eat them. Their meat takes an absurd amount of time to tenderize."

"You're such a weirdo."

He leaned back, arms behind his head, the shadows softening his features.

"I've enjoyed our time together," he said. "I wish we could stay like this.¨

Shit.

"We had to stop running eventually," I blurted. "We can't go on like this; it's wearing us down. I've been concussed more times than I care to remember, and I've lost count of your scars. Now that things have calmed down, it's our best chance..."

"I know," he said, his voice tinged with frustration.

"We should rest," I suggested.

"Rest sounds good. I'll take the first watch." His gaze remained fixed on the fire.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, you did most of the work back there anyway."

"That's a lie, but I'm too tired to argue," I settled into my bedroll and let the warmth of the fire lull me into sleep.

"If it's worth anything, I wish we could stay like this too." My voice sounded too loud in the silence of the night. "Goodnight, Atlas."

"Goodnight," he replied, his voice barely a whisper.