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It was the final moments of foredawn, and the firmament lay naked with the lack of stars and northern shimmers.

Following Marek’s stabilization, the blazing sphere had carried out an entire cycle — a cycle that lasted as long as the shadow of a flying bird, or so Sigrid felt. Eels of fluctuating lights and eye-baking flashes popped in and out, yet her eyes hardly noticed when those brights went off and how the dim sunlights illuminated the cave where she and Marek lay.

Now, the immature morning rays shone and tinted the firmament with the color of blueberries, giving off a halo of torpor, inviting diurnal animals to stay slumbering within their lairs a bit longer.

Sigrid might be a nocturnal monster, but that did not stop her from taking the cue, and thus, she remained dozing with Marek, not daring to detach any of her three pairs of limbs from his form. And rightly so — his condition had elevated from ‘dying’ to ‘sound asleep.’ He occasionally vocalized and winced in evident discomfort, but the flame of his life flared with steady liveness.

Whenever Marek showed signs of anguish, Sigrid would respond like a nurse and bestow the sleeping man with a therapy of her own making. A dose of beak rubbing to silence a fit of coughs. A gentle embrace here and there, and shivers were expelled from his bones. And each time he grunted in pain, a soft lullaby would put an end to whatever battle was taking place in his sleep.

Her tending to him had an effect that bordered on magic; it filled her with pride.

It had been a long battle, one as hard as moving a boulder against the rapids, but the goal was fulfilled. There had been notorious losses, which coalesced Sigrid’s victory with a speck of bittersweetness; the consequences of these losses were yet to be confirmed, by Marek himself no less, but Sigrid had the hope that her hero would advance unhindered.

And that was precisely the only thing left to do — greet him in his awakening.

Rrmble.

And that awakening better be soon — the belly of both complained more and more frequently. And too much for the owl-wolfess’ embarrassment, her stomach roared louder.

Rrrmble.

With most serious wounds of hers closed and with Marek no longer threatened by coldness, it was about time Sigrid went on her way to bring food for the two of them, who had not consumed nutrients since their way to Vettija.

However, Sigrid refused to withdraw from the man and break the comfortable embrace. Sigrid was not only tired after a long night of watching over the unconscious man, but she wanted to ensure it was herself the first thing Marek saw upon coming out of his long dream.

Call it a silly whim, but after everything the fighter went through, Sigrid desired to be present the moment Marek vied over death and lifted his eyelids to witness the female who, just like a spiritual guardian, looked after his sick self.

Rrrrmble.

On the other hand, her entrails growled like a grumpy bear, and her belly vibrated like the chord of a broken harp; if the demands of her empty stomach had not been fulfilled, the visceral tantrum could bring Marek back to wakefulness. It goes without saying that if something like that happened, Sigrid would bury her head in the depths of her mane and subsequently turn her wings into a bastion that would isolate her from her man’s eyes.

In her somnolescent state, Sigrid ultimately agreed to hunt for food as soon as her body felt less heavy and the landscape had lost its blue tones. Morning would arrive at its fullest before a hare had the chance to dig a lair.

… Sniff-sniff.

Nevertheless, whatever was left of her nap had been interrupted — Her overdeveloped nostrils had picked up something floating in the air. It was a mixture of aromas, one not found pleasant, composed of the scent of frozen dirt and wet straw, with a dash of… feces.

Bleaters! And it was nearby.

Another scent coalesced with the wind, one dense and raw, sticking to the inner walls of her beakholes with pungent clinginess. Undoubtedly blood.

The bleater was wounded, possibly seriously crippled if the intense aroma was a hint to go by. A predator must have injured it, and now the beast sought shelter in a hole amid the mountain.

An easy morsel! The nourishment came to her on its own volition — she no longer had to separate from Marek for long!

Sigrid started to stir into lucidity, breaking the chains of her tiredness and pushing her senses to work harder. The scent intensified; the goat approached with surprising stealth. Poor thing, all that trouble to elude a predator only to step into the maws — beak — of another one.

The steely color peeked out of the thin slits of Sigrid’s dozy eyelids, her ears wincing as her body broke through the momentum of hours of sleep.

Sniff-snuff. “...” Her beak reacted to another aroma, one minuscule compared to the sharp odor of spilled life and filthy hoppers, but one odor that brought questions to Sigrid’s newly awakened mind.

The mountain where she and Marek stood drew the boundary between two regions of the Frostscapes and did not accommodate predators throughout the elevated paths. No raptors, no bears, no wolves, no greys, nor humans.

The few beasts of that region that could prey upon bleaters would hardly let them escape their clutches.

Sigrid raised her head, snuffling at the air, trying to discern the nature behind that familiar aroma. Soon, her upper body stood above the height of the rocky bed, ears straight and moving, searching for an intruder.

Finally, her head twirled at the entrance where the improvised windbreak lay, and she spotted two individuals — the bleater and its killer, the latter holding the former between its jaws.

The trespasser in question held half a horned animal and stared at Sigrid with its three shiny eyes. It was a warg — a female one.

It was Nija. The furtive warg was back, and she had just circumvented the broken pillars without generating any sound but a faint tip, a noise attributed to the few drops of blood rather than her pads.

Sigrid threw her hunger out of her needs without a second thought and let out a prolonged and low hiss, bristling her mane and hefting one of her wings in an intimidating display, releasing her hold over the weapon that radiated warmth.

Such a threatening exhibition should not be needed, but wargs are a stubborn kind, bearers of a memory as lasting as their hunger. Once every moon, they had to be reminded of who the apex predator was.

Nija blinked with that unreadability that was so characteristic of her before lessening the pressure over her maw, letting the slain animal drop with a wet smack.

A high-pitched growl escaped from Sigrid, her posture hinting that a pounce would happen at the next infringement. She could not understand why Nija had returned after being set free from the domain of an elemental enchantress. What could she possibly want from her? Kill her in her sleep? Was the warg’s hatred for Howling Talon so intense that she resorted to sneaking in to conduct assassination?

Whichever the case, if Nija took another step in, she would figure out the hard way that Sigrid was far from weakened. The wargess was simply no match for her.

“So…” Nija spoke up, her voice devoid of emotion. “I deduced you would need some flesh after being secluded here after an entire cycle.” The muzzle bobbed toward the chimera, inviting her to take the chunk of meat.

Sigrid fell silent but did not discard her mask of fierceness, leering with sharpness as she tried to read the wargess before her. It would be a lie to admit Sigrid was not puzzled by Nija’s lack of apparent ill intent, but she still had her reservations.

“I see I haven’t earned your trust,” Nija added, and Sigrid narrowed her eyes. “It is to be expected. In the end, I almost took your life at the latest dusk.”

“... ‘Almost’ is making a lake out of a poodle,” Sigrid muttered after a beat, almost whispering, her stare firm and unwavering the whole time.

“Mm, I guess you are right; that much I concede,” Nija remarked after humming for one second. Did her maw corner bend up? “Regardless, I believe an apology is in order. You are truly the legend the wargs bark about, Howling Talon, worthy of taking place among wargkind’s greatest adversaries.”

The tenseness of Sigrid’s ears loosened. “That is not my name…”

Nija slanted her head to the side. “Oh… indeed, I remember you telling us that much.” Nija seized the ease of tension and sat. “To think my kind have called you wrongly all these seasons. May I know the real name tied to the legend they fear so much? If it is not a bother.”

Sigrid lowered her wing, abandoning the last element of her intimidating stance. “Sigrid… It’s Sigrid.”

“Well, thank you, Sigrid. You defeated the wicked entity, something I deemed impossible—” A pause. “—until you proved us wrong.”

“Us?”

Nija nodded. “Boris and I. By killing our mas— Kiya, you have set us free. On behalf of the troll and me, we are hugely grateful for your actions, Sigrid.”

With her mask clogged with confusion, Sigrid saw how Nija lowered her head in what would be a bow. Seeing a warg referring to her by her real name on top of giving thanks was as unexpected as the idea of forging mateship with a human.

Thereby, with the same wonder and awkwardness a newborn owlet observed a stick bug, Sigrid stared at how Nija lowered and raised her head. What was she supposed to say now? Would a ‘you are welcome’ be enough? Should she express strength or friendliness?

A twinkling had passed since Nija completed her reverence, and sheer awkwardness compelled Sigrid to speak up. “I—”

Rrrrmble.

It took Sigrid too long to concoct an answer, so her impatient belly opted to speak first. Naturally, shame prompted her to break eye contact for the first time since the two monstresses shared gazes that morning, head sinking a bit between her shoulders, and ears leaning ahead low.

There had been no way Nija missed the abashment washing over the owl-wolfess, yet she elicited no reaction, not a puzzled head tilt or a wolfish grin. “I told you, you need the flesh.”

“Ri-right…” Sigrid managed to face Nija once more, but it only lasted for a second before she started to carefully adjust herself to move off and retrieve the piece of goat.

“Wait,” but before trying to slip her wing off from Marek, Nija interrupted. “Your movements might disturb the human. If you allow it, I can take the meat to you. Are you comfortable with that?” Surprise hit first — a warg showing concern for a human? It was no wonder Sigrid hesitated for a couple of eyeblinks. But however farfetched the wargess’ demeanor was, a slack nod gave Nija the stamp of approval.

Without any other gesture on her part, Nija grabbed the goatflesh with her jaw and moved off from seated position. The casualness in the wargess’ steps threw Sigrid off in more than one way, and her silver eyes dared not blink as they followed the calm visitor.

Nonetheless, the sense of threat no longer lurked in Sigrid’s mind.

Within a strange couple of seconds, Nija rounded the bed to stand in front of Sigrid, the sleeping man, and the sword impaled into the rock, now back to metal levels of coolness. Just then, Sigrid picked up a hint of caution coming out of the warg when the latter eased up on her movements and padded ahead.

It did not matter how passive Nija might appear; Sigrid was not eager to let the lupine monster approach one jaw snap away from Marek, just to make sure.

But as if the wargess read the chimera’s very thought, she halted at a safe distance before Sigrid had the chance to issue a warning, letting the goatflesh fall from her mouth afterward. Nija then stepped backward, behind the runed sword, and reseated herself.

“There. You are free to eat,” the wolven stated. “Fear me not, Sigrid. I have no intention of bringing harm to you or your human partner.”

Sigrid’s eyes shifted between the carcass and the wolven, but after another embarrassing grumble of her stomach, she ultimately focused on the flesh and used her wing to drag the chunk closer to her.

Because of the incessant demands of her stomach, the rather musty smell of goatflesh even felt like cooked meat to her nostrils. Thus, once the flesh loomed within her reach, Sigrid did not miss a beat in sinking her beak into the tissue.

The air became thick with the sound of strands of meat being torn apart like paper. Quickly, perhaps too quickly to even let the taste of flesh spread within, the white of bone was exposed to the outside, and its presence lasted no more than a few winks before disappearing with three crunches.

The bleater’s leftovers lasted as long as a loaf of bread inside a henhouse before vanishing in the beak’s depths. The only proof of the existence of a one-hundred-pound half a caprid was a stain of red in the crisp rock.

Sigrid clicked her mouth a couple more times and then cleaned the blood out of the edge of her beak with her tongue before locking her eyes with Nija’s once again. The wargness reacted in the least to the chimera’s rapacious display — the idea that the chunk of goatflesh could have been her if the owl-wolfess did not have the sudden turn of benevolence sparked no fear whatsoever.

“... Thanks…” Sigrid pushed herself to talk.

“You are welcome. This is the least I can do after all the troubles Kiya made you go through.”

“Kiya…” Sigrid whispered, and the food she had just eaten suddenly felt sour. “Ehm… Nija, I—”

“Yyej,” Nija cut Sigrid off. “My name is Yyej. We wargs name ourselves based on the sounds we produce during our time as pups. I was quite the yelper in youth, or so my parents believed.”

“Why did the vixen call you Nija?”

“We, Boris and I, were not individuals back then. We were pets and slaves. Kiya renamed us as she saw fit.”

“So, the troll… Icicle Bash… had a name of his own, too?”

“I suppose, but don’t ask what that is. The poor beastman can barely speak human language.”

“That’s… impressive on its own, actually.”

“The fruits of Kiya’s disciplining. Her yells were louder than blizzards and struck like a barbed whip. Forbidden from repelling her, Boris and I had no choice but to obey. But be concerned about the troll no more; he fled as soon as his wounds healed.”

Sigrid’s mask curdled into a half-snarl at the memory of the Spirit and the many injuries she and Marek sustained because of her. “That vixen is among the nastiest things I’ve ever seen…”

“You are howling to the pack.”

“She called herself Spirit… hoomans in Võshla and Grætøh praise them. Worship them. Please tell me not all spirits are like her. Imbi’s faith may crumble into bits if she realizes Spirits are that horrible...”

“She overused that title among the settlements of Vettija, and for several seasons, they deemed her as such. But I don’t think she belonged to the kind of entities that humans worship so much. She bore authority over the monsters of the snowy lands and had domain over the winds and ice, but her mannerism… it was simply too mundane, like a spoiled cub that learned how to blow out ice a season before his littermates did.”

“What did she even want from us? She wanted Marek, yet she wanted to avoid fighting me…”

“Kiya had… an unorthodox craving for human flesh, male flesh exclusively. And it did seem the man you call Marc matched her tastes quite well.”

Sigrid twirled her head into an ell, a half grimace forming on her avian face. “‘Craving for human flesh’? ‘Her tastes’? Did she plan on devouring Marc?”

“No, but the result would have been all the same. No male had survived a mating with that entity.”

“Mating…” Sigrid echoed quietly, beak ajar as the wheels of her mind spun.

She brushed off the cues back then, but looking back on it, why was Marek naked from the waist up? His clothes had not been shredded with violence but merely removed. And Kiya… she had her mammaries uncovered, something that had not been the case when she met her the first time.

Wait… Hoomans may be attached to clothes, but they need to get out of them during bathing and…

“Y-you are telling me…” As the implications sank deeper, a burning sensation began to emerge across her mask. “Kiya brought Marc to her lair to… to…” Realization caused her eyes to shoot wide. “ Mate with him?! ”

The near-blank face of Sigrid warped into a snarl, and her ears pricked up as indignation sprang up, bringing a squeal along with it; the sound even made Yyej’s ears wince.

“Are you telling me that the vixen seduced my Marc into her lair? That she tried to… t-to… rub herself on Marc’s… sex?! ”

“Kiya bears enchanting magic, powerful in males. Few men have the means to—”

Another squeal. “Malethief! So that’s why Marek went on his own. The vixen lured him with cheap tricks! Nasty! Mischief!”

“Calm down, Sigrid. Kiya is no more. If you keep barking like that, you will—” a muffled grumble manifested from Sigrid’s spot. “—disturb the human.”

“ Kee— sorrysorrysorry…” Sigrid eeked herself silent as soon as she realized Marek had begun shuffling in his sleep, clearly perturbed by the fuss. After quieting her own voice, Sigrid lowered her head and rubbed her beak across Marek’s cheek, allaying him with avian hushes.

Sigrid’s gentle nuzzle had an immediate effect; Marek’s eyelids halted from further quivering, and his warped lips eased off. Whatever detriment Sigrid’s squeals had caused in Marek, they were banished by the soothing caresses of her bill.

Only when Marek no longer groaned did Sigrid raise her head and whistle in relief. She desired Marek’s awakening, but not in such a brusque manner. Besides, there was a warg nearby, and the last thing Sigrid wanted was for Marek to feel in danger immediately after opening his eyes.

“I realize now,” Yyej commented, drawing Sigrid’s gaze back to her. “No master and pet. No mere partners. More than friends. This man called Marc is your mate, am I right?”

Yyej’s remarks felt like tepid water running down her mane; her statement was not off the mark either. “We are no— well, yes— I mean, not quite, but… It’s complicated…” After the series of stutters, Sigrid fell silent and averted her gaze.

The wargess’ sole response was blinking; it would not be a surprise that Sigrid’s nonanswer caused nothing but confusion, but whether that had been the case, Yyej showed no signs of puzzlement.

“Complicated?” Yyej’s tone was distant, as though talking to someone not present. “No… I don’t think it is complicated. You fear the species discrepancies between the two of you would draw the ire of the humans, not upon you, but upon Marc.”

She hit the nail; Sigrid’s saucer-like eyes screamed that much.

“H— How did you—”

“You are a fearsome predator, Sigrid; you strike like skyfire, and your wings hardly rustle the leaves when they flap. I cannot tell how, but your emotions are as easy to read as a seacow’s movements.”

Chimeric’s ears rocked backward. Seacow?! Roode! What does this warg think she is to compare me with a seacow?!

“Besides, your situation is not unheard of among my kind.”

“ Hmph ! And what would you know about… ‘species discrepancies’ anyway?” Her struck nerve compelled her to childishly huff in response, breaking eye contact and puffing her mane. “Wargs only interact among yourselves, only approaching other living beings when hungry or irrationally angry.”

Sigrid’s tone did not invite kindness, but Yyej showed no sign of being offended. “As a general rule, yes. But once every moon, there are rumors of a warg interacting— courting , another species. ”

The word ‘courting’ drew Sigrid’s eyes back to the wolven. The word ‘species’ melted her irritation and replaced it with curiosity.

“What? Courting a kind different from their own? That is kind of… outrageous.” —And intriguing, it seemed.

Sigrid’s interest grew even more when Yyej gave a nod. “A living being foreign to our own. Your skepticism came out as no surprise; most wargs will also have trouble believing such a thing.”

As the two monstresses conversed, Marek shuffled in his sleep, gripping the wargness’ gaze and making her pause. Sigrid followed the tri-eyed stare and found Marek at the end, then her gaze went back to the warg. Her sight skipped from Yyej to Marek many times within a short timespan before it eventually landed on the wolven.

The feathers and fur from her mane and above puffed up like cotton in what seemed to be scandalousness. “N-no way. Do wargs court hoomans?”

“...” A triad of eyes widened, then blinked. “Ah— Snrkrk— of course not,” Yyej giggled, showing amusement for the first time.

Sigrid’s tuft deflated, but her asking was not done. Her nosiness pushed her to keep inquiring. “Manticores?”

More wolfish chuckles. “Wargs would rather mate with a human than with those twoheaded savages. No, I meant a species not so different from us.”

Sigrid took a moment to think on the matter, eyes pointing at the crystalline ceiling while her brain looked for answers. Yyej could have stopped being enigmatic and given a straight answer, but it did seem she found Sigrid’s mannerisms a bit funny.

Seeing the enemy of her kind in such a whimsical situation felt almost surreal.

“—! Wolves.” It came Sigrid’s response, ears tilting straight as he spoke with unhindered curiosity. Yyej’s slow blinking told Sigrid the unspoken question had been hit. “You find common wolves… attractive?”

“Their small and slim frame; their not-so-intimidating features; their two, even eyes. All these attributes may attract some eccentric warg. Usually, it is the male warg who sets his eyes upon the she-wolf.”

“What about the strength difference? Wouldn’t the warg hurt the smaller mutt? And the language difference? Aren’t wolves scared of wargs? What happens to the packs on each side once they find out?” Sigrid could not help seeing herself in a warg’s place and shot all her suppressed doubts at Yyej like a volley of arrows.

Yyej paused for a bit, clearly digesting the array of questions, although there was no overwhelmed or annoyed look on her muzzle. “As you may be familiar with, we wargs are not mere beasts; we do indeed control our strength and, generally, abstain from harming our mates. Language is indeed an issue, and that’s why you have not seen us break words with mutts. Nonetheless, we still keep wolfish mannerisms in our manner of speech, and we can convey certain emotions with wolves and vice versa, although in a very limited way.

“As if they fear us: yes, their reaction to us varies from showing rows of bared teeth to lowering their tails amid their legs, with next to no in-between. Have you seen how greys and humans interact?” Sigrid nodded. “Well, wolves and wargs are not that different. For wolves, we are monsters, and for us, wolves are primitive animals. Needless to say, wargs snarl upon those who dare to court the lesser, who may even suffer a gruesome reprehension or banishment once the beastly affair is revealed.”

“I see…” Sigrid lowered her ears, and her eyes went dull with dejection, falling to point at Yyej’s feet. I should’ve bothered asking…

“Nevertheless—” Sigrid’s eyes flicked up, back to the lupine speaker. “—I’ve heard records, perhaps more myth than story, of wargs who succeeded in courting the lesser wolves, the two migrating to distant lands in the West in order to keep their mateship afloat.”

Yyej then paused and stared beyond the she-chimera and the cave, leaving Sigrid with a blank mask as if she had her bedtime story cut short.

“... And then what?” Sigrid broke the suspension. “What happened to these couples? Did they find a home? Did they die? How does that story help me?” She did not mean to say that last question.

The wargess’ ears did not wince in the least at the emitted sounds, her look spelling thoughtfulness.

“Have you heard of the Sea of Shattered Plates, Sigrid?”

Sigrid tilted her head back, taken aback by the unrelated question. “You mean… the plates floating on the sea in the far west? Yes, but why does that have to—”

“Along its edge dwells a clan of wargs, known for their reduced bulk and soft colors, weaker than the wargs of this Frostscape’s region, yet they bear the swiftness of the winds on their feet.” Yyej focused on Sigrid once more, her mien gentle yet serious. “It is also said it is easier to hear a squirrel’s snoring than their pads on the snow.”

The white covering Sigrid’s mask did not help her hide her utter confusion. What was the wargess’ deal? Did all the females of her species behave like that? Letting unspoken questions float in the air for others to puzzle out? Alas, at least she was not violent.

Wait. Sigrid mused. Reduced bulk. Soft color… Sneaky…

Sigrid then observed Yyej from head to toe. Certainly, Yyej weighed no more than two-thirds of what a conventional warg of her sex would. Her fur was mainly a gentle blue, a color Sigrid had not witnessed on other wargs. And as for the speed and quietness of her steps…

“Yyej… Are you—”

“ Unghh… ” Sigrid’s comment died in her beak as Marek grunted, the nerves of his face wrinkling as discomfort tormented him in his sleep.

“There, there.” Sigrid was quick to react and deliver yet another dose of nuzzles, easing his groans for an unknown time that night and morning.

As soon as Sigrid ended nursing the man, she stared high to meet Yyej’s sight, but only a lonely sword greeted her.

“He will awake soon,” Sigrid heard from behind; she gyrated her head and found the wargess standing on top of the windbreak. “I better not be here when that happens. Besides, I have my own pack to return to, pups and all, although they must be growth hunters.” Yyej turned to the outside. “Humans fear the monstrous kind, Sigrid. Whatever you and your human pretend to do together won’t be tolerated by your mate’s peers. But that is natural; a couple of wolves often leave the pack and create their own far away. Be not afraid of what your mate’s kind thinks of you two; you are too strong to care about such trivial things, and so is your human.”

“Yyej,” Sigrid commented, her voice friendly. “Thank you for the meat… and the chatter. You were— are truly kind.”

One would need hawk eyes in order to discern the grin across Yyej’s mouth. “I must be the one to offer thanks, Sigrid. I am free to join my family because of you. I hope my pups recognize me.”

“They will,” Yyej peeked back at Sigrid. “No monster meets a warg like you and forgets it. Ever. ”

In this instance, one did not need acute eyesight to see the wolfess smiling. “So long, Sigrid. I hope our next meeting takes place in the far West.”

Without more ado, Yyej jumped down the windbreak and accelerated out of the mountain. There had been no swash or thud in her steps; two seconds after stepping down the ice column, her presence scattered like ice particles in the breeze.

“So long, Yyej.”

The chamber was back to housing two souls, and the only conversation was between the wind’s hum and Marek’s snores.

Sigrid took her gaze off the outside and focused once more on the sleeping man, who rested placidly like a snowcat that ate a bit too much.

She could not suppress beaming at the view.

The West has few trees and critters. The East sounds better.

After giving the man one last peck on his lips, Sigrid closed her eyes and adjusted herself around Marek, retaking the position she had before Yyej arrived.

The last meal made her sleepy, and she felt like taking another nap before welcoming Marek from his prolonged slumber.

That decision would cost her the sight of seeing Marek opening his eyelids.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

Deflect the gusts of the storms with a shield.

Endure the sting of countless wasps.

Break through the hardest of glaciers with the tip of a dagger.

That was what Marek had experienced for gods know how long.

He had been swinging his arms and kicking with his legs against the invisible enemy. No weapon felt within his grasp, nor did the leather on his feet and hands; much as his legs and arms swayed, his eye could not perceive them. Sight, along with the other three senses, had abandoned him; only touch prevailed, and it only reacted to pain.

Marek could only discern he was midway through combat against a foe that bore no body and possessed no weakness, and for a reason he could not fully grasp, it was winning. He, in turn, was dying.

A point in time had been reached where the enemy pushed him against an edge that led to annihilation, striking his weakened body through the use of paradox itself, jabbing him with red-hot needles only to experience sheer frigidness later.

First, his shoulder, searing with pain as if molten steel had been poured into the wound and then quickly cooled down. The enemy also fancied the bludgeoning weapons, its skill at waving them nothing short of accurate and lethal — every strike hit his chest, blasting the air out of his lungs; after many pounds directed straight to his ribcage, breathing had become no mean feat.

The one-sided fight went on for agonizing… Hours? Days? Hard to pin down; time froze just as his fingers did, several of which felt like smoke within his hand.

Futile — keeping one’s eyes open amid a sandstorm levels of uselessness. Marek was fated to die, he realized.

The undetectable foe had victory within its abstract grasp. When the heart began beating slower, the fighter seemed to recover part of his sight, catching glimpses of fog. Fog? Should it not have been light?

Oh, right, Mihzskap, was it named? Most people called it The Threshold — the plane between planes, the one-way path to eternity, limbo, hell, or simply the backyard of some god.

So that was it; he lost the fight. It was not over yet, but the result was as obvious as a dirk tipping his neck. He would die.

Marek could not say the result was unexpected. He knew the risks of venturing into the untamed land that was the Frostscape. Seek and kill a wyrm with only a pair of magical toothpicks and a fire-spitting pipe? Such a nonsensical idea.

But what was the alternative? Lying on the bed until the Arcane Infection cramped his body and pulled his soul apart? Not the most attractive way of departing this broken world. He lived for the sword and so would die by it, even if the ‘sword’ in question was abstract.

…

What did The Threshold hold for him now that he no longer belonged to the ranks of the living? Would he float like a leaf in the wind until a god or demon claimed his soul? He wondered how long that could take or if, during his stay, Marek could see the spirits of his old compeers.

He was not eager to see all of them — his relationship with a handful of mercenaries was barely better than the one he shared with those he had been commanded to kill. In the end, only one friend was deemed above all others: Aurelio.

It was not necessary for Marek to spend the rest of eternity alongside his old master — that would be a stretch. He only required some minutes, time enough to apologize for sheathing the cursed sword between his ribs and to ask for forgiveness.

Sorrow then flooded into Marek’s heart, not because of his death or the possibility of not meeting with Aurelio once more. The sadness stemmed from the fact that he could no longer interact with another individual dear to him.

Sigrid.

What had become of her? What had the wicked elemental done to her in his absence? The uncertainty was torture in itself. Could he stand his eternal stay in The Threshold or any other afterlife plane in the knowledge that Sigrid died fighting a lost battle? Even if she somehow escaped the elemental’s clutches, how torn down would she be after witnessing her dear friend experiencing a dog’s death?

‘Her dear friend’? Heavens, even in death, Marek was dense.

The now-dead fighter did want to change that — Sigrid likely did want to change that. He loved her! But now that an existential plane separated them both, whatever Marek desired had become a foreguess of the past.

Marek’s thoughts lingered on Sigrid’s latest words before he left the living plane; he failed to make out the exact words back then, but it did seem the process of dying brought clarity of mind and, hence, good memory.

I should’ve said back then, but… I love you, Marc.

Such a melodic array of words, like the lyrics of a song aimed at his heart, hearing them was both punishment and alleviation. To think the sentiment was mutual.

I love you, Marc.

The words rang out like a breeze throughout the foggy void. Marek could even feel his body buzz and warm with her birdlike voice.

…

It took Marek some time before realizing he no longer felt cold. Likewise, the burning sensation on his many wounds had lessened.

Then a hum, one he was familiar with, replaced the echo in his memories and chimed around. There was no mistake: that was Sigrid’s song! She did it during his fit down in the valley, and now it was back.

Was she in The Threshold, too? Did she die? Gods claimed the souls of no monsters, so would she wander the plane indefinitely?

Before Marek had the time to inquire further on his own questions, the fog began to dispel into blackness. It was not the kind of darkness that signaled the end of all, but rather the one ‘witnessed’ when people closed their eyes before sinking into the sea of dreams.

The pain dwindled. The cold disseminated into a harmless vapor.

The enemy Marek had been fighting for a timeless lapse suddenly turned tail and disappeared as if the very hum was a bestial growl that scared it off.

The Threshold then was gone, and so was the croon. Marek no longer stood at the entrance of the very afterlife; rather, he hovered in the dreamland.

Weirdly enough, the moment the melody vanished, the memories of that plane became hazy, as if they were the dream within a dream all along. Perhaps they were, Marek thought, and eventually convinced himself.

And speaking of those visions of the sleeping mind, they popped in and out; like fireworks, they made a spectacle before fading out in a globe of smoke. The dreams were not always pleasant; several were reconstructions of his many hardships.

Bearing the unfair punishment of his uncle. Fighting zealots of the New Republic. Even Madakai appeared in a couple of scenes.

But every time despair began to grow — that he felt his teeth falling off — his cheek would feel warm, and a dulcet tune would leak into his nightmares, ultimately shattering the unpleasant illusions. Marek then reappeared, floating in the tranquil darkness, in expectation of another spectacle orchestrated by his psyche.

Eventually, no other dreamlike scenery would emerge; eventually, not even the black background would be there to receive the dreamwalker.

And that time had come, and therefore, Marek Blakesley saw something he never expected to see again: the real world.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

Countless regions of his body stung.

His mouth felt like cotton, and his tongue like bark against his dried lips.

Marek could swear his eyelids were stitched together, given the difficulty in opening them wide.

And then movement: it was like the air itself had solidified into hands that pressed him down with insistence.

Awful — that was the right word to describe his current status. It reminded him of that one time when, after cutting an air elemental in half, there was a windful explosion, and he was blasted into a group of pipelines, losing consciousness for hours.

He could recall with great detail the pitches that generated his bones’ groans every time the guild’s medic cracked his spine. Also, that fetid stench of that lotion against burns — who dumps seething water down the pipes?

But throwing his annoying soreness aside, Marek felt… secure, oddly comfortable even, at least as comfortable as one recovering from a carriage crash could be.

After vying through innumerable nightmares, after defeating the demons that haunted his dreams, Marek had survived.

How? He could only guess. At what cost? He had to check that for himself. Nevertheless, those were not the relevant questions. Once he had digested the fact that he lived, Marek only cared about confirming one more thing.

“... Sig?” His voice was coarse, and he felt as if sawdust and splinters were stuck to the walls of his throat. The inertia of slumber denied all movement, and raising his head to search was not within his immediate capabilities.

Not like it was necessary — the fur pattern that filled his view told him the female he was looking for lay before him.

Sigrid whistled past his head, and the tender breath of her nostrils blew on his scalp, producing waves across his coal-colored hair and making it wave like pasture.

Sleepiness loosened its grasp, and Marek noticed he was wrapped in Sigrid’s embrace and other furs. It was surprising how little force her body exerted over him, not unlike that one time with the troll.

Groaning quietly, Marek inched away from Sigrid’s chest, struggling to angle his face and glance at the chimera’s sleepy mask.

“... Sig…” He saw her, the niveous maiden in her beauty sleep, her closed eyelids blended with the rest of her face, only discernible because of her fanned eyelashes; lines of dried red covered her features, and a mark of violence stood out at the side of her beak, but such injuries did little to taint her image.

She was as beautiful as the last time he caught her grace.

After an unreal period trapped inside the darkness of unconsciousness, uncertain he would catch the light of the blazing sphere, the image of Sigrid cuddling alongside him triggered a tear from escaping his right eye — it felt like seeing one’s spouse after returning from a year-long war.

“... S-sigrid…” He called out for her, his voice barely louder than seconds before. His throat really felt like a drained sea. When was the last time he drank water? How long had he been unconscious?

Marek saw the lids twitch, but otherwise, his utterance failed to draw her back to wakefulness. Not done yet, Marek licked his lips with the little saliva available in his mouth and spoke up once again. “Sigrid.”

A lupine ear audibly flapped, and quivers appeared on her eyelashes. Within moments, a steel-colored line shone on Sigrid’s face as her eyelids began to heave open.

With half-open eyes, Sigrid blinked; thereafter, the lids retracted up further, and the glow of the orbs increased. Finally, Sigrid’s eyes had widened like plates the instant she witnessed the fighter, no longer unconscious, and his bruised mouth slightly curled up into a smile.

“Marc…” her words came out of her ajar beak, irises quivering inside her eyes.

Marek elicited a slow, almost painful, nod. “You d-did it… You won over— krre! ”

Comfort slackened its embrace off by a speck, and anguish peaked momentarily. Sigrid had pushed Marek’s battered form onto herself with haste.

“Not me, you. You woke up. You woke up, Marc! Fwe— Y-you finally w-woke up… . ” Sigrid’s voice choked into whistles and hoots, and the flow of tears resumed after one day-and-night cycle.

The man remained speechless as Sigrid pressed him against the tuft of her collarbone, his head deep into the furred thickness, skipping on the chimera’s chest at the cadency of the latter’s wails of sadness, relief, and happiness.

“ Hooho… I t-thought I would lo-lost you… fweah… tha— that cold wo-would take you away from m-me.” The hug grew more intense; Sigrid did not notice how her strength increased, but Marek did not care about the twinge of pain it produced.

“It was a long day… It was a nasty day! Hoo hooh… Rest fled me like a hare… I feared that if I slept a lot and woke up, I— hooho— I wo-would find out you no longer breathed… and that your heart was qu-qu-qui—”

“Hush, girl. I’m fine. Everything is fine. I’m not going anywhere…” Marek broke his silence, managing to relocate his arms behind Sigrid and offer a hug of his own. Sigrid’s fur felt soft against his bare skin, tickling many parts of his body that would otherwise be stinging with pain.

“I’m the strongest human out there, remember? What are the elements compared to vampires and wargs?”

“ Booht— you looked so weak… hohou. F-for a time I tho-thought— fwud— you would freeze-ze to death…”

“Blakesley is— koff— an expert in turning dire situations around. There, there,” he rubbed Sigrid’s back with his hands. In reality, holding a conversation was rather difficult to pull off, but to cheer Sigrid up, he kept going. “Cry no more, please. Your sobs will worsen your wounds.”

Sigrid did not follow his recommendation immediately, although she managed to reduce her wails to whimpers. “Y-you… pinehead… You cannot trick me by making y-your voice firm. I can hear the pain in y-you…”

Marek snorted inside Sigrid’s mane, an act that made his throat burn. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m just playing to be the tough guy you always admired…”

“ Hoohoh… Unconvincing…”

“And yet— kff— I succeeded, despite the handicaps… Didn’t I?”

A whistle came out, one less heavy in sadness. “A bit… You are that strong…”

The conversation paused after that half-humorous exchange, and the only words that followed were made out of gentle breathings and the rhythm of the couple’s heartbeats.

Marek’s top of his head felt cold and wet after Sigrid sprinkled his dark hairs with tears, and although the she-monster failed to notice it, the tuft of her chest had, too, been moistened by liquid happiness.

So welcoming was their embrace that Marek felt tempted to fall asleep once more, to sink into Sigrid’s inviting coat and expect to rest further.

Five minutes in, and Marek muttered, “Feeling better?” He felt how Sigrid’s head bobbed. “That’s my girl… One day, eh? It must have been difficult…”

More whistles. “It was…”

“ Kfh… Forgive me. I placed a burden upon your shoulders…” His hands timidly explored a region of Sigrid’s back, fingertips digging into the snowy grassland that was her backside. Curious… this is the first time I caress her with my bare hands.

It was then that Marek realized he had no shirt. Not that he minded — the coldness of the Frostscape could not pierce through Gebate’s ‘coziest blanket.’ His skin, albeit bare, could not be more sheltered.

“Never a burden… a gift…” The expression squeezed another tear from Marek, intensifying his hug and dipping his fingers into the furry grassland. The sentiments you have developed, Blakesley… —? What is…?

However, a few seconds in, Marek’s thoughts drifted as a sensation ‘grew’ along his fingers — while stroking the root of Sigrid’s wing, Marek discerned something was off.

His touching felt amiss, incomplete, as if he skipped details on the fur pattern or, more precisely, those skipped him . An element was missing, and whatever that was, it did not belong to the owl-wolfess.

Marek’s brows knitted closer. “Sig… my hands feel weird…” It was impossible for Marek not to notice how Sigrid stiffened at these words. The tenderness of her hug, too, decreased. “Did… something happen to them?”

Sigrid was in the process of falling back to blueness, Marek observed. If whatever happened to his hands saddened the owl-wolfess, he better steel himself for something disheartening.

“... Yes… something happened.” Sigrid confirmed with a murmur.

“So it did… May you, ehm, loosen a bit? You don’t need to tell me; I will check it out myself.”

Sigrid hesitated for a few seconds before nodding and adjusting herself. Wings, arms, and even her legs unbraced like belts, allowing the chill to cling to the human’s unprotected skin, nearly making him groan because of the sudden temperature shift. Pants off as well? Doesn’t matter; first thing first…

Without the she-chimera pressing onto him, Marek managed to shuffle two feet away from Sigrid until he was free to inspect the reason behind his strange sensation.

First, he saw the owl-wolfess’ downcast face; second, his left palm. One, two, three… five? Where was the fourth stick? Counting from his thumb to his pinky, the finger that should have been his ring finger was now a stump as long as its respective phalanx.

His gaze then drifted from his left hand to the right one, a shadow of surprise present on his features. The other hand was not any better — both ring and little fingers had their tips claimed by the merciless cold.

The remaining fingers were whole, but marks of red hues stuck to the surface. No longer immersed in the chimera’s fur, the numbness in the small extremities was palpable.

“Ouh… so it was that…” Marek nonchalantly voiced.

“I’m so sorry…” Marek took his eyes off his hand to see Sigrid once more. Her eyes were half closed, and her ears were leaning low. “I— I couldn’t save your fingies… phewt… ” The eyelid margins sparked as tears piled up, resembling a dam on the verge of breaking down. “I w-was not warm enough— ahwoo… ” She broke into wails and used her hands to rub her teary eyes.

“No, no, no. Howl no more, Sig, please,” Marek reached out for Sigrid’s cheek. “ Gahr— This is a rat’s bite. This is nothing compared to what that witch could have done.”

“ Hoowoo… B-but you need the fingies to slash beasts… heewt… And hoomans cannot have their fingies baaack!”

“Maybe, but the most important fingers are the thumb, index, and middle ones. After an evening of practicing my adroitness, the gone fingers won’t be missed by their brothers.”

“R-r-really?” Sigrid finally removed her hand from her face and tossed a somewhat rosy yet weepy stare at Marek.

“The conditioning will take time, but it can be done.”

Sigrid whistled more before wiping her beak with the mantle. “It was not only the fingies… I failed in keeping a couple of your t-toes too…”

My toes? Marek wiggled his toes under the sheets, confirming his feet certainly felt a tad numb and off. Oh, the toes too. Fantastic… “... Alas, my feet remain whole. I can deal with the absence of two or three of these. Nothing to worry about, Sig.”

“And the wound on your shoulder? Does it hurt?”

Marek’s eyes pointed down at his shoulder and appraised the wound — a set of tight-looking scars that appeared more black than red; then, his eyes went back to align with Sigrid’s. “New medals to my collection,” he gave an assuring grin. “Nothing that my body has not been subject to.”

“T-then— whistle— are you fine? Can you still fight?”

“Without a shadow of doubt,” Marek said as he glided his thumb on Sigrid’s cheek, drawing circles in a tender manner. “You know more than anyone how hard-to-crack I am. It takes more than frostbite to knock down this roode jerk.”

Sigrid wiped her tears with her hand before emitting a half-hearted giggle. “You’re a doommy, do you know?… I was deathly worried about you… I thought that with a few fingies short, you won’t be able to reach your goal… Yet, you act as if you only had lost some feathers…” Smiling, Sigrid extended her arm and took Mare’s hand in her own. “But that is what impresses me about you, Marc… And that is among the reasons I love you. ”

Impressed… by me… Love… me. The words resounded within his mind as if he had just heard the lyrics of a long-forgotten song.

Marek’s face went blank for an instant. Was this the first time Sigrid had said that? No, a hunch told him Sigrid had, but he simply could not tell when or where. Was it during a dream? His forgetfulness leaned to that possibility, but whatever had transpired within the overnight illusion could not be rummaged through — the image of what happened was impossible to evoke.

“... Marc? Are you feeling well? Your stare looks off…” Marek’s very thoughts held his awareness for a bit too long, so he could not help but stare absently at Sigrid.

“You… told me you love…” He quietly vocalized, a feeble warmth crawling to his cheeks.

Steely orbs flickered like stars. “Well… yes, I did .” Then Sigrid broke eye contact, the fur of her mane barely puffing. “Y-you don’t have to mention it every time I chirp those words… Just because it is not the first time I said so, it does not make it any less embarra—” Her eyelids winced wide before his sight landed on the fighter. “Wait… did you hear me last time? Back when you and Kiya…” Sigrid trailed off, expecting her words to spark recognition in Marek.

“I… don’t remember… much of it…” But she failed.

“—! No way!” Sigrid let out a high-pitched squall. “You did not hear me! The first time you heard me say that… and I said it stoopidly! ” Marek felt the air blow at his back; shame had forced Sigrid to retract her wings and cover her mask, the movement driving off Marek’s hand as if it were an undesired bird.

“What! Nononono, it was not stupid, S-sig,” Marek responded by putting forth his hands against the wing, trying — and failing — to unveil the lady hiding behind. “It was cute… no, not just cute, it was…” Whatwastheword?… “ heartwarming. ”

“It was stoopid!” Nonetheless, Sigrid held her wing firm and prevented Marek from uncovering her face. “A doomb remark… My confession dropped like a doomb remark…”

“Come on, Sig. Besides, it’s not as if I don’t remember what you had said; it’s just…” He scratched his scalp. Damn it, my fingers feel like clubs. “My head was all spinning around and blacking out. I had only picked up echoes of what you said…”

“Like what!” Sigrid screeched from behind her wing.

“Well…” Marek’s eyes rolled around as he tried to remember what Sigrid had said during his dream— or rather, right before he passed out.

You never fail to impress me.

I love you, Marc.

It was everything he could evoke from that hazy abyss of a memory. “You… You basically said you were impressed by my performance and… that you loved me.” The man cracked an awkward smile, expecting his last statement would bring an end to Sigrid’s self-imposed shame prison.

“… That was it?! ” He was wrong, and his smile shrank to nonexistence.

“I said I was blacking out— koff! Sigrid, please… I really appreciate the gesture… You don’t need to hide anymore…”

“... It was stoopid… I ruined everything… A was a seacow all along…”

Oh, great. You have done it again, Blakesley. Also, ‘seacow’? Where did that come from?

There had been no lie — her words did touch his heart, and at the current time, there was a hint of pink across his cheeks. His theory ended up being true, to no one’s surprise. It was a shame — almost a tragedy — that his confession had been interrupted by the elemental.

What the doctor ordered…

With his hand rubbing his nape and wearing a look that conveyed timidness, Marek spoke to the feathery wall. “Do you think that is stupid? Heh. No, Sig, the stupid thing is that it was I who chickened out and refused to say I love you first… The Wargbane himself, your hero, had been too afraid to open his heart. Is there something more stupid than that?”

As Marek debased himself, Sigrid parted the curtain of feathers to peek at the man, the shine of her eyes passing through the gaps of her remixes.

“Oh, yes, there indeed is: rejecting your invitation. Pfff… What was I thinking?” he scoffed. “Me, denying a relaxing bath with the most fantastic and beautiful lady of the entire North? And are the northerners the deranged ones? No wonder the Gods manipulated the events so that I got my arse kicked by an elemental…”

The feathered membrane blocked Sigrid’s sight no more, revealing the first signs of surprise across the strigine mask. The whiteness of her features barely concealed a growing flush.

“Feeling stupid? If that’s stupid, I cannot imagine what name my series of blunders should have. Maybe something akin to ‘holing my ship with my own cannons’ would capture the essence accurately.” Marek’s sight went back to the silver mirrors that were Sigrid’s eyes, sparking with lines of tears, but whether those were the leftovers of the last whimper or were new ones arising, Marek did not tell.

“You… you love me too…”

“Did I say that? Aah, yes, I loosely stated it during my twaddle… Check the mast; another cannon blew up.” A strained snortle resounded. Marek did what he could to remain casual, but Sigrid saw through his facade — the pink clinging to his cheeks betrayed him.

“Yes, Sig… I do love you. ” Sigrid pried open her beak and hooted inwardly at the declaration. Her eyes had turned into full moons dripping with liquid moonshine. “And how could I not? Your strength. Your grace. Your voice. Your… innocence. Those features and more, blades and arrows that I failed to evade.”

Heh. Combat metaphors. Quite the lady-killer, Blakesley. Not that smooth without the reputation and gold being your wingman, eh?

Nonetheless, his words were genuine and mirrored his heart at face value. Now, he could only hope Sigrid gave her response before his face transmuted into a tomato.

“...” Meanwhile, with beak slightly open, with lines of liquid running down the facial disc, Sigrid observed wide-eyed at Marek’s increasingly pink face. “ Hoo— Ohoo… ” There came a shy hoot, and her eyes began to squint half-closed. “Oh… Marc! ”

“—!” His muscles complained anew as pressure coiled around his form. In a blur, Sigrid had bolted, coming near quickly despite lying on her side, and embraced Marek with a hug that would make a polar bear shrink in shame.

“You love me! You love me! ” Face-to-face with her beloved, Sigrid rubbed the man’s forehead, then shifted to nuzzle the cheek, repeating the pattern for the seconds to follow. “I love you too! I love you! I love you! I love you!”

The screeches, stilettos into his eardrums. Her nails faintly dug into his back, and the burning sensation spread. About a dozen of his bones popped like corks because of the stress, and the frozen wound in his shoulder was feebly poked by one breast.

Yet, Marek never dared to protest or complain, and after the first grunt, a sound attributed more to surprise than pain, he had not elicited any noise of disconformity.

Rather than grimacing, Marek smiled.

“I thought you wouldn’t say that because I am a monster, but I was wrong! Thanks to the Spi— Gods I was wrong!” Sigrid detached her head from Marek’s by a few inches. “Silly pinehead! Why haven’t you said it sooner?! Didn’t you see my courting?!” She sounded angry, but a rapid flap beneath the sheet unmasked her true feelings.

So it was flirting… Unsurprising. “I… had the slight suspicion you were being playful—”

“Stoopid!” The bark made Marek wince, but his smile remained carved on his face. “There was no way a male would confuse such obviously courting with games! You. Big. Doommy!”

“F-forgive m— gh? ” Sigrid edged closer, and Marek prepared to receive a childish punishment in the form of a peck for his past obliviousness, closing one eye and stiffening.

“But you love me, and I love you, so you are forgiven. My doomb and coote hero.” And just as close as seconds before, Sigrid resumed her nuzzle, this time adding one warm and wet element into the lovely exhibition — her tongue.

The crimson muscle drifted up and down the side of Marek’s face like a wet piece of wool. It slid around his ears, poking his earlobe, and then went south and started to trace the line of his jaw.

Enthusiastic at first, the licking slowed as it continued, adopting a more womanly fashion as Sigrid found other places her muscle was curious to explore. What was, in the beginning, a display of affection reminiscent of a puppy seeing its master after one week of absence had later transformed into a practice between two infatuated teenagers.

Sooner rather than later, the tongue slid over Marek’s mouth corner, igniting a spark within his body that he better keep off for the time being. It did seem some limbs recovered faster than others.

“... Sig, it is alright. Y-you can stop.” But she did not. “Sig, my wounds throb fresh…” And so would something else if she did not halt. There was little resistance down in his trousers, and he could not feel the wool of his underwear, only the fibers of reindeer pelt and other, more velvety.

Hold on. Two cushioned swells pressed onto his chiseled chest.

Don’t tell me— A furry leg slid along his thigh until it stopped by his waist.

—Am I butt nacked?!

Just as Marek became aware of his nakedness, a dilatory lick swipe slid up near the center of his lips, straight across his philtrum. For a fleeting instant, Marek felt how a part of himself tipped the silky coat of his beloved.

“ S-sigrid! ” Marek yelled, a bit of a grunt — an improper grunt — riding the cry.

“—Gye!” Sigrid flinched back at the shout, her mask embedded with perplexion. Why yell? Why interrupt the birth of love? Did she do something wrong? Did she—

“—Oh! Sorrysorrysorry! I did not mean to hurt you!” Sigrid adopted an apologetic demeanor, drawing her hands to her chest and sinking her head on her shoulders. “I-it’s just that we now both like-like each other, and… and… I could not help myself! Your speech was so manly— coote… it was coote, and it made me act… act…”

“No… nonono. I— I understand.” Following the speed of his beating heart, Marek used his left arm to lift his upper body. “It was not… well… it did hurt… but… It also… it is— gah! ” Marek rasped at the last sentence and started to cough. His right hand was immediately used to hold his throat in an attempt to appease the pain.

Dehydration had begun to take its toll.

“Oh no! I hurt you badly! ” She leaned up quickly, letting the blanket slip down her upper body.

“ Agh… None of th— geh-gar! ”

Sigrid reached Marek’s chest with her talons, and her eyes darted across his body in search of clues of damage. “Where does it hurt? Are you bleeding? Or cold? Is it the sickness? Are you turning bluer somewhere?” Sigrid’s worried questions came like a rain of boulders.

“ Gaah… It’s just water… I need water d—” Wait. ‘Turning bluer’?

“You are drying up!” Sigrid’s head gyrated all around, trying to spot the remedy for Marek’s pain. “No water here. Wait here; I’ll look for water down the mountain.”

“No-o, wait…” His voice was low, but it succeeded in making Sigrid stop from departing, who was practically scrambling toward the exit. “Did you say blue? Am I… blue?”

Sigrid had identified some weight in his words, as if they held something crucial.

“Err… yes…” Dark-gray brows winced closer. “Before you fell asleep, your neck mimicked the color of the cloudless sky… and your eyes shone like the northern lights…” It cannot be… “B-but the color vanished a little; your eyes no longer glow. That’s good… r-right?”

Not as good as Marek would like to confess. Whatever tender — and indecent — sentiment emerged minutes ago had almost cooled down as another worry grew and spread within like vines.

“A dirk… I need a dirk…” He softly requested, and after her silver eyes regarded the man with concern and confusion, Sigrid scooted toward one of his boots to take the knife hidden inside.

“... Throw it.” Sigrid hesitated, unsure of tossing a bladed weapon toward a hurt man. “I’ll catch it, I promise,” Sigrid seemed a tad worried but ultimately trusted Marek and flung the dagger. Marek managed to catch the handle in the air, nearly fumbling with his fingers. A time would be needed before he regained control over his limbs.

Using the metallic length like a mirror, Marek scanned his upper body in pursuit of confirming Sigrid’s words. Unfortunately, she was right — a blue mark, too much like a rash inflicted by irritating weeds but blue and devoid of blisters, stretched across the right side of his neck like a poorly done skin crest.

The array of thoughts that the sole mark stirred up could only be resumed in one word. “... Crap.”

“C-crap?…” Marek heard Sigrid echo. “Like crappy crap?! Is it that bad?!” Sigrid scrambled back to Marek and knelt before him, surprising the man as her warm talons cupped the sides of his head. “Pleasepleaseplease, don’t pass out!”

“Sig—”

“I don’t know if I could stand looking at you as you die again!”

“I am no—”

“Not after you told me you loved me!”

“I’m not dying, Sig!” He shouted, letting the weapon land on the blanket with a muted sound and cupping both scaly hands. The cry carried no admonishment, and although the vibration seared his dry throat, Marek did well in hiding his anguish. “I will not kick the bucket… not today… not soon…”

A feeble whistle escaped Sigrid’s beak. “... Tell me what is happening, Marc… Why is your skin blue?”

Marek frowned a tad as he thought about a way to tell Sigrid about his newfound condition, apparently harmless to the naked eye. “I will… But my throat aches… and my stomach—” Rrmble. “— that. ”

Sigrid brushed off one tear for the last time that day. “... Right. You must be hungry after sleeping for so long… I should go out and look for a gote and water.” Just then, Sigrid remembered she had forgotten Marek’s canteen at the creaks. It better remain where she left it; otherwise, she would have to find another way to bring water to Marek.

“Sorry… after all the troubles I caused you, the least I desire is for you to work your way to bring me food like a bedfast elder—”

His words were sealed shut by a crooked beak pressing onto his lips. “My hero never gives me troubles,” she declared before backing her head away. “Wait here. It won’t take me long, I promise.”

Sigrid beamed at Marek before she stood up and moved off the felled pillars next to the exit. Marek followed every movement of hers with fascination, from the way she strolled to how her tail swayed behind, his cheeks as rosy as a child with a cold.

Was he not worried about his condition seconds ago? Where did all that concern go?

Stepping over the pillar, Sigrid turned her head back and cast a hopeful smile at Marek. “I’m glad you are finally awake, Marc.”

His mouth curled up. “And I’m glad to see you again, Sig.”

The owl-wolfess responded by dipping her head between her shoulders, but the characteristic gesture of hers lasted little as she promptly aligned her face with the rest of her body, and like an owl in the thick mist, she disappeared after one flap of her wings.

Seconds after the fluttering sound stopped riding the winds, Marek cast off his tough guy facade and started to cough. It was not a severe fit, more flu-like than magical-infection-like, but Marek was too worried about his beloved to risk increasing her concerns.

Eventually, the coughs died out, and Marek’s posture relaxed. A lengthy sigh followed. “What a firestorm… Nearly raped, almost killed, then hypothermia played the devil, and now… it turns out I… have a girlfriend?… Hehe.” He chuckled. “What were the odds?…”

After meditating on what just happened between him and Sigrid, dwelling in the fresh memory like an infatuated teenager, Marek blew fog out of his innards and rubbed his arms as shivers began to appear. How cold everything felt without the monstress by his side.

“So,” his eyes scanned the cave, “where did Sigrid put my underwear and pants?”