First, I apologize for not posting yesterday, I had a christmas gathering with my parents, and needed to tweek the final parts of this chapter. As such, here it is, even if it's a bit late.

  ---Jason---

  # The Coming Storm

  The sweet smell of Mom's lasagna wafts through the dining room as I push the food around my plate, jaw still slightly numb from the freezing, fucking hate cavidies. From across the table, Dad keeps glancing between me and Grace with an expression I can't quite decipher. There's something different about him tonight—a subtle tension in the way he holds himself, a new intensity in his gaze when it lands on me. Hope I didn't say/do anything too stupid. Grace's got enough shit without me doing stupid shit like talking about, say, cuddles.

  Grace sits beside me, her posture impeccable as always. The bone utility knife she pulled from seemingly nowhere glides through her food with surgical precision. Unlike my combat knife—as she's called it—this one is smaller, with intricate patterns carved into the handle that catch the light when she adjusts her grip. I'm still not entirely sure where she keeps these things. The first time she produced one at dinner, well. Took a bit for me to actually notice she was useing it, and since she doesn't wash them in the dishwasher, well.

  "So," Dad says, breaking the silence that's stretched just a touch too long. "Grace, could you tell us more about this forest expedition you're planning?"

  Grace sets her knife down with a soft click of bone on wood. "We will depart next Friday at 0700 hours," she states, her voice carrying that familiar clinical precision. "Dave has provided appropriate equipment and suggested a suitable location approximately twenty kilometers north of the survival school."

  Mom passes the garlic bread, mom smile firmly in place. "And what exactly will you be teaching Jason during these three days?"

  "Wilderness navigation," Grace replies, accepting a piece with a polite nod and a small flicker of what I'm going to say is antissipation, Grace loves garlec bread. "Advanced fire-starting techniques, shelter construction, proper knife usage, energy conservation methods, and—" she glances briefly at me, something almost like uncertainty flickering across her face, "—the foundations of vigger."

  My ears perk up at that last part, and I nearly miss Dad's subtle shift in posture. He leans forward almost imperceptibly, his architect's eyes narrowing with focus.

  "This vigger," he says carefully. "You mentioned it's an energy system from your homeland?"

  I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. We hadn't discussed how much to tell my parents about vigger. Grace had shown them her status window, apparently, but I've been avoiding the topic of my restored sight, waiting for the right moment to explain something I barely understand myself and. Well. Will almost certainly bring up the fact that Grace is, in fact, from another reality, and how the fuck do you edge into that? I mean for one, I've got a litiral magic command over Grace, and how the fuck do I explain that without, well. Modern politics would have some very pointed words about it. I don't want said magical what ever, but that doesn't exactly change anything, now does it?

  "Yes," Grace confirms, either missing or ignoring my sudden tension. "It allows for enhanced physical capabilities, extended sensory perception, and accelerated healing through manipulation of life energy."

  Mom's expression doesn't change, but her knuckles whiten slightly around her wineglass. Dad's face, however, undergoes a series of minute transformations—confusion, disbelief, and finally, a strange sort of resignation.

  "And this... vigger," he says, pronouncing the word with careful precision, "is how you helped Jason with his sight?"

  The room goes silent except for the soft clink of my fork hitting the plate. I stare at Dad, then at Grace, then at Mom, who doesn't look nearly surprised enough.

  "You told them?" I manage, my voice embarrassingly close to cracking.

  Grace meets my gaze with those impossibly green eyes. "I did not volunteer the information. Bearee deduced it independently and asked for confirmation. I acknowledged only what she had already discovered, as it seemed tactically unsound to deny, at that point, what I deduced was to her an obvious truth."

  I turn to Mom, who has the grace to look slightly guilty. "I've been watching you, honey," she says gently. "The way you track movement, respond to visual cues. A mother notices these things."

  "And you didn't think to, I don't know, ask me about it?" I try to keep the hurt from my voice but don't entirely succeed.

  "We were waiting for you to tell us," Dad responds, his tone carefully neutral. "It's a big change, Jason. We figured you needed time to process it yourself first."

  Grace cuts another perfectly symmetrical piece of lasagna. "Your parents' approach demonstrates remarkable psychological insight," she observes. "Allowing autonomy in disclosure timing shows respect for your emotional adjustment process."

  I laugh despite myself, the tension in my chest easing slightly. "Only you could make 'they were giving me space' sound like a tactical assessment, Grace."

  A tiny crease appears between her eyebrows. "Was my observation incorrect?"

  "No," I sigh, finally meeting Dad's eyes. "No, it wasn't."

  "So," Dad says after a moment, his voice deliberately casual, "you can see now. Actually see."

  I swallow the lump that's formed in my throat. "Yeah. Not just see—better than normal vision, according to Grace. It's..." I struggle to find words, "...overwhelming sometimes. Colors are so much more than I imagined from descriptions. And depth—the way things have volume and distance. It's like the world is suddenly in IMAX when I've only ever heard the audio version."

  Mom reaches across the table to squeeze my hand, her eyes suspiciously bright. "We're so happy for you, honey. I just wish you'd felt you could tell us sooner."

  "I was going to," I say, "I just didn't know how to explain it. I mean, how do you casually mention that the woman sleeping in your guest room fixed your lifelong being blind through some kind of interdimensional energy manipulation? Also, she's from another reality? Also. Well." I shrug, because I think I've made my point.

  Dad chokes slightly on his water, coughing to clear his throat. "Inter... dimensional?"

  Well. Fuck.

  Grace sets her knife down with deliberate care. "Jason is referring to my displacement from my homeland," she states, her expression neutral. "The precise nature of the transition remains undetermined."

  Mom and Dad exchange one of those married-people looks that contains an entire conversation.

  "So you're not from... around here," Dad says carefully.

  "No," Grace confirms. "My homeland experiences significantly colder temperatures, different social structures, and alternative natural laws that permit certain capabilities uncommon in this environment."

  "Like vigger," Mom prompts.

  "Among other things, yes."

  Dad rubs his beard while visibly working to incorporate this new information. "And in this forest trip, you'll be teaching Jason these techniques?"

  "Yes," Grace nods once. "Though his primary focus will be basic survival skills. Vigger requires significant practice to master even foundational applications."

  "Will it be safe?" Mom asks, her therapist voice firmly in place.

  "I will ensure Jason's safety," Grace states with absolute certainty. "Any risk factors will be mitigated through proper equipment, strategic planning, and my continuous supervision."

  The way she says it—like my safety is a fundamental law of the universe she personally enforces—sends a strange warmth through my chest. I've never been the type to need protection; being blind taught me self-sufficiency early. Well. Taught me to just hide in my house, but we don't need to mention that. Still. There's something undeniably comforting about Grace's matter-of-fact guarantee that I'll be, you know. Fine in the forest that has bears, and other animals that might eat me in it, even though I've always wanted to learn how to function in there anyway.

  "And will you be carrying those... knives of yours?" Dad asks, eyeing the bone utility knife beside Grace's plate.

  "Yes," Grace answers, hand twitching towards the knife hilt almost like she thinks we might take it away? "They serve multiple functions beyond defensive capabilities."

  "Like cutting lasagna," I add with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood.

  Grace nods in agreement. "Precisely. Tactical equipment should serve multiple purposes whenever possible."

  The conversation shifts to more practical matters after that—what we'll be eating in the forest, emergency communication protocols, expected weather conditions. I let Grace handle most of the explanations, watching my parents gradually relax as they absorb the meticulous level of planning she's put into this expedition.

  By the time we're clearing the table, Dad actually seems excited about the trip, asking detailed questions about shelter construction that Grace answers with increasing animation—or what passes for animation with Grace, which means slightly more hand gestures and marginally wider eye movements.

  "We should leave for Dave's soon," I remind Grace, checking my watch. "Game night starts at eight."

  "Yes," she agrees, standing with that fluid grace that still catches me off guard sometimes. "Thank you for the meal, Bearee. The flavor profile was tactically optimal."

  Mom smiles, long past being startled by Grace's unique compliments. "You're welcome, Grace. Have fun at your game."

  As we head to the door, Dad catches my arm. "Jason," he says quietly, "we'll talk more about... everything... when you get back, okay?"

  I nod, a strange mix of relief and anxiety swirling in my gut. "Yeah, Dad. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner about the whole seeing thing."

  "I understand why you didn't," he says, his eyes crinkling with a small smile. "It's a lot to process. Just... know that we're here when you're ready to share more."

  "Thanks," I manage, suddenly fighting back an unexpected wave of emotion. Dad squeezes my shoulder once, then steps back.

  "Are we running?" she asks as we step into the crisp February night, her breath forming small clouds in the air.

  "Can we?" I ask, unable to keep the eagerness from my voice. "Like we did after the pet store?"

  Grace nods once. "Yes. The practice will be beneficial for your developing vigger pathways. Additionally, it will reduce transit time by approximately sixty-eight percent."

  She extends her hand toward me, and I take it without hesitation. Her skin is warm despite the winter chill, her grip firm but careful.

  "Maintain forward momentum," she instructs, exactly as she did last time. "I will match and enhance your pace. Do not resist the vigger flow."

  I take a deep breath, excitement building in my chest. "Ready when you are."

  The world blurs as we begin. One moment we're standing on my front porch, the next we're flying down the street, houses streaking past in a kaleidoscope of lights and shadows. The sensation is both terrifying and exhilarating—like being strapped to a rocket while somehow maintaining perfect control of every muscle.

  Energy flows from Grace's hand into mine, up my arm, spreading through my body in warm, electric waves. Each stride should tear muscles, snap tendons, but the vigger reinforces everything, making impossible movements not just possible but effortless.

  The cold night air burns my lungs as we accelerate, but I'm laughing despite the sting. Two weeks ago, I was blind. Tonight, I'm racing through Toronto at inhuman speeds, hand-in-hand with a woman who pulls knives from thin air and talks about interdimensional travel like most people discuss the weather and who I'm going to go into the forest with for 3 days soon.

  "This is amazing!" I shout, my voice whipped away by the wind of our passage.

  Grace doesn't respond verbally, but her hand tightens fractionally around mine—a silent acknowledgment that somehow communicates more than words.

  We weave between late-night pedestrians who barely register our passing, navigate through side streets and alleys with Grace's unerring sense of direction. The journey that should take twenty minutes by car passes in less than five minutes of exhilarating movement.

  As we approach Dave's house, Grace gradually decreases our pace until we're moving at something resembling a normal jog, then a walk. We stop completely at the edge of his property, and I double over, gasping more from excitement than exertion.

  "Holy shit," I wheeze, straightening up to look at her. "That never gets old."

  Grace studies me with that intense focus that used to unnerve me but now feels almost comforting. "Your adaptation to enhanced mobility is progressing efficiently," she observes. "Your muscle stress patterns show seventeen percent less strain than during our previous session."

  "Does that mean I'm getting better at it?" I ask, unable to keep the hopeful note from my voice. The thought of someday being able to do this on my own—to move through the world with even a fraction of Grace's incredible capabilities—fills me with something like hunger.

  "Yes," she confirms. "Once your vigger pathways are properly established, you will be able to achieve similar effects independently, though initial attempts will likely be less efficient."

  "When can we start?" I'm practically bouncing on the balls of my feet, partly from residual energy and partly from pure enthusiasm.

  "Tomorrow," Grace says. "I will open your primary pathways in the morning, before breakfast. The process requires approximately forty-six minutes of focused attention."

  The prospect sends another thrill through me. It's one thing to experience the effects while connected to Grace; it's another entirely to begin developing these abilities myself.

  "That's why the forest trip is important," I realize aloud. "To practice without distractions."

  Grace nods. "Yes. Urban environments contain too many variables for optimal initial training. The forest provides controlled conditions with immediate feedback."

  We're still standing at the edge of Dave's property, probably looking a bit suspicious to any neighbors who might be watching. I gesture toward the house, where warm lights glow from the basement windows.

  "Should we head in? Everyone's probably waiting."

  Grace follows my gaze, her expression shifting subtly. If I didn't know better, I'd say she almost looks... nervous? But that can't be right. Grace doesn't get nervous. She calculates, assesses, adapts—but nervousness implies uncertainty, something I've rarely seen from her.

  "Yes," she says after a brief pause. "Though I would request your assistance with one matter."

  "Of course," I reply immediately. "Anything." A bit, well, expansive. But, I trust Grace, so.

  "During the chemical alteration period following your dental procedure, you made several statements that could be classified as personal in nature." Her voice remains perfectly even, but something in her eyes has changed. "If I behave inappropriately during tonight's social gathering, I would appreciate a similar alertness to... unusual behavior on my part."

  It takes me a moment to parse what she's asking. "You want me to let you know if you say or do anything weird? Like I did under the laughing gas?"

  "Yes," she confirms. "The social dynamics of recreational activities remain unfamiliar territory. I do not wish to create discomfort through inappropriate responses."

  "Of course," I say softly. "Though for what it's worth, they already think you're pretty amazing. Mike hasn't stopped talking about your archery demonstration since you got hired." Before: "well, kniwing hime he wouldn't have, anyway."

  Grace processes this information with visible consideration. "That is... satisfactory," she decides finally. "Though tactical competence does not necessarily translate to social integration."

  "Trust me," I say, leading the way toward Dave's front door, "with this group, tactical competence is social integration. You practically became their hero when you split three arrows in a row."

  We're greeted at the door by Dave himself, his massive frame filling the entrance as he ushers us inside with expansive gestures. The familiar scent of coffee and wood smoke envelops us as we descend to the basement, where voices and laughter already echo off the wood-paneled walls.

  Carter, Mike, and Raj are arranged around the gaming table, character sheets and dice spread before them in colorful disarray. A plate of cookies sits temptingly at the center, still steaming slightly from the oven. A small girl, 7-year-old, silver hair, silver eyes alongside. Morgen, was it? Sits off to the side, both watching the interactions between the rest of us quietly.

  "The dynamic duo arrives!" Dave announces, clapping me on the shoulder with enough force to make me stagger slightly. "Just in time—we were about to start without you."

  "Sorry," I say, dropping into an empty chair. "Dinner ran longer than expected."

  Grace takes the seat beside me, her posture perfect as always. Her eyes track to the cookie plate with subtle but unmistakable interest.

  "Help yourself," Dave says, noticing her gaze. "Fresh baked chocolate chip—Revenna's recipy."

  Grace looks at me questioningly, and I nod encouragement. "Try one," I suggest. "Remember my description from earlier?"

  With careful precision, Grace selects a cookie and examines it briefly before taking a small, experimental bite. The change in her expression is so subtle most people would miss it entirely—a fractional widening of her eyes, a barely perceptible relaxation around her mouth. But I've been studying Grace's microexpressions for two weeks now, and I recognize the rare signs of genuine pleasure.

  "Your description was accurate," she states, turning to me with what might almost be called warmth in her eyes. "The textural contrast between crisp exterior and soft interior is particularly effective."

  Raj laughs, shuffling his character sheets. "Only Grace could make eating a cookie sound like a military assessment."

  "Speaking of assessments," Mike chimes in, leaning forward with a grin, "how are you feeling after the dental work, Jason? Still loopy from the gas?"

  Heat creeps up my neck as fragmented memories from this afternoon surface. "Mostly worn off," I mumble. "Though if I say anything weird tonight, please blame residual chemical effects and immediately forget it."

  "Like when you told Grace she was 'everything amazing' and stared at her like she hung the moon?" Mike teases, eyebrows waggling.

  My face burns hotter. "I—what? I don't remember saying that!"

  Grace takes another precise bite of her cookie. "Jason made several observations while chemically altered," she confirms without a trace of embarrassment. "Including that hands are 'meat starfish on arm branches' and that I 'sleep with the kitten on my face like it's normal.'"

  The table erupts in laughter, Carter's usually stoic expression cracking into a rare smile. Even Grace's mouth twitches slightly at the corner, though whether from amusement or cookie appreciation is anyone's guess. The kid, Mia, was it? Makes a noise that might be laughter, and Morden, the woman who's skin is still red, huffs out a laugh while smirking before waggling her eyebrows at me before chugging a glass of amber liquid.

  "Classic nitrous oxide effects," Dave says, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "Though the meat starfish observation is actually pretty accurate, anatomically speaking."

  "Are you still feeling any effects now?" Carter asks, his, Carterness? Showing even in casual questions.

  "Just a little fuzzy around the edges," I admit. "Nothing major."

  "Well, we'll cut you some slack tonight," Dave promises, gathering his notes. "No sudden character deaths this time, I promise." Before. "though considering that

  "Appreciate it," I say dryly. "Dying literally minutes before the end last time was a bit of a bummer."

  "I think we were all pretty moved by Grace's promise to care for your animal companions," Raj says, arranging his dice in perfect rows. "Speaking of which, today we're starting a proper campaign rather than a one-shot. Your characters, well. Dave'll explain it, he's better at-" he stops, glances at the girl, who shrugs before sticking her tunge out, Morgen grabbing it with 2 fingers before tweeking it, the girl glareing at her before reaching to her hip.

  Dave clears his throat dramatically, slipping into his storyteller voice. "Three months have passed since your confrontation with the Winter Court Archfey. The village of Frosthollow has enjoyed a peaceful winter, largely thanks to your intervention. Spring thaws are beginning, bringing travelers through the mountain pass once more..."

  I settle back in my chair, feeling the familiar excitement of a new adventure beginning. Grace sits beside me, her attention focused with laser precision on Dave's narrative. The contrast between her deadly serious demeanor and the fantasy setting creates an endearing incongruity that I've come to cherish.

  The game unfolds with the comfortable rhythm of experienced players. My character—Jace the Packmaster ranger—has developed a deeper connection with the massive version of Dawson and the wolf cubs we rescued, despite beingn mildly concerned that, well. Something brought him back. Grace's character continues her role as the stoic, hyper-competent mentor to my more impulsive ranger, though it's made clear that she did something, as she sometimes gazes into the distance now while muttering about novelite codes. Carter's Sergeant Blackwood maintains military discipline even when he's now a house astrid marine, while Raj's wizard has taken a decidedly darker turn toward necromancy even when a werewolf, much to Mike's cleric's constant consternation, even though now he's from something called 'the house of the bridge between' which seems to be made up of healers and people who looked at world war one and decided that they should just run with it? Mia's red angel retainer is DPS and most often spends her time doing katas with her katana while reciteing in japanese something she refuses to translate and Morgen just shrugs when Raj askes her about it, and Morgen provides scouting for Carter's house astrid marine while makeing it very clear to everyone, though somehow not being obnauctious about the fact that she is very much so hapally involved with someone named Peeter, who has a bone shotgun, no-one willing to ask streight out if that's code for something or not, though Mia snickers every time it comes up, so I'm going to assume that it's not? I mean. Grace exists, so. Why not bone shotguns incorperated into sledgehammers?

  "You encounter a small group of refugees on the forest road," Dave narrates, his voice dropping to create tension. "Among them, a young human girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, clutching a ragged stuffed animal. Her parents were killed in the goblin raid on the northern settlement."

  "I approach the child," Grace says immediately, surprising everyone including me. Her character normally remains aloof during social encounters. "What is your name?" she asks, speaking directly as her ranger character.

  Dave blinks, then shifts into the voice of a frightened child. "E-Elina," he stammers. "Elina Voss."

  "Elina Voss," Grace repeats, her normally flat affect softening almost imperceptibly. "You are safe now. I will ensure it."

  "The child looks up at you with wide, tear-filled eyes," Dave narrates. "'Are... are you going to be my new mama?'"

  The table falls silent, all eyes on Grace. Her expression doesn't change, but something in her posture shifts subtly.

  "Yes," she says simply. "I will protect you now."

  My heart does a strange little flip in my chest. I know it's just a game, just fictional characters in an imaginary world, but the quiet certainty in Grace's voice affects me in ways I can't quite articulate.

  "I, uh," I clear my throat, suddenly feeling the need to join this moment. "Jace kneels beside them and says, 'We'll both look after you, Elina. You're not alone anymore.'"

  "The little girl looks between you," Dave continues, clearly pleased with this unexpected development. "'Does that mean you're my papa?'" he asks in the child's voice, looking directly at me.

  Heat floods my face. "I, um—"

  "Yes," Grace interrupts before I can formulate a response. "In the functional family structure now being established, Jace will serve as the paternal figure while I provide maternal guidance."

  The absolute matter-of-factness with which she delivers this pronouncement sends the table into fits of poorly suppressed laughter. Mike actually snorts coffee, while Raj doubles over, shoulders shaking silently.

  "So," Dave manages, eyes twinkling, "Grace and Jace are now the adoptive parents of young Elina Voss. An unexpected but heartwarming development in our campaign."

  "Yes," Grace confirms, apparently oblivious to my furious blushing. "The child requires protection and instruction. We are optimally positioned to provide both. As such, we shall do so now."

  Carter catches my eye across the table, one eyebrow raised in silent amusement. I shrug helplessly, trying to ignore the strange warmth blooming in my chest at the thought of my character and Grace's character forming this makeshift family unit.

  The game continues, our new ward adding an unexpected dimension to our adventures. Grace's character takes to mentorship with the same intense focus she applies to everything, while my character stumbles through surrogate fatherhood with well-meaning awkwardness.

  "My character will demonstrate proper knife handling techniques to Elina," Grace announces during a quiet evening scene at a campsite. "Age-appropriate, of course. Defense only at this stage."

  "I'll teach her about the animals in the forest," I add, getting into the spirit despite myself. "Which ones are dangerous, which ones can help us track game."

  "Elina soaks up your lessons eagerly," Dave narrates, clearly enjoying this development. "She looks up to both of you with adoration, calling out 'Mama! Papa! Look what I found!' whenever she discovers interesting stones or plants."

  Each time Mia mimics the child calling me "Papa," my face heats up all over again, and the others exchange knowing grins. But Grace remains completely serious, treating our fictional parenthood with the same tactical precision she brings to combat encounters.

  As the evening winds down and our characters make camp for the night, Dave describes a tender scene where Elina falls asleep between us, clutching her stuffed animal and feeling safe for the first time since losing her real parents.

  "I maintain watch while they sleep," Grace states, her character's protective instincts in full force. "Optimal vigilance requires periodic perimeter checks."

  "I tell Grace—the character—that she should rest too," I add softly. "That we can take shifts, and that she doesn't have to carry the burden of protection alone anymore."

  Something flickers across Grace's face—real Grace, not her character—a microexpression so brief I almost miss it. But it's there and gone before I can decipher its meaning.

  "Her upper body tensans before relaxing," Dave narrates. "Not used to having someone watching her back, but gradually accepting the help."

  "Tactically sound," Grace acknowledges with a single nod. "Alternating rest periods increases overall vigilance effectiveness."

  "And with that heartwarming moment of surrogate family bonding," Dave announces, "I think we'll end tonight's session. Same time next week?"

  Raj begins gathering his dice, looking slightly disappointed. "Actually, I wanted to ask—could I bring my girlfriend next time? She's been curious about D&D, and I thought this might be a good campaign for a beginner."

  "The more the merrier," Dave agrees immediately. "Though we'll need to create a character for her. Maybe a bard to round out the party?" Before. "hearthkeeper druids tend to be men, but. Well. Jason's character came back from the dead with no ill-affects and not, you know, undead, so. Or just have another ulfr, since if she's you're girlfriend?"

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  "Actually," I interrupt, "Grace and I won't be here next Friday. We'll be on that forest trip we mentioned."

  "That's right," Mike says, snapping his fingers. "The famous survival training expedition. Though, you two could just get lost in a convenient cave or something for that session."

  "I would not allow Jason to become lost in a cave," Grace states firmly. "I would, if necessary, break the cave in order to extract him."

  There's a moment of startled silence, then Dave bursts into laughter. "Of course you would, Grace. Because Jason is yours to protect, right?"

  I notice Mia's eyes flick to Grace, seeming curious. Morgen's watching me, something like curiosity in her eyes.

  "Yes," Grace agrees without hesitation. "Jason is mine."

  The simple declaration sends a jolt through me like touching a live wire. She doesn't elaborate, doesn't soften the statement with qualifiers or explanations. Just those three words, delivered with absolute certainty.

  *Jason is mine.*

  The rest of the evening passes in a blur of cleanup and goodbyes. Before long, Grace and I are outside again, the cool night air a welcome relief for my inexplicably flushed face.

  "Ready to run home?" Grace asks, extending her hand toward me.

  I take it without hesitation, trying to ignore the way my pulse jumps when our fingers interlace. "Ready."

  The world blurs around us once more as we race through Toronto's nighttime streets. But tonight, my mind is elsewhere, turning those three words over and over.

  *Jason is mine.*

  I should feel uncomfortable with that statement. Possessive language like that usually sets off all kinds of warning bells—controlling, obsessive, unhealthy. But from Grace, it feels different. Not like ownership, but like... protection. Commitment. A promise. Something good.

  We slow to a stop at the edge of my neighborhood, Grace gradually releasing the vigger flow until we're moving at normal human speeds. My hand remains in hers perhaps a moment longer than strictly necessary before I reluctantly let go.

  "Grace," I begin, unsure how to phrase what I'm feeling. "What you said back there, about me being yours..."

  "Yes," she says simply, waiting for me to continue.

  "What did you mean by that, exactly?" I study her face in the amber glow of the streetlights, searching for clues in her microexpressions.

  "I meant that I am responsible for your wellbeing," she explains without hesitation. "Both through the deathoath and through my own choice. Your safety and development are my priorities."

  "Oh," I say, a strange mix of relief and something almost like disappointment washing through me. "That makes sense."

  Grace tilts her head slightly, studying me with that penetrating gaze. "Have I caused discomfort through inappropriate phrasing?"

  "No," I assure her quickly. "Not at all. It was just... no one's ever really talked about me that way before."

  "Territorial language is common in my homeland," she explains as we begin walking the rest of the way to the house. "Clarity of relationship boundaries prevents misunderstandings that could lead to conflict."

  I nod, trying to process this cultural context. "And our relationship boundary is...?"

  "You are under my protection," she states firmly. "I will ensure your safety, facilitate your growth, and prevent harm from reaching you whenever possible. Additionally, I will teach you the skills necessary for self-sufficiency, including vigger manipulation."

  It's a perfectly reasonable explanation, yet something in me feels oddly hollow. What exactly was I expecting her to say? That she feels some kind of emotional connection beyond duty and obligation? That in just two weeks, she's begun to care about me as more than just a responsibility? That shit doesn't happen outside of fiction. This isn't a book, it's reality, and women don't fall for men in reality, especially Grace, especially me, like that.

  Anyway, Grace has been clear about her emotional limitations from the beginning. She showed me her status window that first night—"psychopath" listed right there alongside her other traits. Even if Carter and others have questioned that designation, Grace herself still believes it's true.

  And yet...

  "Tomorrow morning," Grace says as we reach the front steps, "I will open your vigger pathways before breakfast. The process requires you to be fully rested."

  "I can't wait," I say honestly, pushing aside my confusing thoughts. "What time should we start?"

  "0700 hours would be optimal," she replies, opening the door with the key I gave her days ago. "The procedure works best when the body is naturally transitioning from sleep to wakefulness."

  Dawson greets us at the door, his whole body wagging with canine enthusiasm. Grace acknowledges him with a precise pat between his ears—exactly where he likes it best. Kitten appears a moment later, meowing imperiously until Grace scoops her up to her preferred position against Grace's neck.

  "I'll see you at seven, then," I say, trying to stifle a yawn. The combination of laughing gas aftermath and vigger-enhanced running has left me surprisingly drained.

  Grace nods once. "Yes. You should sleep now. Tomorrow will require significant energy expenditure."

  "Goodnight, Grace," I say, heading for the stairs. "And thanks for coming to game night. I think... I think it means a lot to everyone that you're participating."

  She considers this, her hand automatically stroking Kitten's tiny head. "The social integration process is proceeding more efficiently than anticipated," she acknowledges. "Your friends are... accepting of differences."

  "They like you," I translate with a small smile. "And not just because you're terrifyingly competent."

  Something shifts in her expression—a softening around her eyes that most people would miss entirely. "That is... satisfactory," she says finally.

  I climb the stairs to my room, exhaustion settling into my bones. As I change for bed, my mind keeps returning to the moment at Dave's house, the absolute certainty in Grace's voice as she stated: *Jason is mine.*

  Two weeks. I've known her for just two weeks, yet somehow she's become central to my existence. She's given me sight, introduced me to a world of capabilities I never imagined possible, and tomorrow, she'll begin teaching me to develop my own vigger abilities.

  What will I be in another two weeks? In a month? Where does this path lead, and am I ready for whatever waits at its end?

  As I drift toward sleep, one last thought floats through my mind, unexpected but feeling strangely right:

  *And Grace is mine.*

  ---Carter---

  # The Brotherhood of the Basement

  The front door closes with a soft click as Jason and Grace disappear into the night. Dave's basement feels suddenly larger, emptier without Jason's nervous energy and Grace's intense presence. I lean back in my chair, stretching muscles stiff from hours of hunching over character sheets, and catch Mike watching the door with a thoughtful expression.

  "Another round?" Dave asks, already rising from his seat and heading toward the kitchen. "I've got that Scottish single malt Mike brought last time."

  Morgen pulls out a keg. As in, a literal keg, the kind you'd see at a bar, before thumping it onto the table with enough force to make the remaining dice scatter. The metal surface is already beading with condensation.

  "I've got something better," she announces. "Maypom. Baileys with maple syrup."

  Dave's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "You brought a keg to a D&D game?"

  "Seemed appropriate." Morgen shrugs, working the tap with practiced efficiency. "You boys looked like you could use something with more character than scotch. Peeter can set this stuff on fire and chug it, which is fucking cool."

  Mia reaches for the keg, small fingers stretching toward the tap with clear curiosity. Morgen's hand shoots out, smacking the kid's hand away with a sharp crack.

  "Nice try, kiddo."

  "I wasn't actually going to drink it," Mia says, rubbing her hand but not looking particularly upset. She sounds more analytical than hurt. "I was assessing the mechanism. The tap uses a standard coupling system with a pressure release valve—"

  "Sure you were." Morgen disappears up the stairs, returning moments later with a smaller bottle. She pours a measure into a glass and hands it to Mia. The liquid looks like Maypom but smells different, sweeter. "Baileys without the alcohol. Don't tell Etienne I'm letting you have this much sugar before bed."

  Mia accepts the glass with both hands, her small fingers wrapping around it carefully. She takes a sip, her face remaining completely neutral in a way that suggests she's evaluating rather than just drinking. After a moment, something that might be pleasure flickers across her features, and she takes another tiny sip before cradling the glass protectively against her chest.

  Dave produces glasses from somewhere, lining them up on the table. Morgen fills each one with the creamy amber liquid. The smell of Irish cream and maple fills the basement, warm and rich.

  I accept my glass, taking an experimental sip. The maple syrup adds depth to the Baileys, transforming it into something that tastes like comfort and bad decisions in equal measure.

  "So," Dave says after a moment, glass in hand, "that was quite a session."

  "Jason's kid melted when Grace claimed him," Morgen observes, settling back into her chair. "That was entertaining."

  Mike laughs, the sound carrying that edge of judgment that comes before the first drink really hits. "Did anyone else notice how Jason practically melted when Grace said he was hers?" He pauses, glancing at Mia with sudden awareness. "Shit, sorry kiddo. Didn't mean to—"

  "I know what profanity is," Mia says, her tone matter-of-fact. She swings her legs slightly, not quite reaching the floor. "Etienne uses far more creative variations. Yesterday he called someone a 'meat-wasting oxygen thief with the tactical awareness of a concussed lemming.'"

  Morgen snorts into her drink. "That he does."

  Mike's face flushes anyway, that sunburned nose of his going even redder. "Right, well. I just meant—Grace looks at Jason like he's the fucking center of the universe or something."

  Another pause, another glance at Mia.

  Mia's expression doesn't change. She takes another careful sip of her non-alcoholic Maypom, those dark eyes tracking between the adults with the kind of assessment that suggests she's cataloging our discomfort for future reference. She kicks her legs once, twice, then announces with the careful pronunciation of someone practicing new concepts: "Statistical analysis suggests interpersonal bonding between Jason and Grace demonstrates characteristics consistent with pair-bonding behavior observed in mammalian species." A pause. "Also they look at each other like Uncle Peeter and Morgen do, which means they're gonna end up—"

  "Okay!" Morgen says quickly, one hand gently covering Mia's mouth. "That's enough statistical analysis for tonight."

  Mia's eyes crinkle slightly like she's smiling behind Morgen's hand. When Morgen removes it, the kid takes another sip of her drink, looking pleased with herself in the way only a seven-year-old who's successfully gotten under an adult's skin can.

  Morgen stands smoothly, reaching down to gently pull Mia up with her. The kid doesn't resist, just slides out of the chair with that same eerie grace, though she clutches her glass carefully so it doesn't spill.

  "We should probably get going anyway," Morgen says, one hand resting lightly on Mia's shoulder. The gesture looks protective without being possessive. "It's late, and someone needs actual sleep even if the rest of us don't."

  Dave nods, his beard shifting with the movement. "Fair enough. Thanks for the Maypom. And thanks for playing tonight—your red angel retainer added a lot to the session."

  Morgen waves at the keg. "Keep it. I've got twenty bacon strips that say it won't get finished before Monday."

  She pauses at the base of the stairs, glancing back over her shoulder with a grin. "Peeter's got twenty that it will."

  "What kind of bacon?" Mike asks, because of course that's what he focuses on.

  "The good kind. Thick-cut, hickory-smoked, wrapped around sausage." Morgen's grin widens. "He's been experimenting with meat combinations."

  "Of course he has," Dave mutters, but he's grinning.

  Mia tilts her head, looking between all of us with that too-old assessment. "The statistical probability of consuming an entire keg of alcoholic beverage in forty-eight hours suggests Morgen's wager has favorable odds." She pauses, then adds: "Though Uncle Peeter's got that metabolism thing going, so maybe not." She swings her glass slightly, watching the liquid move. "Can I have more before we go?"

  "Nice try." Morgen steers her toward the stairs. "You've had enough sugar for one night."

  "Kid's got Etienne's sense of humor," Mike observes once they've disappeared up the stairs. We hear the front door open and close, then silence settles back over the basement.

  Dave refills our glasses, the Maypom flowing smooth and rich. "Where were we?"

  "Talking about how Jason and Grace are stupidly in love with each other," Mike supplies helpfully.

  I take a careful sip of my drink, feeling the familiar burn trail down my throat. The maple adds something almost nostalgic to it, like fall mornings and breakfast before deployment. "Grace reminds me of Revenna, when we first met."

  Mike nearly spits out his drink. "Your wife? Revenna 'I'll break your fingers if you touch my coffee' Carter? That Revenna?"

  "The very same." I allow myself a small smile, memories of those early days flooding back. Revenna with her tactical assessments and complete lack of patience for bullshit, the way she moved through hostile territory like she owned it. The way she looked at me like I was simultaneously the most interesting and most frustrating thing she'd encountered all day. "Before retirement, before we were married. She was stationed with something called Ranger Battalion."

  "You mean Ranger Regiment?" Mike asks, brow furrowed in confusion. "The American Army special forces unit?"

  I shake my head, warmth from the Maypom spreading through my chest. "No. Ranger Battalion isn't the same thing. Mostly female, for one. And blunt as a brick through a window."

  Dave chuckles, his beard shifting with the movement. "Revenna certainly maintained that quality. Remember when she told the mayor his urban development plan was 'tactically unsound and likely to result in infrastructure collapse within eight years'?"

  "At his own fundraiser," Mike adds with a grin. "And then proceeded to explain, in excruciating detail, exactly which load-bearing structures would fail first."

  "She was right, though," I point out, feeling the familiar protective warmth whenever we discuss my wife. "That south side development is already showing structural issues."

  Dave raises his glass in acknowledgment. "True enough. But we're not talking about Revenna tonight." His expression grows more serious. "What do you think Jason is doing for Grace?"

  The question hangs in the air between us, weighty with implications. Mike leans forward, elbows on the table.

  "Helping her become more human," he says after a moment. "Remember how she was when you first described meeting her, Dave? The woman who appeared on Jason's doorstep talking about meat-ripping teeth and death oaths? Would that Grace have adopted a fictional child during a game? Would she have that cat Jason talks about sleeping on her face every night?"

  "Kitten," I supply automatically. "That's the cat's name. Not very creative, but apparently Grace approved."

  "Right, Kitten." Mike shakes his head in wonder. "Would that Grace have carried a supposedly terrifying cat like 'Kitten' around with her everywhere? Probably not."

  Dave refills our glasses, the Maypom catching the light as it flows. "It's more than that, though. Jason sees her differently than we do. Than anyone does, probably."

  "He looks at her like she's the best thing that ever happened to him," Mike observes. "And she looks at him like he's the fucking center of the universe or something."

  Dave nods seriously. "Revenna looks at you like that," he says, nudging my arm with surprising gentleness for such a large man.

  Heat rises to my face unexpectedly. Even after twenty years of marriage, Revenna's intensity still catches me off guard sometimes. "That's different," I mutter, taking another sip to hide my embarrassment.

  "Is it, though?" Mike presses. "Grace mentioned she's not a psychopath, though her status window thing says she is. You said you talked to her about that after our first game, right?"

  I set my glass down carefully, considering how much to share. "I did. She's struggling with it—the contradiction between what she's always believed about herself and what she's actually experiencing. Jason is at the center of that struggle, whether he realizes it or not." I shrug. "Could be worse, he won't push. He doesn't. Ever, remember?"

  "Because she feels things for him she doesn't think she should be able to feel?" Dave asks, surprisingly perceptive for a man who routinely destroys expensive camping equipment to demonstrate "what not to do" to his survival students.

  "Exactly," I nod. "Whatever Grace is—wherever she's from—she's not what she thinks she is. And Jason is helping her see that, just by being himself." I trace the rim of my glass with one finger, gathering my thoughts. "Jason needs Grace to teach him survival, vigger, all that physical stuff. But Grace needs Jason to teach her something far more, well." I shrug. I'm not good with words.

  "How to be human," Mike supplies.

  "How to be herself, it's just that's being. Well, like you said. I think that's the real journey they're on, though." I shrug again.

  Dave raises his glass in a silent toast, and we all drink to that.

  "Speaking of journeys," Mike says, setting his empty glass down with a decisive thunk, "what do you think Grace could teach us about this vigger thing? I mean, if she can do what we saw at the school—lifting logs with one hand, that insane archery demonstration—and if she can give Jason his sight back... what could she do for people who already have all their senses intact?"

  "Enhanced strength would be useful for search and rescue operations," Dave muses, his practical nature showing through. "The ability to run for hours without fatigue, to function in extreme temperatures..."

  "Military applications would be extensive," I add, my old training automatically calculating tactical advantages. "Though I'm not sure that's a road we want to go down. Some capabilities should remain personal rather than institutional, especially in this day and age."

  "Agreed," Dave says with surprising firmness. "Whatever Grace teaches Jason—whatever she might eventually teach any of us—that knowledge comes with responsibilities."

  The conversation shifts to Raj and his mysterious girlfriend, whom none of us have met yet. Mike suggests she might not actually exist, while Dave theorizes she's probably another computer scientist like Raj, maybe someone he met at a convention.

  "I still think we should surveil Raj's house," I say, only half-joking. "Professional curiosity."

  "Down, boy," Dave laughs. "Your military intelligence days are over, remember? Besides, we'll meet her soon enough if she comes to the next game."

  "Now that'll be interesting," Mike says, reaching for the keg again. "Grace interacting with another woman who isn't Jason's mother. Ten bucks says she gives her the same assessment she gave us at the range. 'Your structural configuration indicates aptitude for thrown weapons.'"

  We laugh, the sound filling Dave's dining room with comfortable warmth. These evenings have become something of a ritual over the years—the games downstairs followed by drinks and deeper conversation upstairs. A brotherhood built on shared experiences and mutual respect, disguised as simple friendship.

  "You know," Dave says, his voice taking on that particular tone that means he's about to get philosophical, "I've been thinking about introducing Jason to the actual Art of Manliness foundation. The kid will be choosing a path soon, especially with Grace's assistance."

  Mike nods seriously, understanding the significance of Dave's suggestion. "Which discipline do you think would suit him? He's already got the Gentleman's path from his father—that architectural precision, the attention to detail, so provider, maybe? If he decides he wants to build things."

  "The protector seems most aligned with Grace's influence," I observe. "But I'm not sure that's Jason's natural inclination, even if. Well. He decided to go hunter as opposed to protector for Long Watch."

  "Leader." Dave grunts. "Once he gets his shit together? Once he figures out how to teach others? The example? He could be very, very good at that."

  "What about the King for a sub path? Whatever the fuck they call them?" Mike suggests. "He's already got a little kingdom at Northern Edge—the filing system only he fully understands, the administrative realm he's carved out for himself." He grins. "Bet Grace wouldn't mind being his queen." More seriously: "Especially if Grace knows, well. Jason will be alongside her. She relies on him a lot more than any of us thinks, and he's happy to help her. That's rare, men or women."

  I consider each path carefully, thinking of the Jason I've come to know over the last three years. "I think he might surprise us all," I say finally. "The paths aren't mutually exclusive, after all. Each of us walks more than one. I'm a soldier, but I'm also a provider. Dave's a leader, but he's also a protector. Mike..."

  "Asshole," Mike says, grinning. "Leader of the assholes, just not a complete asshole. I led you two schmucks, don't I?"

  Dave grins. I shrug. Mike refills his glass.

  Dave nods, his hand unconsciously touching the handcrafted leather bracelet on his wrist—the mark of his primary discipline. "The Warrior teaches me strength of body," he acknowledges. "But the Wildman gives me strength of spirit and the leader gives me strength of discipline."

  "The Strategist guides my decisions," I add, thinking of my own journey. "But the Healer helps me understand why those decisions matter and the protector lets me hold close what I hold dear."

  Mike grins, raising his glass again. "And I'm just a simple Trickster trying to figure out why I'm friends with you philosophical bastards."

  We laugh again, the familiar rhythm of friendship making the heavy topics lighter.

  "You know," I say, as the laughter subsides, "I'm glad I posted that job listing three years ago. The one Jason found."

  "We all are," Dave agrees, refilling our glasses one last time. "The kid's brought something special to Northern Edge. To all of us."

  "And now Grace is bringing something to him," Mike adds.

  "To all of us," I correct, remembering her assessment of my ranged weapon aptitude—eerily accurate, as if she could see the years I spent in Afghanistan with a rifle as my only companion. "If she follows through on teaching vigger techniques..."

  Dave's expression grows serious again. "We'll approach that opportunity with respect if it comes. Whatever Grace is offering isn't just a skill—it's a responsibility."

  The conversation winds down as we finish our drinks, the Maypom warm in my chest. Dave's guest rooms have hosted each of us countless times over the years, and tonight Mike and I will stay rather than drive home. It's another unspoken tradition of these gatherings—no one leaves until morning, ensuring both safety and the opportunity for breakfast conversation to tie up loose threads from the night before. Also. Pancakes. Pancakes are good, and the fact that if you tell someone that half of them will think the HFY variant? Well. We need funny stories, and we're at the age where we can laugh at all the kids with their funny kid thoughts and things.

  As I prepare for bed in the familiar guest room, my thoughts return to Jason and Grace. Two people from seemingly different worlds, each providing exactly what the other needs most. It's the kind of symmetry that makes you wonder if there's more to the universe than random chance—if sometimes, people are brought together by forces beyond their understanding, for purposes they're only beginning to discover.

  Whatever journey Jason and Grace are on, I suspect it's just beginning. And as I drift toward sleep, I find myself strangely eager to see where that path will lead them—and by extension, all of us who have been fortunate enough to become part of their story.

  ---Grace---

  The darkness behind my eyelids holds no dreams yet. I float in that space between waking and sleeping where thoughts move like slow water, where the day's events replay themselves without the rigid control I maintain during consciousness.

  Jason's scent flared when I called him mine. Not condemnation as I had feared—as I hadn't known I could fear until the words left my mouth and the possibility of rejection became real rather than theoretical. The scent that rolled off him carried pleasure, warm and rich like perfectly seared meat on cold nights, like the blood of a fresh kill, like the safety of summer camp when food was plentiful and threats were manageable. Pleasure with notes of wariness threaded through it, yes, because possession is complicated, because being claimed by another carries weight in any world, in any culture. But the pleasure came first, immediate and unmistakable.

  My psychopathy should prevent this. The status window labeled me correctly when I was twelve, when the Druid performed the ceremony that revealed what I was to myself and to my clan. Psychopaths do not fear. Psychopaths do not experience the chest-tightening anxiety of potential rejection. Psychopaths do not lie awake cataloging another person's scent reactions and analyzing what those reactions might mean for future interactions. I would know. I have killed people who were doing each of those things independintly for my clan. For the Druid. For a small boy who would otherwise have been consumed.

  Yet here I am. Doing exactly that.

  Kitten climbs onto my chest, her tiny paws pressing into my collarbone with surprising force for something so small. She walks up my body with the confidence of a creature who has never been told she doesn't belong somewhere, who has never learned that claiming space might result in violence or rejection. Her warmth settles under my chin, front paws and head resting on my face in a position that should feel restrictive, threatening even, but instead creates an odd comfort I don't fully understand.

  The weight of her helps somehow. Grounds me. Her purring vibrates against my throat, steady and uncomplicated. She doesn't question whether she should be here. She simply is here, has claimed this space and this person, and the claiming itself is enough.

  Sleep pulls at me properly now, dragging me down into actual unconsciousness rather than this half-aware floating. My breathing evens out. Kitten's purr becomes the last thing I hear before darkness takes me completely.

  ---

  I wake up standing in snow. Massive pines surround me, their branches heavy with white powder that should compress under my weight but doesn't. My feet rest on top of the snow as if it were solid ground, as if the normal rules about mass and density don't apply here.

  A dream, then. The realization comes quickly, snapping into place with the clarity that always arrives too late in normal dreams but here feels immediate and certain. I'm dreaming. I know I'm dreaming. The awareness should wake me—usually does when it occurs—but this time consciousness remains trapped in the dreamscape.

  I start walking. Vigger flows through me automatically, maintaining my position atop the snow rather than sinking into it. Each step takes me deeper into the forest, between trees so wide three people couldn't link hands around their trunks, through spaces where branches create patterns against a sky I can't quite see properly. The light comes from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously, that dream-logic illumination that lets me see clearly without identifying any actual source.

  My mind churns while my body moves. Jason's reaction to being claimed. His scent carrying pleasure before wariness. The way he didn't pull away, didn't reject the possessive declaration that should have alarmed any reasonable person. What will he do with this information? What will he be able to do, given time and understanding of what I've given him access to?

  Vivid images form unbidden. Jason using vigger to move through the world without the cane that he still carries, that marks him as vulnerable. Prey. Meat simply waiting to be consumed. Jason extending his senses beyond normal human limitations, reading environments the way I do, understanding threats before they fully materialize. Jason strong enough that people think twice before treating him as someone who can be dismissed or discounted because of his blindness. Not sexual fantasies—my body doesn't respond that way, never has even when the Druid explained it should have started by my age. These are fantasies of competence, of partnership, of Jason being able to stand beside me rather than behind me.

  After a time, the forest opens ahead into a clearing. A cabin sits in the center, small and practical with smoke rising from a stone chimney. Split wood is piled nearly to the roof along one wall, enough fuel for an entire winter or more. The structure looks weathered but solid, built by someone who understood that form follows function in places where mistakes mean death.

  I glance around the clearing, cataloging sight lines and approach vectors automatically before walking to the door. My hand reaches for the latch without conscious decision. The door opens smoothly, hinges well-maintained despite their apparent age, and I step inside before closing it behind me with a soft click.

  The main room is exactly what I expect. The stone fireplace dominates one wall, flames crackling in a hearth wide enough to cook on. Heat radiates from the fire, pushing back against the cold that should be seeping through the log walls but somehow isn't. The logs fit together with precision that speaks to careful construction, gaps stuffed with moss and clay and whatever materials the builder could find to seal against winter.

  A wooden table sits in the center of the room, solid and worn smooth from years of use. Chairs surround it, all handmade, all functional rather than decorative. A ladder leads up to a loft where I can see the edge of a bed. Behind the ladder, a small kitchen area with basic equipment—counter, shelves, the minimum necessary for someone who hunts their own meat and grows what vegetables the northern season allows.

  A woman sits in one of the chairs. She's compact and powerful, maybe 5'8, with dark brown hair cut to shoulder length framing a square-jawed face with high cheekbones. Steel-gray eyes track me as I enter, cataloging and assessing with the same automatic awareness I recognize in myself. Her posture carries unconscious authority, every movement economical and purposeful, nothing wasted on unnecessary gestures.

  She wears practical clothing—well-made jeans, steel-toed boots that look like they've seen actual work, a battered red leather jacket with enough pockets to carry a small arsenal. I can see the letters now as she shifts slightly, revealing the back: SPSB in thred across the spine.

  "Thornara," she says, her voice carrying quiet confidence without arrogance. She gestures to the chair opposite her. "Sit."

  I move to the chair and lower myself into it, maintaining awareness of exits and potential threats even though I know this is a dream, even though I suspect that attacking this woman will hinder me rather than help. A plate appears on the table in front of me—pancakes, bacon, maple syrup, the scents hitting my nose, remind me of when Jason shared these things with me for the first time. The bacon, the first day I arrived when he made those sandwhiches in the air frier before assisting me in it's use. The pancakes and mayple syrup, when I had entered to find Bearee flipping strange circles in the pan, before jason asked me to trust him and try the strange. Dish.

  "Why am I here?" I ask, reaching for utensils that I don't remember seeing but are suddenly in my hands. The direct approach has always served me better than dancing around questions. I see little reason to change this at present.

  Thornara cuts into her pancakes with deliberate movements, fork and knife working in practiced coordination. "This is your dream," she says without looking up from her food. "So you should know why you're here. Or more accurately, what you're here to work through, Grace."

  I take a bite of the pancakes. They're excellent—perfectly cooked, the right ratio of syrup to cake, the bacon crispy without being burnt. My dream, my expectations, my understanding of what good food should taste like based on limited but memorable experiences.

  "Jason," I say after swallowing, after eating more pancakes and some bacon because not eating would be wasteful and waste is never acceptable regardless of whether the food is real or imagined. "Jason's reaction to my claiming him. I am unsure what I should think of it."

  Thornara looks up from her plate, gray eyes meeting mine without judgment. Waiting.

  "In my homeland," I begin slowly, selecting words with the same care that I use to select my shot to fell a game animal, "claiming is possessive, and possession is—you possess tools. You possess equipment, resources. Things. Jason is not a thing."

  I eat more bacon, using the crispy strips to sop up syrup from the plate before continuing. "Jason is mine. Jason is—he does not command me when he could. He asks me when he does not need to, because he knows I have requested it. He explains things to me because he wants me to learn, not because he wishes to highlight how much more he knows, that I am in debt to him. He just gives it like it is free, or worth less than my learning."

  Thornara stays silent, eating with the same steady rhythm. Not pushing, not redirecting, just witnessing. The silence feels different than most silences I encounter—not hostile or awkward but simply present, making space for words that need time to form properly.

  "Jason's hugs," I hear myself say, surprising myself with the shift in topic though it connects in ways I don't fully understand. "His embraces. He holds me like I'm not dangerous. Like I am—part of his life. Dawson enjoys me because I pet him. Dogs are loyal. Dogs do not judge. Kitten is Kitten, and cats are cats. But Jason is not a dog. Jason is not a cat. Jason is a man. Men fear me. Men hate me. Men do not desire me."

  My hands move automatically, cutting more pancakes, organizing the plate's contents with unconscious precision while my mouth continues forming words that feel like they're being pulled from somewhere deep in my chest.

  "Jason, as a human, as someone I bluntly stated I would have killed if the vigger had not set in, cares for me even then. Even when he knows what I am."

  The last words come out so quietly I barely hear them myself, pushed through a throat that suddenly feels tight: "I am afraid of what will happen when he realizes that I, fundamentally, can not give Jason what he wants. What he, as a man, wants. What he deserves."

  I finish the pancakes methodically, using the bacon to capture the last traces of syrup before eating everything, cleaning the plate completely because that's what you do when food is provided, regardless of the circumstances. Then I just sit there, silent, waiting for Thornara's judgment.

  The fire crackles in the hearth. Somewhere in the loft, something small shifts position with a soft rustle. The cabin creaks gently around us, settling into its foundations the way old structures do when they've stood through enough winters to understand their own rhythms.

  Thornara finally speaks. "What makes you think Jason will push for anything, Grace? He hasn't up till now. So. What makes you think he'll just start?"

  The question catches me off-guard. "Jason is a man," I say, stating what should be obvious. "The biological drive of a man is to copulate. To continue the human species. Something that I can not partake in. I can not have children. Vigger did not change this. Vigger fixed Jason's eyes, something that he believed impossible for his world's healing. This world can not change this. Jason, can not change this."

  The words taste bitter despite the lingering sweetness of maple syrup on my tongue. "When Jason—when anyone finds out that I can't, I am worth less. And Jason deserves someone who can give him what he wants. What he deserves. A future. A bloodline. People to take the best parts he gives them and make something better."

  My hands clench on the edge of the table, knuckles probably whitening though I can't see them clearly in the firelight. "Part of me wants to tell Jason. To explain to him what, exactly, he is doing. Part of me is afraid—something I should not be, something I cannot be due to my status window, my psychopathy—that once Jason realizes, once I tell him, he, rightly, will not want me anymore. And then I will be alone again."

  The dream flickers around the edges. The walls waver slightly, the fire dims and brightens in irregular patterns. Reality asserting itself, trying to pull me back to consciousness, to the guest room where Kitten is wrapped around my neck and Toronto winter presses against the windows.

  Thornara moves quickly, flipping something toward me across the table. My hand shoots out automatically, catching it mid-flight. A book. The cover shows a single leaf in sharp detail, veins visible against some neutral background. The spine reads "Primal Magic" in simple lettering.

  "Ask Jason," Thornara says, her voice cutting through the flickering dream with unexpected clarity. "Don't assume. When I was with my Jason—now called Protector—I asked questions. Things I was curious about. You didn't think Jason would bring you inside. He did. You didn't think Jason would refrain from commanding you. He didn't. Grace—"

  The dream fractures completely. Light and shadow blur together, the cabin's solid walls becoming translucent, Thornara's face losing definition even as her gray eyes remain fixed on mine with an intensity that feels more real than the dissolving dreamscape around us.

  ---

  I'm in the guest room. The realization comes with the disorientation of waking from deep sleep, that moment where consciousness returns but the body hasn't fully caught up yet. Kitten makes a soft "mew" where she's curled around my neck, front paws resting on my face, tiny weight warm and somehow comforting despite being positioned where any sudden movement could be dangerous for her.

  I stroke Kitten's head with careful fingers, feeling the delicate bones of her skull under impossibly soft fur. She purrs immediately, a rumbling vibration against my palm, and settles back into sleep with the absolute trust of a creature who has never been given reason to fear the person holding her.

  The book. I can still feel it in my hand even though my actual hand is empty, resting on the mattress beside my hip. Primal Magic. The memory of its weight feels real enough that I flex my fingers, half-expecting to encounter solid binding instead of just cotton sheets.

  Thornara's words echo with that peculiar clarity dreams sometimes leave behind: Ask Jason. Don't assume.

  I consider what happened. Consider my—fear. The word still feels foreign, wrong somehow, like wearing clothing that is the right size but cut for someone else's body. Fear that Jason will, on realizeing that I can not give him children, can not provide the biological continuation he desires, as all creatures desire, he will stop wanting me. The scent at my preeasence will fade. The strange chest-warmth he generates will fade. I find, to my mild surprise, that I do not wish this outcome. owever, I have little knowledge on how to avert it.

  But Thornara is right about one thing: I did not think that Jason would bring me inside his home. He did. I did not think that Jason would refrain from commanding me when the death oath gives him absolute authority. He has not. I did not think that Jason would explain things to me for my benefit rather than to establish dominance. He does. Has. Continues to do so.

  My assumptions about Jason have been consistently wrong. Why should I assume I'm correct about this?

  I will open Jason's vigger pathways. I promised him I would, and I am—the word still feels strange but increasingly accurate—excited. I enjoy Jason's excitement, his anticipation of things I show him. The way his scent changes when he's learning something new, when possibilities he hadn't considered suddenly become accessible. That particular combination of focus and wonder that makes him more present than he usually allows himself to be.

  But I do not know what to do about this other thing. This fear that feels both alien and horribly familiar, like recognizing a threat you've never actually encountered but your body knows instinctively. Perhaps I should speak to Bearee about this. Or Carter—he understands things others don't, and Bearee is Jason's mother which might complicate the conversation in ways I don't fully anticipate.

  Carter, then. I will speak to Carter once we return from the trip. Once I have had time to think. Once I understand what exactly I amm asking about.

  The decision settles something in my chest. Not resolution, exactly, but the next tactical step identified and committed to. I nod to myself in the darkness, then curl into a ball—a position that I have discovered I quite enjoy, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around my shins, making myself small in a way that paradoxically feels safe rather than vulnerable.

  Kitten adjusts her position automatically, a warm weight against the back of my neck now, purring contentedly as if my comfort is her primary concern rather than only convenient proximity to body heat.

  I close my eyes. My breathing evens out. Sleep pulls at me again, deeper and less complicated this time, without dreams of cabins or questions I don't know how to ask.

  The last thought I have before unconsciousness fully claims me is simpler than it should be: Tomorrow I will show Jason vigger. Tomorrow I will watch his excitement as new capabilities open before him. Tomorrow is something I'm looking forward to, regardless of the fact that I, by my status window, am fundimentally incapeable of doing so.

  And for now, that's enough.