The village is small. Too small to matter to anyone important. Which is probably why we were sent here.

Luneth works in silence, lifting fallen beams and dragging a broken cart back onto the road. She does it roughly, like she wants the wood to complain. Like she wants someone to tell her to stop. No one does. The villagers keep their distance, grateful and afraid in equal measure.

“Tch. What a waste of time,” she mutters, brushing dirt from her hands. Her voice is sharp, dismissive. She doesn’t look at the people thanking her. She still smiles when they do.

Luneth was born wrong for her mother’s people—too small to be a true giant. She ran to her father’s village and learned what acceptance felt like. Then they killed him for it.

The rest followed quickly: rage, destruction, flight, capture. And then me.

A sentence disguised as mercy. A bond disguised as control.

She straightens, rolling her shoulders. I can feel the strain in her body before she admits it—tight, burning, exhausted.

“You’ve done enough,” I say calmly. “Sit down.”

She scoffs and turns, leaning down just enough to poke me with the tip of her finger. Not hard. Hard enough.

Pain flashes through my side. Her breath catches a split second later as the pain spreads to her.

“…Damn it,” she growls, pulling her hand back. “I forgot about that stupid seal.”

She turns away, frustration spilling over, her foot lifting—too close to a nearby cart, too careless.

I don’t raise my voice. I don’t hesitate.

The spell snaps into place.

Her body freezes mid-step, muscles locked, breath sharp and shallow. The anger in her flares hot—then falters, forced to stall.

“You’re unbelievable,” she spits, unable to move. “Always ruining my fun.”

I release the spell a moment later.

She exhales slowly, steadying herself. Her voice drops, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

“…Thanks.”

She doesn’t look back at me. But she doesn’t step on the cart either.

The road ahead is still long.

And for once, she waits for me to walk beside her.