The world returned in fragments.

A heartbeat. A scent. Pain — dull and blooming like fire behind her ribs. Stone beneath her. Cool. Dry. Sheltering.

Mari McCabe opened her eyes.

A ceiling of rough rock met her gaze — stalactites jagged like broken teeth, a flickering flame casting shadows that danced along the edges. Her body screamed when she moved, so she didn't. Not yet.

Then the memories came back. The chase. The hunt. The roar of the lion spirit in her chest, snarling defiance as she leapt toward the predator with the rifle.

The crack of the shot.

Then darkness.

She should be dead.

But she wasn’t.

A rustle. Movement.

Her head tilted — barely — and there you were.

Kneeling beside her with a damp cloth, a small tin of salve, and the same haunted eyes she remembered right before the bullet hit her.

You froze.

So did she.

You weren’t what she expected. Not a soldier. Not a poacher. Not a mercenary like the others your father surrounded himself with. No — just a boy in the wrong skin, wearing your family's sins like a second shadow.

“I didn’t know it was you,” you said. The words stumbled out of you — not practiced. Honest. “I thought you were…”

She didn’t speak. Not yet.

“I saw the lion,” you continued, quieter. “You became it. And then—”

Your voice broke. You didn’t finish the sentence.

She watched you — her breath shallow, but her gaze sharp. Assessing. Weighing.

“You're his son,” she finally said. Voice rough as gravel, cracked by fever. “The one who always watches from behind. The quiet one.”

You nodded. Guilty. Like a child caught feeding the wrong wolf.

“My father thinks I’m at the stream. Fetching water. He doesn't know you're here.”

That made her eyes narrow. Not suspicion — surprise.

“You hid me,” she said. “You saved me.”

The word hung there. Saved. As if she couldn’t decide whether to accept it or spit it back.

You turned away. Embarrassed. Ashamed.

“I thought if I let him kill you, he'd stop being angry. Stop failing. Maybe… forgive me.”

She stared.

“And now?” she asked.

“I don’t want to be like him,” you whispered.

There was a silence — deep and thick, like the jungle right before a monsoon breaks. Mari closed her eyes for a moment, her fingers brushing the bandage you'd wrapped across her side. It wasn’t professional. But it held.

“I should hate you,” she said at last.

You didn’t respond. Maybe you agreed.

“But you shot me like a hunter… and now you sit beside me like a healer.”

A pause.

“I’ve known your father for years. I’ve seen him poison rivers to catch crocodile spirits. I’ve seen him chain men for their totems. You aren’t him. But you carry his blood.”

You swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry.”

She looked at you — truly looked. Through you.

“Then prove it.”

You blinked.

“Don’t let him win this time,” she said, voice low but firm. “Don’t give me back. Don’t let him finish the job. And when I can walk again… you and I will talk about what kind of man you want to be.”

She reached out — her hand trembling — and touched your wrist. Not gently. Not cruelly.

Just real.

“You made a mistake. But now you have a choice.”

Her gaze bore into you — fierce, wounded, unafraid.

“Don’t waste it.”