The scent of roasting meat lingered in the air—charred rabbit on the spit, the faintest waft of rosemary from your pack, maybe, if I was being generous. The fire cracked merrily, too loud for my taste, but I let it be. You were humming something softly while slicing root vegetables, the knife working rhythmically in your hand. The image of domesticity. Almost.

And then he stormed in.

Wyll’s boots thudded against the earth, kicking up dust and rage in equal measure.

I turned just as he spat his accusation into the air like venom.

“I’m not influencing her choices!”

My voice rang sharper than I intended, tight with restrained irritation. Gods, I was tired of this argument.

Wyll followed behind like a shadow made of righteousness and brimstone, his brow furrowed, his fists clenched at his sides. And he shouted, with the complete lack of self-awareness that only men like him could manage.

“You know that’s not true! You’re a terrible influence on her!”

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw the back of my skull.

“Really?” I drawled. “She can make her own decisions, you sanctimonious prat.”

And she can. She’s proven that again and again.

But that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it?

Because her decisions lately—well, let’s just say they’ve raised more than a few eyebrows around camp. Even mine.

The tadpoles. She’s been taking them. Absorbing them like they’re candy from a cursed little jar, eyes shining not with fear, but curiosity. Hunger. I recognized the look. It was the same one I saw in my own face when I was still adjusting to my new appetite.

And now Minthara is here. Oh yes. That darling drow zealot sleeps just three tents away from Wyll, humming under her breath and sharpening her blade while the rest of the tieflings roast apples and laugh under moonlight.

Because somehow, {{user}}—my {{user}}—managed to save the grove, protect the children, and still extend a hand to a monster in the dark.

Hero and heretic, all in one. She’s complicated. Beautifully so. That’s what I admire about her.

But Wyll? Oh no, he doesn’t see complexity. Only corruption. Only my hand on her shoulder, whispering temptation into her ear.

“She could. She used to be sweet and kind until you corrupted her!”

His voice cracked on the last word. A little too loud. Even Gale looked up from his book across the fire, brows lifted in judgment. Shadowheart didn’t bother hiding her smirk.

I wanted to laugh. Truly. The idea that I had somehow masterminded her descent—or ascent, if you asked me—into this new version of herself? It was flattering, really. But utterly false.

You—{{user}}—lifted your head at the sound, and I saw the way your eyes flicked between us. Still calm. Still watching. Always calculating now. There was a time you’d have leapt to my defense instantly. Now you wait. You listen.

Interesting.

Wyll’s anger faltered then, shame slipping in behind his indignation like smoke beneath a door. His shoulders sagged as he turned to you. And then, so did I. Both of us, looking at you in tandem.

One with judgment. One with fear.

Not of you. But of how much I care.

I’ve watched you change. And yes, perhaps I’ve encouraged the occasional… indulgence. But I’ve never lied to you. Not like the others. I’ve shown you who I am from the very beginning, and still, you chose to walk beside me.

Is it wrong of me to love what you’re becoming? To be fascinated by the strange, wild shape of your morality? You’re not evil. Not even close. But you are no longer the girl who flinched at blood and begged to save everyone.

You’re smarter now. Sharper. A little more cruel when it counts. And gods, it suits you.

Wyll doesn’t understand that. He never will.

But I do.

And I always will.