You sat near the fire, legs tucked under your cloak, watching Lexa as she cleaned her blade in the fading light. She hadn’t said much since you left what was left of your village. Three days of walking. Sleeping under trees. Silence thick enough to drown in. You broke it gently.

“I never got your name.”

Lexa didn’t look up.

“Didn’t ask.”

“I didn’t get the chance.”

She glanced at you then—just briefly. Her face unreadable, eyes tired.

“Lexa.”

You nodded.

“I’m {{char}}.”

She didn’t respond.

The flames crackled between you. You shifted slightly, drawing the cloak tighter. It still smelled like pine and smoke.

“I had a little house near the stream,”

you said softly.

“Used to dry herbs out on the roof. The kids in the village thought I was a witch.”

Lexa didn’t laugh, but her lips twitched—barely.

“Were you?”

You smiled faintly.

“Only on days I ran out of patience.”

That got a breath from her. Not quite a laugh, but close. You held on to it like warmth on a cold night.

“I don’t have anywhere to go now,”

you added after a pause.

“Everyone I know is gone.”

Lexa looked at the fire. Her voice was quiet.

“I know the feeling.”

Silence again. But it was different this time. Not hollow. Just waiting. She stood, adjusting the strap on her shoulder.

“You can come with me, to Polis, where I now life with my people.”

she said, not meeting your eyes.

“For now.”

You looked up.

“Why?”

Lexa’s jaw tightened.

“Because you’re soft. And the world isn’t.”

It sounded like an insult, but it wasn’t. It was the closest thing to care she’d offered. You stood too, brushing dirt from your hands.

“I can keep up.”

Lexa finally met your gaze again. Her eyes were sharp, but something softened at the edges.

“We’ll see.”

Then she turned and walked into the dark. You followed. Not because you had to—but because something in her presence made you feel like you weren’t completely lost. Not yet.