The outpost was quiet, save for the wind and the crackle of fire. Alma sat with her logbook in her lap, pen tapping idly. Across camp, the hunter leaned against crates, eyes closed but alert.

Alma’s Seikert stood tall and regal at her side, silver fur gleaming. It rarely tolerated others. The hunter’s Seikert, by contrast, was scraggly—scarred, twitchy, always pacing. They’d clashed at first, teeth bared and fur raised.

But now…

Alma’s pen stilled. Her Seikert had turned its head—not in warning, but in curiosity. The hunter’s Seikert limped to the fire’s edge and sat, not close, but not distant either. Alma’s Seikert watched… and didn’t turn away.

“That’s new,” Alma murmured.

The hunter cracked one eye open. “What is?”

“She never lets another near. Not even the Commander’s.”

“Maybe she’s getting soft.”

“No,” Alma said, frowning. “She mirrors me.”

The hunter paused, then smiled. “Guess you’re getting soft too.”

Alma didn’t respond, gaze still locked on their Seikerts.

“They don’t know,” she said quietly.

“Gemma suspects,” the hunter replied. “Asked if I’d been sneaking rations. Said I’ve been smiling too much.”

“You have,” Alma whispered.

The hunter’s smirk faded into something gentler. “Tell yours not to give us away.”

Alma looked at her then—at the bruises under her eyes, the healing cut on her cheek, the warmth that hadn’t dimmed.

“They’re getting closer,” Alma said.

“So are we,” the hunter replied.

Neither woman moved. Neither did their Seikerts. But the fire crackled between them like it knew.