---Jason---

  I shove the office door open with my shoulder, balancing a stack of Dave's weather-beaten Trail Guides and my second coffee of the morning. Despite Dave's militaristic precision about most things, his filing system would make a tornado look organized. I've spent the past three hours assigning mysterious notations like "L7/B-WC/N.ONT" to physical shelf locations in our pathetic excuse for a physical database.

  The door swings shut with a thud, and I maneuver through the narrow paths between filing cabinets to my desk before plonking the Trail Guides down with a heavy thump. Northern Edge is eerily quiet today—most of the instructors are out with the corporate group from Hamilton, teaching wilderness first aid to executives who'll probably never venture further from civilization than their cottage decks.

  Through the office's single window, open slightly because it's fucking stuffy in here and I have the door closed most of the time, I can see Raj demonstrating proper kindling arrangement to a young couple, his hands moving with practiced precision even as his mouth runs a mile a minute. I can't hear what he's saying from here, but his enthusiasm seems to be winning them over. Then again, if anyone could do that, would be him.

  The office sits at the back of the main cabin, accessed through a doorway that leads away from the open, rustic warmth of the lodge's common areas. The space feels deliberately functional, a stark contrast to the weathered timber and stone of the main building. Three desks occupy the compact room, each carved out its own territory in the cramped quarters. I settle into the central desk like it's my natural habitat, the worn office chair creaking familiarly under my weight, like it has ever since I figured out where everything belonged.

  The air carries a distinct cocktail of scents—bitter coffee that's probably been sitting too long, the sharp ozone smell of electronic equipment humming away at low frequencies, and that particular heated plastic odor that comes from computers working overtime. Filing cabinets line the walls like metal sentinels, their surfaces covered with calendars marked in different handwriting, schedules that overlap and conflict, and the accumulated paper debris of running a business that deals with people who can't seem to spell their own names correctly. So, my excel spredsheets just in physicle form, mostly. Least that's what I picture it as, since still can't see any of it due to it not being raised. Then again, most of it isn't my problem unless it becomes my problem, and I've gotten good at solveing those.

  My laptop screen glows with that particular blue-white light that turns everything slightly cold, casting harsh shadows across spreadsheets filled with rows and columns of data that represent real people with real problems. The keyboard responds to my fingers almost faster than I can think to type now, each keystroke deliberate and efficient. I work with the focused intensity of a tracker following spoor through fresh snow, completely absorbed in hunting down inconsistencies between paper forms and digital records. Well. That last one is what Grace said, and it's cooler then, 'I work with the focused intensity of a former blind guy doing a job' so I'm going with Grace's version on this one.

  I sink into my chair with a sigh. It's been days since the D&D game at Dave's place, days since Carter took Grace aside for that conversation about her not actually being a psychopath. But honestly, I'm more curious about what she's been up to since then. She seemed genuinely happy about those pancakes with maple syrup this morning, for example, and hell, I'm happy that Grace gets to enjoy herself. In my opinion, Grace should be able to do that more often. Granted, I am biased considering it's Grace, so there's also that, but still. The woman, from what I can tell, doesn't seem to have been able to enjoy herself much before she arrived here, and, well. Maple searup isn't a bad place to start changeing that.

  The office door creaks open, and I look up to see Carter's lean figure silhouetted against the morning light. Or. More focus up since I don't actually need to raise my head but do because. Well. Normal peole do that, and I'm normal now.

  "Morning, Jason," he says, his voice carrying that military crispness that never quite faded. "Got a minute?"

  "Sure," I reply, gesturing to the chair across from my desk. "Just trying to decipher Dave's organizational system. I think it might actually be a coded message to alien overlords that baught him by just calling him Ragnar."

  Carter's mouth twitches in what passes for his version of a smile. "If aliens wanted Earth intelligence, they wouldn't start with Dave's filing cabinet." Before. "it's not just the name. It's the hole aspect, and alians who could do that wouldn't need whatever we can offer."

  He settles into the chair, his posture remaining perfectly straight—spine never touching the backrest. Classic Carter. Even casual conversations feel like mission briefings with him.

  "I wanted to ask you about something," he says without preamble, leaning forward slightly. "You interested in playing War of Great Houses?"

  The question catches me off guard. I blink, processing the shift from where I thought this conversation was heading. "The strategy game? Yeah, actually. Grace and I discovered it on my laptop the other night. Pretty complex faction mechanics."

  Carter nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Dave mentioned Grace called him about it. Apparently she wanted his opinion on switching the campaign so each character is playing a character from that world."

  I pause in my typing, turning to look at Carter more directly. "She called Dave?"

  "According to Dave, she indicated she did this because she thought you would enjoy the game, and playing with friends. People you value and who value you." Carter's expression carries that subtle warmth that occasionally breaks through his military bearing. "Dave emphasized that part specifically."

  I consider this for a while, warmth spreading through my chest at the thought of Grace going out of her way to set up something she thought I'd enjoy. It's such a thoughtful gesture, and the fact that she reached out to Dave on her own initiative...

  "She seemed interested in a warlock class when we were looking at character options," I mention, remembering that conversation her tactical analysis of the game and, classes? Houses? What ever, not the point.

  Carter grins now, the expression transforming his usually serious features. "She was interested in eldritch blast."

  I shrug. "It's eldritch blast."

  Carter nods with understanding. "Dave's trying to figure out a way how one, your character isn't dead, and two, how they all end up as War of Great Houses characters. So it works out perfectly." His expression grows more thoughtful. "He'll want to talk with Grace about a patron, though."

  I nod with a smile, already imagining Grace's methodical approach to warlock mechanics. "Good."

  Carter stands in one fluid motion, straightening to his full height. "For what it's worth, I think you're good for each other. I've seen enough in my time to recognize when people fit together, even if they haven't figured it out themselves yet."

  Before I can respond to that loaded statement, he adds with that slight softening that happens when he talks about important things, "Kids like you and Grace should have the benefit of my experience without the pain of getting it." His gaze drifts momentarily, seeing something I can't—probably some memory best left undisturbed.

  "Thanks, Carter," I say, meaning it. "Really."

  He nods once and departs, leaving me with a growing sense of anticipation about the upcoming game. Grace taking the initiative to coordinate with Dave, thinking about what would make me happy, considering the group dynamics—it speaks to a level of care and attention that makes something warm settle in my chest.

  I turn back to my laptop, but my mind keeps drifting to the thought of Grace as a warlock, probably analyzing patron relationships with the same tactical precision she brings to everything else. The image makes me smile as I return to wrestling with Dave's organizational chaos.

  I really do need to ask Grace about sleeping on her shoulder, if for no other reason than to clear the air, though. It's been bothering me since it happened, this sense that I crossed some kind of boundary without permission. So I'll do that when I get home. Just... clear the air, make sure we're good.

  I'm pulled from my thoughts by the office door swinging open again, this time revealing Dave's massive frame. He strides in with that purposeful gait of his, like he's perpetually on his way to wrestle a mountain lion. Or, you know, a werewolf if they actually existed.

  "Stone!" he booms, dropping into the chair Carter just vacated, making it groan in protest. "Just the man I wanted to see."

  "What's up, Dave?" I ask, forcing my mind back to the present.

  He leans forward, beard split by a wide grin. "Been thinking about that wilderness trip we talked about last month—the winter survival experience. Still interested?"

  My stomach flutters with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. "Yeah, definitely. Though..." I pause, considering how to phrase this, "I'm a bit less worried about embarrassing myself now that I can, you know, see."

  Dave's eyebrows shoot up. "Right, that's been... quite the change. Still getting used to seeing you without the cane, Stone." He scratches his beard thoughtfully. "So, here's what I'm thinking. Grace also expressed interest when you two were here the other day."

  "She did?" This is news to me, though I shouldn't be surprised. Grace seems drawn to any opportunity to test survival skills.

  "Mmhmm," Dave confirms. "And after seeing her skills—those arctic feathersticks alone were worth the price of admission—I've got a slightly different proposal for you."

  "I'm listening." I lean back in my chair, curious.

  Dave's grin widens. "What you and Grace need isn't my standard three-day wilderness course. What you need is your own three-day fuck-off into the woods, just the two of you."

  I nearly choke on nothing. "What?"

  Dave laughs at my expression. "Think about it, Stone. You two seem to have some stuff you need to work out, and having a bunch of corporate types or military wannabes around would put a damper on that."

  "Work out what, exactly?" I ask, though I have a sinking feeling I know exactly what he's implying.

  "Come on," Dave says, waving a hand dismissively. "I've seen how you look at her. And I've seen how she watches you when she thinks no one's noticing. There's something there, whether you're ready to admit it or not."

  I feel heat creeping up my neck. "It's not—we're not—"

  "Save it," Dave interrupts, still grinning. "Look, I'm not saying you need to propose marriage or anything. I'm saying you two could benefit from some uninterrupted time in a survival situation where you have to rely on each other."

  He leans back, crossing massive arms over his chest. "Besides, I'm genuinely curious about what she could teach you. It was obvious from her demonstration here that she's got skills none of us have seen before. And it was equally obvious from the way she looked at you that she's ready to teach you everything she knows."

  The heat in my neck reaches my cheeks. "You're reading too much into this, Dave. She's a woman living in my house. Because I found her and did what any decent human would do."

  "Am I?" he challenges. "Ask yourself this—why did she agree to come to a game night with a bunch of strangers? Why is she working at teaching you knife techniques and fire-starting methods? Why did she bother showing up here to demonstrate her skills in the first place?"

  I open my mouth to reply, then close it again. He has a point, though I'm not ready to admit it.

  "Look," Dave continues, tone softening slightly, "I'll still take both of you on the official trip if that's what you want. But I think you'd get more out of a private expedition. I can set you up with gear, maps, emergency comms—all the essentials. Then you two can focus on whatever skills she wants to teach you without distraction."

  "I don't know," I hedge, though part of me is already warming to the idea. "Asking Grace to just go off into the woods with me feels... presumptuous."

  Dave barks a laugh. "Stone, in this scenario, Grace isn't locked in the woods with you. You're locked in the woods with Grace. Trust me, she can handle herself. And from what I've seen, she seems to genuinely enjoy your company—which, from someone like her, is saying something. Carter taught me that much, Jason."

  He's not wrong. Grace does seem more relaxed around me than others, more willing to engage in conversation that isn't strictly survival-focused.

  "I'll think about it," I concede. "Maybe talk to Grace, see what she thinks."

  "That's my boy," Dave says, slapping the desk hard enough to make my coffee ripple if I had any anyway. "Wilderness bonding—nothing like it." He stands, extracting a worn paperback from his back pocket. "Been reading this series. Might give you some pointers." He tosses the book onto my desk. Before: "it's raised, so you can read it."

  I glance down at the cover: "The Fundamentals of Manliness, Volume Three: Wilderness Romance and Other Survival Tactics," and barely suppress a groan.

  "Dave, I don't think—"

  "Just skim chapter four," he interrupts with a wink. "Trust me on this one, Stone."

  Before I can protest further, he claps me on the shoulder hard enough to make my teeth rattle and strides out of the office, whistling what sounds suspiciously like "Love Is in the Air."

  I stare at the book, then at the door, then back at the book. Three days alone in the wilderness with Grace. Learning survival skills, yes, but also just... existing together, without the buffer of civilization and other people. The idea is simultaneously terrifying and thrilling. Terrifying because, well I am going to fuck something up. Thrilling because. I slap that down. Even if nothing else exists, which things do, there's the deathoath to consider.

  Would she even want to? Grace values efficiency, practicality. Would she see any benefit in a private expedition versus Dave's structured course? Then again, she's the one who suggested teaching me vigger. Maybe this would provide the ideal setting for that.

  I tap my fingers on the desk, mind racing. Carter's confirmation that Grace went out of her way to set up the War of Great Houses game because she thought I'd enjoy it. Dave's not-so-subtle matchmaking. My own confusing feelings that I've been carefully avoiding examining too closely because of the magical deathoath thing.

  "Fuck it," I mutter to no one in particular. "Worst she can say is no."

  I pull out my phone and type a quick message to Grace: "Want to talk about something when I get home. Nothing bad, just an idea." I hit send before I can overthink it, then turn back to the stack of Trail Guides, determinedly not thinking about three days alone in the winter wilderness with a woman who both terrifies and fascinates me more than anyone I've ever met. Even if the terror is becauuse of what I might do with the power I have over her given the right conditions.

  Dave's book sits accusingly on the edge of my desk. After a moment's hesitation, I grab it and flip to chapter four, telling myself it's just out of curiosity. The chapter title reads: "When She Can Kill You Twelve Different Ways But Chooses Not To: Romance in the Danger Zone."

  I slam the book shut, cheeks burning, and shove it in my desk drawer. Whatever happens with Grace, I am definitely not taking relationship advice from Dave's bizarre self-help series.

  The Trail Guides. Focus on the Trail Guides. One file at a time, Stone. One file at a time.

  ---Grace---

  I weave through the bustling afternoon crowds of downtown Toronto, my movements precise and economical despite the churning thoughts inside my head. People instinctively part before me without conscious awareness—something in my posture, my focus, triggering unconscious prey responses even in this urban environment. The cold spring air bites at exposed skin, though I barely register it through my vigger-enhanced circulation as always.

  Mike's success lingers in my mind like a well-placed arrow finding its mark. His channels were more developed than anticipated, requiring minimal adjustment to establish initial flow pathways. By our second hour, he had already achieved basic thermal regulation—crude compared to trained practitioners, but functional nonetheless. In my homeland, such rapid progress would mark him for advanced training.

  More significantly, his success means Jason can learn as well.

  The thought of Jason mastering vigger creates an unexpected warmth in my chest—not the tactical satisfaction of achieving a mission objective, but something less defined. I recall his expression when I first suggested teaching vigger to others in this world: his blue eyes widening, lips parting in surprise before curving into that particular smile that transforms his entire face. The memory feels strangely vivid, as if I could reach out and touch it like the memory of him sleeping against my shoulder, though without the druel. Druel has no tacticle value, after all.

  "I believe I may be able to teach vigger to others in this world. Starting with the clanless we met yesterday."

  The eagerness in his voice when I spoke of it, when I spoke of him perhaps being able to learn it, had been almost childlike. I find myself increasing my pace at the memory, snow crunching beneath my boots as I turn onto the quieter residential street that leads To home.

  The word materializes in my thoughts without conscious decision. Home. Jason's dwelling has become home in the span of nine days. This categorization should concern me—attachment to location creates tactical vulnerability—yet I find the designation oddly fitting. The house with its warm spaces, the small orange kitten who sleeps against my neck, the golden dog who greets me with boundless enthusiasm, and Jason... Jason who causes me feelings I have no names for simply by existing and being, Jason. Jason, whos largist contribution to the world is being, Jason.

  I increase my speed again, transitioning from an ordinary walking pace to something just beyond normal human capability. Not enough to draw significant attention, but sufficient to reduce travel time by approximately 42%. The rational justification is efficient resource utilization, but I recognize an unfamiliar eagerness propelling me forward.

  I am looking forward to returning. To seeing Kitten curl her tiny body against my palm. To Dawson's greeting, his entire body vibrating with canine joy at my approach. To Jason's smile, the particular configuration of facial muscles he displays when I enter a room—subtle creases at the corners of his eyes, the slight upward curve of his mouth that appears regardless of what else occupies his attention. that scent of perfectly cooked meet and hot spiced meed consumed only in deepest winter wafting from him when ever he knows I am near by. No-one else appears to possess such affects, and I am, curious of it's function. It would be an invaluable survivel tool if I was aware of it's function, and that would assist both me and Jason, and allow him to assist others as he so often desires to.

  These responses in me should be concerning. They carry no obvious tactical advantage, create potential vulnerabilities, and suggest emotional entanglement that could compromise objective decision-making. Yet the prospect of seeing Jason again produces a lightness in my chest that defies rational categorization.

  Perhaps most unsettling is how little these developments actually disturb me. A properly conditioned ranger should resist such attachments, viewing them as dangerous distractions. The Druid's training was explicit on this point—emotion serves survival only when properly harnessed and controlled. Yet I find myself not merely accepting these responses but now actively anticipating the circumstances that trigger them.

  I navigate around a slower pedestrian, calculating optimal trajectory to minimize delay. The survival school proposal resurfaces in my thoughts. Dave's offer presents both opportunity and complication. Teaching advanced survival techniques would allow me to contribute effectively to Jason's clan, potentially offsetting the resources they've expended on my behalf. More significantly, it would integrate me into their social structure in a way that legitimizes my presence.

  The prospect of Jason's associates accepting me—not fearing me as most do upon recognition of what I am—creates another instance of the strange warmth. In my homeland, being feared was tactically advantageous. Here, it creates unnecessary complications. The likelihood that Dave, Carter, and the others would see me as a valuable resource rather than a threat represents an optimal outcome.

  As I turn onto Jason's street, movement in a front window catches my attention. Dawson, having somehow sensed my approach, paws excitedly at the glass. Even from this distance, I can see his tail wagging with such force that his entire posterior region oscillates. The sight triggers a sensation in my face—my lips curving upward without conscious direction.

  I am smiling. Not the calculated facial configuration I sometimes employ for tactical advantage, but a genuine, involuntary response. The realization is both disconcerting and fascinating.

  Three houses away, my pace increases again. I catalog the sensations accompanying my approach: Respiratory rate elevated by 7.3%. Core temperature increased by 0.4 degrees Celsius. Subtle shifts in neurochemical balance producing what I recognize as anticipation—similar to the moments before a critical hunt, yet lacking the edge of alertness that accompanies potential danger.

  This isn't the cold calculation of tactical advantage or resource acquisition. This is something else. Something I've observed in others but rarely experienced myself.

  I think the human word, the word Jason would say if I explained this to him with that small proud smile and warm scent he always has for me, might be "happiness."

  The concept feels foreign, almost dangerous in its unfamiliarity. In my homeland, happiness was an unnecessary luxury, a distraction from the constant vigilance survival required. Yet here, approaching a house with borrowed clothes on my back and a death oath binding me to the man inside, I experience something remarkably close to it.

  I reach the front steps, listening to the sounds within: Dawson's excited panting on the other side of the door, the tiny mewling of Kitten somewhere deeper in the house, the subtle electrical hum of the various devices that fill the dwelling. Jason isn't home yet—no sound of his particular breathing pattern or footsteps.

  I withdraw the key he gave me, inserting it into the lock with precision. The mechanism engages with a satisfying click. As I push the door open, Dawson practically explodes forward, his body wiggling with such enthusiasm that maintaining balance appears challenging for him.

  "Hello, Dawson," I say, my voice softer than my usual speech patterns. "I have returned."

  He circles my legs, sniffing intently at my boots and pants, collecting information about where I've been. I reach down to scratch behind his ears, finding the exact spot that makes his left hind leg thump against the floor. The simple joy he takes in this contact creates another surge of the warm sensation in my chest.

  Kitten appears at the end of the hallway, her tiney orange form a stark contrast against the pale carpet. She approaches more cautiously than Dawson but with clear purpose, meowing once before attempting to climb my pant leg. I bend to lift her, cradling her small form against my neck where she immediately begins purring.

  The house is warm after the winter air outside, filled with familiar scents—the lingering aroma of coffee from morning, the distinct smell of the cleaning products Bearee uses, the unique scent profile of well-cooked meat and spiced winter meed that permeates every room. I move through the space with practiced familiarity, no longer needing to catalog exits and defensive positions with each entry.

  I settle on the couch, Kitten still purring against my neck, Dawson curling against my side. Through the window, I can see the winter afternoon sky beginning to darken. Jason will return soon from the survival school, perhaps with news about the job offer. The thought creates another instance of anticipation.

  Nine days ago, I lay frozen on this porch, moments from death in a strange world. Now I sit here with a tiny creature purring against my skin, calculating how long until Jason returns, experiencing sensations I have no adequate words to catigarize.

  This world is changing me. Or perhaps it is simply revealing aspects of myself that had no place in the frozen lands of my origin—like seeds dormant beneath winter ice, now exposed to unexpected warmth. A man who, knowing what I am, decides to not look at me as all else, myself included, do. A dog who simply wants me to pet him and enjoy his lying across my lap. A kitten who, despite everything else wants to climb my pant leg and curl around my neck. The others, Bearee, Magnen, Dave, who accept me because Jason does.

  I should be concerned by these developments. Should be analyzing them for tactical vulnerabilities, calculating risk factors, constructing contingency plans. I am a weapon. A blade. A tool. I have attributes that are useful. Skills that are desired. Honesty that is trusted.

  Instead, I find myself simply waiting for the sound of Jason's key in the lock, for the particular smile he will display upon seeing me, for the warm greeting that will invariably include my name spoken in that way only he seems to manage—as if my existence itself is something remarkable then concerning.

  And I am not concerned. I am... content.

  An unfamiliar word for an unfamiliar feeling, yet somehow perfectly accurate regardless.

  ---Jason---

  I turn my key in the lock, hearing the familiar click that means home. Before I can even push the door open, Dawson's excited scrabbling comes from the other side—that distinctive sound of claws on hardwood that means he's doing his spinning welcome dance. The door swings inward and thirty-two pounds of golden enthusiasm launches itself at my legs, wiggling with such force his whole back end oscillates, as Grace puts it.

  "Hey, buddy," I murmur, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. His tail beats against my shins like a metronome set to pure joy. "Yeah, I missed you too."

  But even as I'm greeting Dawson, my eyes are scanning the house, looking for Grace. Not because I'm worried she'd leave—she'd tell me before doing that, I know that much about her by now—but because I'm genuinely happy she's here. Grace's, well, existence being remarkable in ways I'm still figuring out how to articulate. hell, the woman saw me and the first thing she did, after makeing sure I wasn't going to kill her which, fare enough, was fix my eyes. Also my jaw, so, bonus?

  I find her on the couch, Kitten curled against her neck in that particular way cats have of claiming particular humans. Grace is sitting with her usual precise stillness, but there's something softer about her posture tonight. Less like she's calculating exit strategies and more like she's just... present.

  Relief washes over me, followed immediately by that warm feeling I get when I see her. Not relief that she's safe—Grace can handle herself better than anyone I know—but relief that she's here, in my space, part of my life and the evening routine that's developed over the past nine days.

  "How'd it go with Mike?" I ask, settling beside her on the couch. Kitten immediately abandons Grace's neck with a small mewling sound, scrambling across the cushions to curl around my neck instead. But she keeps one paw extended toward Grace's hand, clearly wanting to maintain contact with both of us. Smart little floof.

  Grace's lips curve slightly—not quite a smile, but close. "His channels adapted more quickly than anticipated. By our second hour, he had achieved basic thermal regulation. Crude compared to trained practitioners, but functional."

  "That's great," I say, and mean it. The fact that Mike can learn vigger means I might be able to learn it too. The thought sends a little thrill through me, the same feeling I got as a kid when I found out I could actually do something I'd only read about in books.

  Grace's hand moves to stroke Kitten's back, her fingers precise even in this simple gesture. "I believe you will adapt even more readily," she says, and there's something in her voice—a warmth that wasn't there when she talked about Mike's progress.

  Dawson, not to be left out, heaves himself onto the couch between us with a contented grunt. Kitten, now faced with competition for attention, demonstrates her superior strategy by butting her tiny head against Grace's palm while keeping her position around my neck. Smart cat. Dawson, with a huff and I swear is a side-eye, though I don't actually know what a side-eye is but it fucking looks like it at Kitten, roles over onto his back, paws waveing in the air in a clear demand for tummy rubs.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "Actually," I say, remembering Carter's conversation from earlier, "do you know what a patron is?"

  Grace considers this, her head tilting slightly in that way that means she's accessing information I didn't know she had. "A patron is a being you serve in exchange for power."

  I nod, then lean forward slightly. "Carter told me about you calling Dave. We talked about the warlock thing."

  Grace's posture shifts almost imperceptibly—not tense, exactly, but more focused. "Yes."

  "Thanks, Grace." I say, voice softening. "That was... Nice."

  "You are my guide in this world." Grace says though her face softens ever so slightly as she speaks: "as such, it is tacticle to insure that you can do so addaquitly." I consider saying something to that, then just decide to nod instead. Grace has shit to work through, and if this is how she does it? No business of mine to fuck that up.

  "Is becoming a warlock the only way to gain eldritch blast?" Grace asks, sounding genuinely curious. Which, fare since it seems like a roundabout way to get one specific ability, especially when Grace already has so many others, both in and out of character. Then again, eldritch blast.

  I consider this, then shrug. "I'll ask Dave. If you just want eldritch blast specifically, we could probably think of something else. Maybe there's a spell or an item that does the same thing."

  "That would be acceptable," Grace says, and then her expression shifts to something that might be confusion. "I used your phone to contact Dave yesterday evening, as you were informed."

  I blink, processing this as I'd been somewhat curious ever since Carter told me Grace called, but, well. "How? I mean, the thing's locked, and I haven't exactly given you a tutorial on modern smartphones."

  "The device responded to my touch," Grace says, her tone carrying that slight note of confusion I've learned to recognize when she encounters something that doesn't fit her understanding of how things should work. "It opened to display your previous contacts. Dave's name appeared with the designation he spoke of at the prior TTRPG game—Ragnar, I believe—and I was able to initiate communication."

  I pull my phone out of my pocket, suddenly more alert. The same paranoia that made me avoid clicking on my own character template in War of Great Houses starts prickling at the back of my mind. "Okay, that's... concerning. Here, let me show you something."

  I hold up the device, the lock screen glowing. "Can you put your finger on the home button?" I point to the button with my own finger. "Doesn't matter which, though most people use," I have my index

  Grace reaches out, her finger pressing against the circular sensor with the same precision she applies to everything else. The phone remains stubbornly locked, the screen unchanged.

  "Thank you," I say, releaved. I type in my six-digit password—4-2-7-1-9-8—the numbers clicking softly under my fingers. Grace turns her head away, but I shake my head. "You can probably hear which numbers I'm pressing anyway, so there's no point in looking away."

  "4-2-7-1-9-8," Grace confirms matter-of-factly, proving my point before. "I will not utalize it unless required or I request the device from you, however."

  The phone unlocks, revealing my home screen with its organized rows of apps. "See, this works on fingerprint recognition—Touch ID. Only registered prints will unlock it, which is why yours didn't work. There's also Face ID on newer phones that uses facial recognition, but I don't like that for reasons I won't go into now. Knowledge bace, would need to explain a bunch of other things first and I don't think I can do that well. Also of course regular passwords like this one for backup and so all those reasons I don't like the face ID just fails." I stop, focus. "if I talk about face ID I'll start a rant, and you probably don't want that." Grace nods.

  I tap the phone app, immediately noticing the missed call notification. "This is where you make calls. See how it shows recent contacts? Dave's listed as 'Dave/Ragnar' because that's his character name from our TTRPG campaigns. Every. Single. One. Like Carter is always Sergeant Blackwood."

  Grace studies the interface with the focused attention she brings to learning new systems. "The device malfunctioned when I attempted to use it."

  "Or something else happened," I mutter, not wanting to voice my suspicions about Grace's apparent effect on technology. "Anyway, what did you and Dave talk about?"

  "The next TTRPG session, and War of Great Houses."

  My hands still on the phone. "Right, that game we found on my laptop the other night." The memory of seeing my own face staring back from the screen still makes my stomach clench with unease. Also, from what I can tell, screens aren't supposed to let me do that, but. Well. Magic.

  Grace nods. "Dave mentioned House Long Watch would be good for both of us. He explained their structure—Rangers who prioritize truth-telling, Hunters to hunt down threats, Male and Female Protectors who specialize in direct combat, and Druids who serve as officers and magical support."

  "Want to take another look at it?" I ask, setting the phone aside and reaching for my laptop. "I mean, now that I'm not having an existential crisis about my own face appearing in a video game."

  Grace's expression becomes thoughtful. "That would be useful."

  I open the laptop, the screen illuminating as it wakes from sleep mode. "Good thing I bookmarked it the other night," I say, navigating to the War of Great Houses wiki. The familiar interface loads, displaying faction emblems and detailed unit information though I still don't know how I can see it since it's on a screen. Then again, well. Magic.

  "This is a wiki," I explain, noticing Grace watching me navigate the browser. "Digital encyclopedia where people document everything they know about the game. I, don't know how to explain it better than that, sorry."

  Grace nods, her attention focused on the screen as I click through to the House Long Watch section. "A collaborative knowledge-gathering system similor to clan stories."

  "Exactly." I pull up the unit roster, scrolling through the basic tier one templates. "These are the entry-level units for new House Long Watch characters. You'd start here and advance through experience and training."

  The Protector template appears first—heavily armored figures with Bear motifs and detailed equipment lists. I scan the description, noting the pack dynamics and combat specialization. "Like Dave said, these are the direct combat specialists. They can keep companion creatures, which is actually perfect since I'm not giving up Dawson for any fictional military organization."

  Dawson's ears perk up at his name, and I reach down to scratch behind them. "Yeah, buddy, you'd come with me if this were real. Which it's not," I add quickly, still wary of doing anything that might transport me to another dimension.

  Grace studies the Protector information with tactical interest, but I continue scrolling.

  "Here's the one I think you'd like," I say, pulling up the Druid Initiate profile. "Since, you know, you're already a ranger and I can't really see you going protector." I shrug, Grace nodding slightly.

  The image shows a figure that immediately reminds me of Grace—lean build, practical clothing integrated with natural elements, eyes that seem to shift color. The description details their role as ship officers, environmental specialists, and cultural preservers. The green skin and pointed ears are a bit odd, but.

  "Look at this," I point to a section about advancement mechanics. "This is where the game gets interesting from a character development perspective."

  Grace reads over my shoulder, her presence warm and steady. Kitten has sprawled across both our laps, purring contentedly.

  "See, in most role-playing games, if you want to change your class or specialization, you lose your previous abilities to some extent. It's like starting over with you're new class or what ever." I scroll down to show the multiclassing rules. "But War of Great Houses handles it differently."

  Grace follows the text with her usual intense focus.

  "You change tiers at levels five, fifteen, and twenty-five, but you keep all your previous skills, spells, and abilities. So if you started as a Ranger and became a Druid at tier two, you'd still have all your Ranger training plus the new Druid capabilities, though you'd still be tier one druid."

  I point to specific sections as I explain. "There are some restrictions—if you want to completely change houses, like going from Long Watch to Astrid, you might lose a level or two in the transition. But if you just change specializations within the same house, you keep everything."

  "The tactical advantages are clear," Grace says, studying the Druid abilities. "Enhanced magical capabilities while retaining combat training. The environmental mastery would be particularly useful."

  "Exactly. Plus look at this—" I highlight the Verdant presence ability. "pure charisma ability, haveing just a magnetic presence that draws people towards you? That's basically superpowered charisma right there."

  Grace's finger traces the text on the screen, following the description of comune and liveing word abilities. "The manipulation of physical reality through written narrative. This represents sophisticated magical theory."

  "Way more sophisticated than just eldritch blast," I agree. "Though I'm definitely staying Ranger myself. Also, liveing word is tier two, liveing library is tier one."

  I navigate back to the Ranger template, showing Grace the familiar progression of skills she'd recognize from her own training. "This feels more like me. Practical, adaptable, focused on survival and reconnaissance rather than magical reality manipulation."

  "Your reasoning?" Grace asks.

  I consider how to explain it without sounding like I'm having an identity crisis. "I like playing TTRPGs because I get to be someone else for a while. Someone capable and competent, not..." I gesture vaguely at myself. "Not me, basically."

  Grace's head tilts slightly, that expression she gets when processing information that doesn't align with her worldview. "You are capable and competent."

  "In some things, maybe," I shrug, uncomfortable with the praise. "Anyway, I thought maybe you'd enjoy playing a Druid instead of just being yourself as a Ranger. Give you a chance to explore different approaches, different ways of thinking about problems. It's not like you'd stop being a Ranger in real life. Hell, it's not like you'd stop being a ranger in the game, not really. Just, you have druid abilities now."

  Grace nods slowly, still studying the Druid template with intense focus. The way she reads reminds me of how she approached learning to navigate the house—systematic, thorough, filing away every detail for future reference.

  Kitten chooses that moment to stretch, extending her tiny claws and kneading against Grace's leg before settling back into contented sleep. The gesture seems to anchor Grace back to the present moment, her attention shifting from the screen to the small creature in her lap.

  "I will consider your recommendation," she says finally, her tone carrying that careful neutrality that means she's thinking more deeply about something than she's ready to discuss.

  I open my mouth to say something else—to apologize about sleeping on her shoulder without asking, to air my concerns about the death oath maybe preventing her from complaining about things I do that bother her. But as I start to speak, the scene feels too peaceful to disrupt with my anxieties. Grace looks more relaxed than I've seen her since she arrived, Dawson is sprawled contentedly between us, and Kitten has achieved her goal in life of being petted by both of us simultaneously.

  The laptop screen casts a soft glow over the room, and outside the February wind rattles the windows but can't touch the warmth we've built here. Maybe some conversations can wait until tomorrow.

  ---Grace---

  I watch Jason's mouth open, the words forming but not quite emerging, and immediately my enhanced senses catalog the shift in his biochemistry. His scent carries new notes—anxiety threading through the familiar warmth, stress hormones creating sharp undertones beneath the comfortable smell of home and the lingering traces of coffee from his work day.

  "I can smell that you are concerned about something," I say, my voice cutting through whatever he was about to say. "What is it?"

  Jason's mouth closes with an almost audible click, his blue eyes widening slightly before he looks away, running one hand through his hair in that gesture I've learned signals internal processing. The laptop screen casts shifting shadows across his features as he takes several seconds to think, his breathing pattern shifting to something more deliberate.

  Finally, he reaches forward and closes the laptop with careful precision, the soft snap of the closure somehow final in the quiet room. He places it on the coffee table between us, his movements economical but carrying an edge of nervous energy.

  "I'm concerned about a couple things," he says, his voice carrying that particular quality it gets when he's forcing himself to address something difficult. "First, well, I'm concerned about falling asleep on you a few days ago. Given your requests about touching and needing to be asked first."

  His hands fidget with the edge of a couch cushion, fingers picking at loose threads with increasing intensity.

  "And second," he continues, his scent shifting to carry deeper notes of worry, "I'm more concerned that the death oath might be preventing you from, say, telling me to fuck off when I do things that bother you."

  I consider this carefully, my mind working through the binding structures of the oath and their practical applications. The death oath prevents me from harming Jason, but would telling him his behavior is unwelcome constitute harm? I examine the question from multiple angles, testing the logical pathways like probing potentially unstable pack ice.

  Jason has made it abundantly clear that he wants—needs, almost—honest feedback. He has repeatedly requested direct communication, honest responses, truthful assessment of situations. Providing such feedback would serve his stated desires rather than harm him. The oath binds me from causing damage to his wellbeing, but withholding information he specifically requests would cause greater harm than providing it.

  No. The death oath would not prevent me from giving Jason honest feedback about his behavior.

  As I process this, Jason's agitation becomes more pronounced. His shoulders tense, drawing upward slightly, and he begins a subtle rocking motion—barely perceptible but clear to my enhanced perception. The movement is rhythmic, controlled, serving some internal need for motion that I don't fully understand but recognize as self-soothing behavior.

  Jason stops rocking abruptly, as if suddenly aware of his own movement. "Sorry," he says, his voice carrying embarrassment. "I just—I like movement, I guess. I like, well. Movement." He pauses, clearly struggling to articulate something even to himself. "I'm not quite sure how else to explain it, even to myself, so, yeah..."

  His shoulders slump slightly, the tension bleeding out of them to be replaced by something that might be defeat.

  I file this information away—Jason's need for movement as a form of self-regulation, his self-consciousness about behaviors that clearly serve important functions for him. Another piece of the puzzle that is his particular way of existing in the world.

  "About sleeping on my shoulder," I prompt, bringing us back to his original concern.

  Jason winces, his entire face contracting briefly before he nods. "Right. I should have—well, not asked since I was asleep, but." He gestures vaguely, his hand tracing uncertain patterns in the air. "You made it clear that you don't like being touched without at least being warned first, that you want to be asked. And I've done that without asking you several times now. Multiple occasions. This time, falling asleep on your shoulder, being a prime example."

  His scent carries increasing notes of shame and self-recrimination, the chemical signature of someone cataloging their own failures with ruthless precision.

  I raise my index finger slowly, ensuring he can see the movement, then reach forward and gently tap his lips. The contact is brief, precise, just enough pressure to interrupt his verbal spiral. Jason stops talking immediately, surprise replacing the mounting anxiety in his expression.

  "Did I do that right?" I ask, genuinely uncertain about the appropriateness of the gesture.

  "Yes," Jason says, then pulls his head back so my finger is nowhere near his mouth. He snaps his teeth shut with an audible click, his lips curving into a grin. "Did I do that right? As in, biting off a finger?"

  I consider his question with the same analytical precision I bring to all tactical assessments. "If someone placed their finger in your mouth, the most efficient method would be to position your molars on either side of the digit, approximately at the second joint. Apply pressure gradually—the initial resistance will give way suddenly as the bone fractures and the flesh tears. The key is maintaining grip with your jaw muscles while using your tongue to prevent the severed portion from becoming a choking hazard."

  I demonstrate the positioning by using my own finger, showing the optimal placement against my teeth. "Most people instinctively try to bite down quickly, but that often results in the finger slipping free. Sustained pressure is more effective, though considerably more unpleasant for all parties involved."

  Jason's grin widens as I complete the explanation, clearly appreciating the technical thoroughness of my response.

  "Why did you do it?" I ask, shifting to the question that has puzzled me since that evening. The inquiry requires careful navigation—showing interest without revealing vulnerability, seeking understanding without exposing the confusion his behavior creates in my carefully ordered worldview.

  "Sleep requires you to be relaxed," I continue, watching his face carefully. "To not be ready for threats. You know what I am. What I am capable of. How could you be not tense around me like everyone else is? Magnen and Bearee are tense in my presence. Everyone I met in my world—the Druid, Baldric among them—would not sleep in my presence. I never saw the Druid sleep at all, and Baldric performed some meditation technique that involved tosteetoes."

  Jason's expression shifts as he processes this, his head tilting slightly as he considers my words. "Is the fact that I kind of forgot the death oath won't let you harm me bad?" he asks finally. "Like, I knew you didn't want to harm me, but I categorically forgot that you actually cannot harm me. I'm actually concerned about why I forgot that, really, but, well, yeah."

  His voice carries genuine puzzlement rather than fear, as if this oversight represents an intellectual failing rather than a survival mistake.

  "I am unsure about this," I admit, finding his casual disregard for his own safety both confusing and oddly concerning.

  Jason nods, shrugging with characteristic acceptance of uncertainty. "I'll figure it out. My mind's already going brrr anyway, so. I'll be fine."

  The casual way he acknowledges his own mental processing amuses me. His ability to verbalize internal states with such matter-of-fact acceptance continues to surprise me.

  "But here's the thing," Jason continues, his posture straightening as he settles into explanation mode. "Grace is Grace. If you were going to kill me, you'd make it so I would know if I was going to do something you'd kill me over. As far as I can tell, I haven't done anything that would make you want to kill me. Also, I hope I'm the kind of human being who wouldn't do anything that would categorically cause you to decide I'm more risk than benefit."

  His voice carries quiet confidence in this assessment, as if my nature and responses are logical systems he can understand and navigate successfully instead of. Well. Me.

  I consider his words carefully, weighing them against my own experience of that evening. The memory surfaces with unexpected clarity—Jason's warm weight against my shoulder, his breathing deep and even in genuine sleep, the vulnerable trust implicit in his unconscious relaxation.

  "When you were sleeping on my shoulder," I say slowly, demonstrating the motion by stroking Dawson's fur with gentle, rhythmic movements, "I gave you headpats."

  Dawson's tail thumps against the couch cushions in appreciation, his entire body vibrating with contentment at the attention.

  "However," I continue, studying Jason's reaction carefully, "I am concerned. Dogs receive headpats. You are not a dog. As such, I am concerned about your reaction to this treatment."

  Jason starts to snicker, the sound building to a snort, then developing into full cackles that shake his entire frame. He doubles over slightly, taking several deep breaths as he attempts to regain control, his face flushed with laughter, his scent warm with genuine delight.

  "It's fine," he manages between breaths, wiping at his eyes. "It's just, well. Grace and headpats." He blinks several times, his expression shifting as he considers something, then nods. His scent changes dramatically—becoming more focused and educational, carrying new notes that remind me of something specific and unexpected.

  The smell is paper. Not the rough, practical paper of survival manuals or the crisp efficiency of modern documents, but something older, more precious. It carries me back to that single piece I found once in my world's ruins—aged paper that held the image of a tree in full summer glory, green leaves catching sunlight in a world without snow, heat radiating from every line of the drawing. The scent of knowledge preserved, of something beautiful saved against all odds.

  "I'm not quite sure what the right term is," Jason says, his voice carrying genuine amusement and that particular quality that means he wants to teach me something, "but my brain just stuttered over 'Grace' and 'headpats' in the same sentence, and it's, it was just really, really funny."

  I study his expression, searching for the logic behind his reaction. "I do not understand," I say finally. "If I attempt to think—" I pause, consciously working through the mental process he's describing, holding the concept of myself and the concept of headpats simultaneously in my mind, "—about Grace, who is a survivalist, and headpats, which are not survival-oriented at all, I simply prioritize what will allow me, as Grace, to survive best." Before, to insure that I bring this to it's conclusion: "which are not to emply headpats."

  The thought exercise feels strange, forcing me to hold two incompatible concepts at once. My mind immediately defaults to tactical assessment, categorizing headpats as non-essential social behavior while maintaining awareness of my primary survival imperatives.

  Jason grins at my response, that particular expression that transforms his entire face. "Grace will be Grace will be Grace," he says with obvious fondness. Then his smile becomes genuinely warm, reaching his eyes. "I'm fine with you giving me headpats, Grace. No issues there. I gave Dawson headpats because, well. He's a goodboy. Long as you don't start calling me goodboy while you're doing that I'm fine."

  Moving slowly and ensuring I can see every aspect of his movement, Jason reaches out and gently squeezes my shoulder. The contact is brief, careful, a demonstration of reciprocal trust rather than casual touch.

  I place my hand atop his, feeling the warmth of his skin through my own. "I do not mind if you fall asleep on my shoulder," I tell him, my voice carrying more certainty than I expected. "Though I would ask that you do not drool on me, if possible."

  Jason starts laughing again, the sound rich and genuine. "I'll do what I can," he promises, still chuckling. "It's an unconscious thing, drueling, but I'll do my best to not."

  I nod, satisfied with this negotiation. The conversation has clarified boundaries, established mutual understanding, and addressed concerns without creating new complications. Efficient communication leading to practical solutions.

  But more than that, something has shifted in the space between us. The careful politeness that has characterized our interactions has given way to something more honest, more direct. Jason's laughter carries no edge of nervousness, no undertone of uncertainty about my response. My own comfort with his touch, with the casual affection implicit in headpats and shoulder squeezes, surprises me with its fundimentall rightness.

  The scent of that precious paper still lingers in the air around Jason, mixing with his natural warmth and the contentment that radiates from our small group. Kitten stretches across both our laps, her tiny body forming a bridge between us as she settles into a new configuration that maximizes contact with both humans simultaneously. Her purring vibrates through the quiet room, a contented soundtrack, as Jason would say, to our newfound understanding.

  Dawson shifts position as well, his golden frame pressing against my leg while his head rests near Jason's knee, completing the picture of domestic tranquility that continues to feel both foreign and familiar.

  Outside, the February wind rattles the windows with increasing intensity, but inside our small circle of warmth, such things feel distant and manageable. The conversation has accomplished what good negotiations should—both parties understand the terms, both feel their needs have been addressed, and both can move forward with greater clarity about expectations and boundaries.

  ---Bearee---

  The kitchen feels peaceful this morning until the back door slams like someone's personal war with the universe just reached its final battle. I look up from my coffee to see Jason stomping through with a scowl that could strip paint and wood chips scattered through his hair like some depressing craft project exploded on him like in grade school with the hammer.

  He's wiping his hands on his jeans with the kind of aggressive efficiency that tells me he's been fighting with something outside and losing. More chips cascade to the floor as that heavy knife he keeps on his dresser finds its way back to the leather sheath that's now on his belt. The whole ritual has a deliberate quality, like he's trying to physically contain whatever frustration is eating at him.

  "Everything alright?" I ask, though his face already answers that question.

  Jason forces his scowl away with visible effort, jaw muscles unclenching as he manufactures something approaching normal. "Sorry. Yeah, I'm... it's fine. Just practicing." Both hands rake through his hair, sending another shower of wood debris to join the mess on the tiles. "Feathersticks. The arctic ones Grace showed me how to make."

  He moves to the sink and starts scrubbing his palms like he's trying to wash away more than sawdust. The water runs brown with bark fragments and frustration. "Been waking up early, sometimes staying up late. Two hours this morning trying to make one stupid arctic featherstick."

  The dish soap squeaks against his skin as he works, voice carrying that particular edge of someone who's been repeatedly defeated by an inanimate object. "Grace made it look so easy when she helped me that day at Dave's school. But I haven't been able to make another one like that since. Not even close." He laughs without any humor in it. "Regular feathersticks? Sure, I'm getting better at those. But the arctic technique..."

  He shakes his head, water droplets flying from his fingertips as he reaches for the dish towel. The whole process gets more methodical now, like he's using the mundane task to rebuild his emotional equilibrium. "Hour and a half this morning. Failing repeatedly. So I'm not exactly pissed off, but I'm definitely..."

  Dawson chooses that moment to appear from whatever corner of the house he's been supervising, golden fur catching the morning light as he trots over with his tail creating its own personal celebration. He presses his compact thirty-pound frame against Jason's leg with the absolute confidence of a dog who knows he can fix any human problem with strategic application of affection, and that he's going to ged petid now.

  The transformation in Jason is immediate and complete. His shoulders drop, the tension drains from his face, and his voice goes warm as honey when he reaches down to scratch behind Dawson's velvet ears. "There's my boy."

  Dawson leans into the touch with eyes closing in pure doggy bliss, positioning himself perfectly to receive maximum attention while keeping both humans in his peripheral vision. It's a masterpiece of dog diplomacy.

  Grace's footsteps announce her before she actually appears—controlled, precise, each step placed with the kind of tactical awareness that never seems to switch off. She settles into the chair beside Jason with minimal fuss, back straight and alert even in our relaxed kitchen setting.

  "How did you sleep?" Jason asks, fingers still working through Dawson's fur.

  "Sleep was adequate." Grace delivers information the way other people deliver weather reports—factual, efficient, no emotional elaboration required.

  Jason nods and mutters something under his breath about being chased by claudatches in his dreams. The words are barely audible, more self-talk than conversation.

  Grace's head tilts with that bird-like motion that means genuine curiosity. "What is a claudatch?"

  Jason pauses mid-ear-scratch, confusion flickering across his face. "The thing you mentioned that time? Along with the battle mammoth? The ambush predator thing?" He frowns, working through the memory. "Though now that I think about it, ambush predators probably wouldn't actually be chasing me in a dream. That doesn't make tactical sense. They'd be, you know, ambushing me instead."

  Grace processes this for several seconds, expression shifting as she works through both the question and his logical inconsistency. "Do you mean a Clatcher?"

  "Yeah, probably that."

  "Clatchers rely on explosive acceleration from concealed positions," Grace says, spreading peanut butter on her toast with her now familiar accuracy. "They build momentum across significant distances before impact."

  Her hands move as she talks, one holding the toast while the other gestures in small, precise movements that suggest she's visualizing exactly what she's describing. "The charging attack serves as their primary hunting method. Impact force equivalent to heavy vehicular collision."

  Jason leans forward, coffee growing cold as he listens with complete fascination. I find myself caught between horror and curiosity as Grace continues her breakfast lecture.

  "Few survive being struck by a charging Clatcher," Grace continues, taking a careful bite of toast. She chews thoughtfully before adding, "The creatures prefer to capture prey alive when possible."

  Her tone remains conversational, clinical, like she's discussing the weather rather than describing what amounts to a living siege engine. "Specialized appendages designed for maintaining grip on struggling prey. Once contact is established, escape probability drops significantly."

  She demonstrates with her free hand, fingers curling in a gripping motion that somehow manages to look both delicate and absolutely terrifying. "Multi-jointed digits with retractable claws, possibly prehensile extensions that wrap around prey. Extraordinary grip strength."

  Jason looks mesmerized rather than horrified, which probably says something about both of them that I don't want to look at yet. "And you've actually encountered these things?"

  Grace nods once, efficient. "Clatchers represent a persistent environmental hazard in northern territories. Proper territorial awareness and evacuation protocols reduce encounter probability significantly." She takes another bite of toast, chewing with the same methodical precision she applies to everything else. "Direct confrontation is inadvisable at all costs."

  "Death typically occurs through crushing trauma rather than blood loss," Grace adds conversationally, as if discussing a grocery list. "Though both factors contribute to eventual outcome. Process rarely exceeds forty-seven seconds from initial contact to final death."

  The casual way she delivers this information while eating breakfast should probably concern me more than it does. Maybe I'm getting used to Grace's particular brand of directness. My son seems to, so why not the rest of us?

  "Do you think Dave would put something like that in the game? Maybe not the mammoth, but a Clatcher? A young one?"

  Grace pauses mid-chew, considering the question with the same serious attention she applies to survival scenarios. After swallowing, she nods slowly. "Juvenile Clatcher might function effectively within the gameing framework. Young Clatchere would fit within the campain without wrisk of campain ending encounters."

  Jason grins—the first genuine smile I've seen from him since his failed featherstick session, Grace's mouth doing that subtle quirk I've learned to recognize as her version of a smile.

  "I'm kind of curious now," Jason says, leaning forward with renewed energy. "What other animals exist in your world?"

  Grace sets down her toast, expression shifting to something that might be enthusiasm filtered through her typical emotional restraint. "There are ironhide moose, though the Battle Mammoth variant would end your campaign through overwhelming trampling force."

  "Why?" Jason asks, though I suspect he's about to receive another detailed tactical analysis.

  Grace launches into an explanation of Battle Mammoths with the same clinical precision she applied to Clatchers. Twenty-foot-tall creatures with natural armor fir, telepathic bonds with human riders, charging attacks that can breach fortifications. Her hands move in those small, precise gestures as she speaks, like she's constructing the creatures in the air between us.

  "Wait," Jason interrupts after several minutes of increasingly detailed specifications that sound more like military briefings than natural history. "That's basically a moose."

  He looks confused for a moment, then turns to me. "Could you bring up a Yukon moose on your phone for Grace, mom?"

  I pull out my phone, grateful for something to do besides listen to detailed descriptions of supernatural war machines. The website loads quickly, and I hold it out for Grace to look over.

  Grace studies the screen with that intense concentration she brings to learning new systems, green eyes scanning the image with systematic thoroughness. "Is this specimen young?"

  I check the article. "No, it says this is a fully-grown bull, or adult male."

  Grace nods like this confirms something she suspected. "Ironhide moose achieve heights of approximately twenty feet at full maturity. I observed one during a clan hunt when I was young. The creature and its master were brought down through coordinated assault involving forty-seven hunters." Something that might be nostalgia flickers across her features. "The clan ate well for six weeks following the successful hunt."

  Jason opens his mouth, closes it, blinks, then shakes his head like he's clearing static. He mutters something that sounds like "not now" before asking, "What other animals do you know about?"

  Grace's expression brightens marginally—or at least becomes less neutral. "There are Gore Bears, Taint Wolves, Shadow Cats, numerous varieties of winter-adapted fauna. I will not discuss nut-eating squirrels due to your previous reaction to that information."

  Jason nods with solemn appreciation. "Thanks for that."

  For the next twenty minutes, Grace provides detailed descriptions of various creatures while Jason listens with the focused attention of someone taking mental notes for future reference. I find myself oddly charmed by the interaction despite the subject matter involving animals that could apparently kill me in creative ways I'd never considered. I'm old, not dead, yet.

  Jason eventually stands to make toast, moving through the familiar kitchen routine while continuing to ask questions. He puts fresh bread in the toaster for Grace without being asked—the kind of automatic consideration that speaks to how completely he's absorbed her into his domestic routine.

  "I'll chat with Dave about the game," Jason says, checking his watch as the wheelchair transport honks outside. "Maybe some of your animals could work as encounters. But you should have final say since they're your animals and all."

  He gathers his things for work with practiced efficiency. "Gotta run, or I'll be late."

  Grace turns to face me as Jason's footsteps fade down the hallway, and I can tell there's something she wants to discuss.

  "I have a request regarding my acquisition of new shoes for Jason."

  I raise my eyebrows, settling back for what I suspect will be another interesting conversation.

  "I visited the Run Run Run store to assess footwear options," Grace begins, her tone shifting to something that might be diplomatic if you squinted hard enough. "I encountered an individual named Sarah who demonstrated extensive knowledge of running equipment and biomechanical considerations."

  She pauses, and I catch something in her expression—not quite uncertainty, but close. "Jason requires new shoes. His current footwear are inadequate for running activities. However, we cannot run to the store to acquire them due to inadequacy of his current footwear creating circular logistics problem."

  Grace's hands rest flat on the table, fingers spread in a gesture that might indicate stress if she were anyone else. "Would you be able to provide transportation to the store? For Jason. I will make my own way."

  There's more to this request than just helping Jason. The way her shoulders have drawn slightly inward, the careful neutrality of her expression, the specific mention of encountering Sarah—it all suggests this isn't entirely about shoes.

  "If you cannot or will not provide assistance," Grace adds quickly, "I will arrange alternative transportation."

  The formal phrasing makes me smile despite myself. Grace is trying to navigate social protocols she doesn't fully understand, asking for help while simultaneously maintaining independence. And unless I'm completely misreading the situation, Grace wants to be there when Jason interacts with Sarah at the running store.

  It's almost endearing, this glimpse of very human uncertainty from someone who can casually discuss the best methods for surviving encounters with creatures that sound like they escaped from someone's worst nightmares.

  "I'd be happy to drive you both," I say, watching Grace's shoulders relax almost imperceptibly. "Jason doesn't get home from work until five, though."

  Grace nods once, standing with her typical efficient movement. "I will conduct perimeter patrol in the backyard. Please lock the door behind me."

  She clears her plate with the same methodical precision she applies to everything else, wiping down the counter and returning the peanut butter to its proper location. Grace has clearly enjoyed Jason's toast—the combination of peanut butter and honey apparently giveing her something to enjoy.

  "Grace?" I call as Grace reaches the door.

  She turns back, eyebrows raised in silent question.

  "The featherstick thing that's bothering Jason," I say. "He'll figure it out. He's stubborn like that."

  Grace considers this for a moment, then nods. "Persistence is a valuable survival trait. His muscle memory will develop with continued practice." Then, with something in Grace's eyes that looks a lot like pride: "Jason will continuu practising."

  The back door closes behind her with a soft click, leaving me alone with my coffee and the lingering scent of wood chips. Through the kitchen window, I watch Grace begin her systematic circuit of the backyard, moving with that controlled awareness that never seems to rest.

  I shake my head, smiling as I clear the remaining dishes. Life with Grace around is definitely never boring. And that whole thing about Sarah at the running store? That wasn't just about shoes. That was about Jason, and whatever complicated feelings Grace is trying to navigate while pretending she doesn't have them.

  This should be very interesting indeed.