They had not walked far.
Marcus's body still burned with pain, every step sending bright flares along his ribs.
He was watching the ground when the underbrush behind them exploded in motion.
Eshara stopped.
Marcus turned, dread unspooling in his chest.
The first boar was back.
And this time, it had brought three more—larger, shoulders rolling with muscle.
Their breath steamed in the cold, teeth clacking in unison as they stepped from the shadows.
Marcus felt his pulse thunder.
"They followed us," he breathed.
Eshara didn't answer.
She only watched the animals, her face unreadable.
He swallowed, voice hoarse:
"Are you going to—"
The lead boar bellowed, a wet roar of rage.
Its hooves tore the soil as it charged.
Marcus braced himself, chest heaving.
But Eshara lifted one hand, and the air around her seemed to compress.
The boar closed the distance in a single bound.
Eshara moved.
She slipped forward so fast Marcus's eyes couldn't track her.
A dull, wet crack split the clearing.
The boar's skull caved under the impact of her palm.
It hit the ground sideways, legs twitching.
Before the other three could react, she was already pivoting—
A clawed hand sank into the second boar's throat, snapping vertebrae.
She wrenched it aside, the body thudding in a heap.
The third and fourth came together, jaws wide.
Eshara let them close in.
At the last moment, she stepped between them and struck—
Her knee slammed into the underside of the third boar's jaw with such force Marcus heard the bone shatter.
It fell without another sound.
The fourth boar tried to turn, but she hooked her arm around its neck and twisted, snapping it like dry wood.
The clearing went utterly still.
Blood steamed in the cold.
Marcus stood frozen, breathing ragged, as Eshara straightened.
The look she gave him was neither pity nor triumph—only inevitability.
"They were testing your weakness," she said.
Her voice was calm, almost gentle.
Marcus swallowed, throat tight.
"I—I can't fight all that yet."
She nodded once, as if he'd confirmed something she already knew.
Eshara crouched over one of the carcasses.
With swift, precise motions, she began to carve strips of muscle from the flank.
Marcus looked away, the iron smell coiling around him.
When he dared to glance back, she had already arranged the meat into tidy piles.
She wiped her hands clean in the snow.
"You need food," she said.
He hesitated, shame biting at his skin.
"You killed them because of me," he said quietly.
"No."
She looked at him steadily.
"I killed them because they were a threat."
Eshara built a small fire with practiced ease, stacking dry branches into a neat pyramid.
She struck flint to spark, coaxing the flame to life.
Marcus watched, every muscle aching.
His mind felt raw and stripped clean, as if there was no place left to hide from what he had become—or what he would have to become.
As the fire grew, she laid the strips of meat across a set of stones, letting the heat sear the flesh.
The smell rose warm and heavy into the air.
Marcus sank to his knees near the edge of the warmth.
He felt Eshara's eyes on him even when he didn't look up.
A minute passed in silence before she spoke:
"When you fought, you did not hesitate."
He swallowed.
"It didn't feel like me," he admitted.
"It was you," she corrected.
"Just a part you have ignored all your life."
The fire cracked softly.
Marcus raised his head.
"Does it ever get easier?"
Eshara paused, then inclined her head.
"Not easier," she said.
"Only clearer."
She took one strip of meat and set it on a flat rock in front of him.
"You will eat," she said.
Marcus hesitated, then reached for it.
His stomach clenched when he took the first bite, but the warmth spread through his chest.
They didn't speak again for a while.
The wind shifted, brushing smoke across his face.
And as he chewed, he felt the faintest edge of something that almost resembled peace.