The wood smelled of sap and moss and the faint, sour sweetness of overturned earth. Night was knitting itself between the trunks; a thin cold settled into the hollows of root and rock. Soren stalked with the casual patience of a predator that had never been rushed, every step precise, every footfall chosen to avoid the brittle scrap of dead leaves that might announce him to the world. He had chosen a line into thicker cover—somehow, he liked trees that leaned, that sheltered, that made sound travel oddly and gave an advantage to whoever moved through them with intent.
Spring had the forest smelling of wet peat and young leaves. Sap ran in the birches like thin honey, and the ground was littered with the glossy caps of newly fattened mushrooms. Night insects rose in thin choruses. All of it provided a shelf for his focus. Hunting required attention—measured steps, reading the air for the wrong scents, listening for the small disturbances that told a hunter where the quiet life kept to the shadows.
His battle-axe—where he acquired it, who knew, certainly not Taika—hung loose in one hand as he stalked a narrow animal trail weaving between spruce and birch. The spring night had deepened into that blue-black haze just before full darkness, when the forest held its breath. Owls called. Something small shuffled in last-minute foraging. Far off, streams whispered beneath thawed ice.
He followed the scent of warm fur and musk—an easy trail—and soon spotted movement: a trio of fat hares, bigger than they had any right to be, feasting on budding shoots. Another shape rustled behind them: a young roe deer nosing through the moss, its ears flicking nervously. Spring brought life, and life was edible.
Soren stepped forward, hefting the axe. He inhaled, ready to strike.
And then the world pulsed.
A soundless shock rippled through the forest, like a heartbeat thudding against the air—magic bursting outward in a wide radius. It flattened the grass, stirred the branches, and washed through every living creature nearby.
The hares froze mid-chew. A deer collapsed sideways like a felled sapling. Birds plummeted gently from branches, stunned. Even insects pattering in the moss flipped onto their backs.
Soren blinked.
Then squinted.
Then exhaled an incredulous "...oh, come on."
He kicked at the limp hare with the toe of his boot.
He had come out here for this. For the thrill of it. The chase. The satisfaction of breaking a tree, of cracking a branch, of sinking his axe into something that would at least try to run.
Instead, they'd all fainted at his feet because the little human had apparently decided to explode with magic in her panic.
He sighed—long, slow, resigned.
He surveyed the unconscious buffet at his feet.
"Well… convenient, at least."
Without ceremony, he crouched and slung the heavier creatures over his shoulders—one deer, two overfed hares, and a grouse that had been minding its own business on a branch until magic knocked it cold. Along the way, he grabbed a few minks when he found them near streams, like a toddler finding new shells to hoard.
When he returned, the campfire had settled into a steady glow, illuminating the mossy ground where Taika's makeshift nest still sat. She was sitting upright now, the bundle of sticks and leaves a strangely comforting barrier around her. Her blue eyes, wide and alert, tracked him as he approached, the pile of game in his hands swaying slightly with each step.
He dropped one rabbit near her, then crouched, inspecting the rest of his haul. "You'll want this," he said simply, without expression. Then, with a flick of his hand, he set the remaining game on a flat rock near the fire, where he was about to take one for himself.
"It's—it's RAW!" she cried, reaching up and snatching the hare away from him with both hands as if saving him from imminent death. "It's not even—it's not cooked! And it's—wait—oh my gods, was it still alive?!"
She held the limp but breathing hare like a baby in distress.
Soren, not seeing the issue, reached for another one.
She swatted that one out of his hand too.
"STOP. Eating. Live. Animals."
Soren stared at her as though she'd interrupted him mid-sentence.
"You're loud," he muttered.
"You're— you're terrifying! And unhygienic!"
"It's meat," he said.
"You don't eat meat alive!" Taika insisted, horrified.
Soren looked at her, then at the hare, then back at her.
Her expression was so genuinely distressed he actually paused.
"Fine," he said after a beat. "You handle this one. Cook it. Make it… satisfactory. Whatever humans do." His tone held no reproach, no apology, just flat observation, like it was the most natural thing in the world that she would fuss over a rabbit while he had no such concerns.
Soren watched her for a moment with mild curiosity, as if unsure whether humans normally brandished weapons while preparing dinner.
Taika ignored his stare and knelt by the fallen branches he'd snapped earlier. The blade whispered against the wood as she shaved down the ends, smoothing them into long, even spits. The repetition helped—slice, rotate, shave again—the rhythm easing the tension in her jaw and shoulders.
The branch gradually took shape: long, smooth, sharpened at one end. A proper roasting spit.
By the time she had three decent skewers, Soren had already placed himself on a nearby boulder, arms crossed, silently observing like she was an interesting yet slightly disappointing wildlife specimen.
Taika threaded the first rabbit onto a skewer, then the second, her hands steady despite the lingering tremor in her chest. She propped the skewers over the modest fire she'd kindled, adjusting their angle with careful precision. The smell of cooking meat slowly drifted through the clearing.
Only then did she notice the pile of additional animals Soren had deposited behind the log. A lot of animals.
"…Are these—are these all minks?" she muttered, crouching to inspect the small, fluffy bodies. She counted. Then counted again. Then squinted at him.
One by one, she slit the minks cleanly, relieved that her hands remembered the motions her grandfather had drilled into her since childhood. She skinned the fur in smooth pulls, shaking her head the entire time.
One by one, she cleaned each carcass, laid the pelts out to dry, and organized the meat into tidy cuts. She sprinkled salt from one of her bundles onto the pieces, rubbing it in with methodical motions, then wrapped each portion tightly in cloth.
"These… I can sell," she whispered to herself as she folded the pelts. "Or make warm clothes. Or—gods, Soren, you caught too many."
He looked vaguely proud at that.
"This is at least eight minks," she whispered in growing disbelief. "Eight. Why—why do you collect minks like firewood?"
Soren didn't move. "They were within the radius of that burst."
"That burst happened once," she said slowly. "This is… eight. Eight minks. You brought eight."
He shrugged. "They were incapacitated. Therefore, easy to take."
Taika pinched the bridge of her nose. "…You're a mink hoarder. A menace. A scourge upon woodland populations."
Only when she finished wrapping the last of the mink meat did her gaze land on the incapacitated deer lying awkwardly beside the nest. It blinked slowly, disoriented but unharmed. Taika sighed, wiping sweat from her brow.
The deer's hooves scraped the ground uselessly as she hauled it out of the nest. She set it gently near the edge of the clearing, patting its flank in apology. "When you're done being magically frozen, you run off. Fast."
Behind her, Soren watched the whole process with a look that hovered between confusion and mild annoyance.
"You release food?" he observed flatly.
Taika brushed her hands on her tunic, stepping back toward the fire. "We can't carry a deer. And we don't need that much meat. It would just rot." She tightened one of the cloth wraps. "…And it's alive."
Soren stared as if that final justification explained nothing.
She ignored his incredulous look, returning to her rabbits, rotating them with care as fat crackled and dripped onto the flames. The warm light flickered against her face, softening the exhaustion that clung to her features.
The rabbits sizzled softly over the fire, their fat dripping and crackling in the flames, sending ribbons of savory scent curling into the night air.
Soren crouched nearby, elbows on his knees, staring at the roasting meat like he was watching a particularly slow-moving tragedy.
"Raw would've been faster," he muttered, looking personally offended by the concept of cooking.
Taika whipped her head toward him, eyes wide. "You—absolutely—are not—eating these raw." Each word was punctuated with horror and disbelief. "We are not doing that again."
The next, his hand was around a rabbit, pulling it clean off its stick in a smooth, almost disdainfully efficient motion.
Now, as the rabbits roasted to a golden crisp, Taika noticed the way Soren's gaze subtly tightened. He didn't blink. Didn't shift. Just stared at the rabbits with an expression she couldn't quite read.
She poked one of them with a stick, turning it. "They smell good now," she mumbled under her breath, mostly to herself, mostly to fill the silence.
That was apparently all the permission he needed.
Before she could blink, Soren reached out, grabbed one rabbit clean off its spit, and tore into it like the heat didn't exist.
"It's hot! It's right off the fire—are you insane?!" Taika stared, slack jaw, eyes wide, hands frozen midair as she hovered over the fire. "How… how are you not burned!?"
Soren swallowed. "I am not fragile," he said simply.
"That's an understatement," she whispered to herself. "How… how are your hands not burning?"
Soren shrugged mid-bite, swallowing a mouthful without difficulty. "Heat is a small inconvenience."
Taika shook her head slowly, utterly baffled. "You're— you're not human."
He shot her a flat, unimpressed look, as if that was the most obvious observation anyone had ever made.
"I never claimed to be."
Taika swallowed, goosebumps prickling her skin—not entirely from the night chill.
He continued devouring the rabbit, grease slicked across his fingers and still completely unfazed by the heat.
And Taika, for all her fear and confusion, found herself whispering quietly into the firelight:
"…What exactly are you?"
Soren paused mid-bite, rabbit still in hand. He stared at her, eyes narrowing as if trying to comprehend how anyone could be so utterly clueless. His voice was slow, deliberate, dripping with the kind of patience reserved for watching an ant attempt to carry a boulder.
"What I am?" he repeated, incredulous. "That should be painfully obvious."
Taika's brow furrowed. She truly had no idea. "I… I don't get it," she admitted, rubbing the back of her neck. "You're… not human, I know that, but…" She hesitated, trying to form a comparison her mind could handle. "Are… are you… some kind of… spirit?"
Taika's eyes widened as an idea struck her like lightning. "Wait… could you be… the spirit of Edur mountain?!" she exclaimed, pointing vaguely toward the forest beyond the clearing. Her voice trembled slightly as she continued, "The one from the stories—the one that protects travelers, guides those lost, guards people who—who need help? That's… that's why you saved me!"
"Saved you?!" Soren barked, his voice loud enough to make the nearby trees shiver. "Do you think I did that out of some noble sense of guidance or spiritual duty?!" He shook his head, hands flaring in agitation. "I am not a spirit. I am not Eduard's damned ghost! I am not here to babysit your village or guide lost idiots through a forest!"
Her cheeks burned, half from fear and half from embarrassment, but she couldn't stop herself. "But… you did save me! Doesn't that count for something? Doesn't that… I don't know… make you extraordinary?"
Soren's lips twitched, a hint of a smirk hiding behind the irritation. "Extraordinary? Maybe. Spirit of the mountain? Absolutely not. Don't call me that again."
Taika's mind raced, trying to reconcile everything she'd seen that day with this impossibly frustrating man—or whatever he was—sitting in front of her, casually gnawing on meat as though the entire world belonged to him. She could feel her pulse hammering in her temples. Something about him… something about the way he moved, how calm he was, how impossibly capable… she knew there was far more to him than anyone—or any story—had ever imagined.
And yet, for all his chaotic, infuriating presence, he was hers for now. Her only companion in this forest, and the only thing keeping her from the abyss of fear that waited for her outside the circle of firelight.
"Fine," she muttered finally, her voice low, almost grudging. "You're… Soren. Not a spirit. Not the mountain. Just… Soren."
Taika's tentative laugh faltered as Soren suddenly froze mid-bite, crimson eyes locking onto her with an intensity that made her shrink back instinctively.
"You—don't—call me just Soren," he said slowly, voice low, each word punctuated with a dangerous edge. She blinked, taken aback, and opened her mouth to protest, but he didn't give her the chance.
With a sharp, fluid motion, he stood, his full height suddenly overwhelming. The shadows of the fire flickered across his angular features as he spread his arms wide, the forest itself seeming to shrink beneath him. His presence was immense, every ounce of him radiating raw, chaotic power.
"I am no mere human name!" he continued, voice echoing among the trees, harsh and commanding. "I am the Harbinger of Scorching Tempest, of the dragons of storm!"
For a long moment, Soren simply stood, chest rising and falling, crimson eyes fixed on Taika like she were some tiny, trembling creature caught in a storm. The forest was quiet except for the faint hiss of the fire and the occasional rustle of the wind through the trees.
Then, as if a bolt of lightning struck his mind, Soren froze mid-gesture. Right. Vessel. His thoughts snapped into focus, cutting through the storm of his own theatrics. He was supposed to… win her over. Make her not hate him. The rules of this human vessel nonsense were painfully clear: a vessel who despised him would be useless. Useless!
He froze mid-breath, a faint, almost comical sweat forming along his temple. The enormity of the realization pressed on him: he'd just spent the last few minutes towering over her, roaring about dragons and chaos, calling her a "small human" like she was some insect beneath his boot. There was a very real possibility she now despised him.
With an almost audible exhale, Soren sank back down onto the log, letting his arms fall to his knees. He was no longer towering, no longer radiating menace. For a dragon who lived for destruction and chaos, this small act of… humility, was awkward at best.
"Humans… are so… delicate," he muttered under his breath. Then louder, though still awkwardly, he added, "The rabbit… your method… it's… well… effective."
Taika blinked, confusion mingling with astonishment. She hadn't expected that kind of response from him. "Y-you… you mean it's good?" she stammered.
He turned a sharp glance at her, crimson eyes narrowing in a way that somehow conveyed both exasperation and a strange, tentative approval. "I mean… it's… satisfactory. Edible. Not raw. Not… horrible. You did well, human."
Soren leaned back against the log, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. Focus, Soren, he muttered to himself. Make her like me. Convince her. Don't mess this up.
And for the first time that evening, he looked at her not as an annoyance, not as prey, and not as a chaotic variable in his plans—but as a crucial piece of what he needed, awkwardly fumbling at how to acknowledge her efforts without undermining his own chaotic, terrifying presence.
Soren's eyes flicked toward the pile of incapacitated game he had gathered earlier, and his mind landed on the unconscious grouse he'd picked up—one last creature he hadn't yet brought to the fire.
Soren regarded it for a second, then, with the same blunt decisiveness he applied to all useful things, plucked it from the bundle by the scruff and held it out toward Taika.
It was an odd gesture coming from him—almost comically so. Dragons were solitary by nature, or so the old songs claimed, and sharing the spoils of a hunt was not something they did without reason. For him, the act was not sentimental; it was tactical, practical. Offering part of one's kill was a form of alliance, a nonverbal contract: for this help, you owe me a sliver of willingness. He was not giving her comfort, no; he was opening a small door.
The bird stirred almost immediately, blinking its small, round eyes and fluffing its soft brown feathers. Soren's crimson gaze swept over it with the faintest smirk.
"You. Take this," he said, his voice low and resonant, carrying the weight of something ancient and solitary, something that made the very air feel charged. "Accept this. It is… a gesture."
Taika froze, staring at the small bird. Its feathers were a soft mix of brown and gray, with delicate markings that reminded her of hazel wood in the evening light. It was tiny, fragile, and impossibly cute. Her mind blinked, flooded with memories she hadn't realized she still carried—her grandfather, Aapo, holding out a bundle of kittens when she had been upset as a child, murmuring assurances in his warm, gruff voice.
Her fingers reached out before her brain had time to puzzle it through. The grouse, at first startled, tucked its beak under its wing when her palms closed around it. It was almost absurd—how feathery and alive and soft it felt against her skin, how the minute drum of its heart trembled under her thumb. For a ridiculous second, she forgot to be terrified of Soren, forgot the pikes in her village, forgot the way the forest felt full of watchful shapes. She only knew the small, steady thrum against her palm and the memory of knitted blankets and the smell of Aapo's coat.
Soren watched her accept the offering with that same dry curiosity he afforded most things. He noticed the immediate relaxation slide over her shoulders, the way her wide, storm-blue eyes softened as she cradled the bird to her chest. He would never have described the moment as warm—he did not do warmth—but he catalogued changes. The way her hands steadied, the tiny exhale that sounded like surrender or relief, the way she hummed a sound that could have been a lullaby even if it was only a breath between her teeth.
"You… like it?" he asked, because he had to break something, name it, reduce it to an observation he could store and use later. His voice was blunt. The question was not rhetorical.
Her lips curved in a small, almost reverent smile. "Oh… oh, it's… it's so cute," she nodded, reaching carefully to cradle it. She wasn't thinking about food. She wasn't thinking about survival. She was thinking of warmth, of comfort, of the tiny, living thing offered to her as a gesture meant to soothe.
Soren's crimson eyes narrowed, tilting slightly as if puzzled. The bird remained alive, clearly unharmed, and she wasn't eating it. She wasn't doing anything a dragon—or even a competent hunter—would consider practical. She was merely holding it.
He gave a short, low huff, unconsciously adjusting the grip on the bird. She isn't going to eat it. Why isn't she eating it? His mind flitted over this strange behavior like a spark bouncing off stone.
The fire crackled quietly, casting long, flickering shadows over the clearing. Taika sat cross-legged, the hazel grouse nestled gently against her chest. She cooed softly, tilting her head as she studied its tiny, round eyes and the delicate pattern of speckled feathers.
"Hmm… you need a name," she murmured, more to herself than the bird. "Something… nice. Something… soft." She absently stroked its downy feathers with a careful hand, her fingers grazing over the warmth of its body. "Hazel… no, that's too obvious. Clover… maybe… or Pip? Or… hmm…" She paused, tapping her chin, the grouse chirping in response as if giving its own opinion. She turned the bird gently in her hands, murmuring softly, "Pip… yes, Pip seems right. Pip, you are very brave to be with me tonight. Very brave indeed."
Soren, leaning back against a log and nursing the last scraps of his dinner, tilted his head at her. Crimson eyes narrowed, a faint flicker of disbelief crossing his otherwise unreadable face. He had seen humans panic, he had seen humans cry, and he had even seen humans faint in front of him—but this… this was utterly foreign.
"You… you are cradling it," he said flatly, voice low, each word carefully measured like he was trying to make sense of some alien ritual. "And you are… speaking to it. Naming it. Repeatedly."
Taika glanced up at him, cheeks warm from both embarrassment and excitement. "Yes," she said softly. "I mean… look at it! It's tiny, it's alive… it doesn't have anyone else. It deserves a name, doesn't it?"
Soren's jaw tightened ever so slightly, his brow furrowing. "It's… a bird. A prey animal. One normally eats it or leaves it be. Naming it, cuddling it, what purpose does this serve?"
The Harbinger of Scorching Tempest, chaos incarnate, could handle storms, fire, and fury—but apparently, small, soft creatures with names were beyond his comprehension.
The first pale streaks of dawn cut through the canopy, painting the forest in silver and gold. Soren's eyes snapped open the moment the light touched the edges of the clearing. Even before the sun fully crested the horizon, he was awake. Dragons felt the sun—not just saw it. Its touch was a summons, a vibration deep in the chest that demanded awareness, attention, a rising with the day.
He blinked once, surveying the quiet clearing. The fire had burned low, leaving only a scattering of embers, and the forest was still, save for the occasional rustle of a waking bird. Then his gaze fell to the side, to the figure curled unnervingly close against him.
Taika.
She was asleep, pressed against his side, curling into him like an infant, even though a thick quilt covered her. The sight made him pause, a flicker of puzzlement passing over his sharp features. He hadn't expected this—hadn't expected her to… seek his warmth like that. And yet, it made sense. Despite his human form, he still contained the innate warmth of his true self. The blood that ran through him carried fire, even if muted, and it radiated outward in a subtle but unmistakable heat.
He tilted his head, observing her with a detached precision. The slight rise and fall of her chest, the faint whisper of breath against his side… It wasn't uncomfortable, not in the sense of intrusion. It was… informative. His warmth was not just heat; it was reassurance, safety. And though he would never admit it aloud, she seemed to recognize it instinctively.
Despite the human form he now bore, despite the absence of scales and fire, his innate draconic warmth still pulsed subtly, a deep, resonant heat that humans might mistake for comfort.
"So… even in this form," he muttered, voice low, measured, "I retain enough of myself to… generate this?" His fingers twitched at the realization. The notion was both puzzling and faintly amusing: a human finding solace in the natural heat of a dragon trapped in a mortal shell.
He shifted slightly, careful not to wake her, and assessed the quilt draped over her. Heavy, human, clumsy—but it did little against the subtle, underlying heat he radiated. Even so, she had instinctively sought proximity. Perhaps she trusted it, though she would never admit it. Dragons were solitary creatures; this—this was not natural, and yet…
Soren's sharp jaw tightened as a single thought struck him: She may be fragile, mortal, human—but she has already begun to adapt to me. This… may work.
He shifted again, carefully adjusting his position to avoid disturbing her. The faint warmth of her body against him was not uncomfortable; it was… tolerable. More than tolerable; useful, in fact.
Soren shifted slightly on the log, careful not to disturb Taika, and closed his eyes. The first light of morning painted the forest in soft golds and greens, but it barely registered in his mind. His senses, honed far beyond human measure, turned inward.
Dragons, he reminded himself silently, attuned to the currents of the world. And if one trained properly, one could feel far more than wind, fire, or the tremors of earth. He let his consciousness extend beyond the clearing, beyond the thicket, beyond the hills and valleys stretching toward the horizon. He reached deeper, folding in on himself, tuning into the hum that only dragons could perceive: the call of the Ancestral Pyre.
It was more than a direction; it was a song of power, a pull that resonated through his bones, through his blood, through every lingering fragment of fire and scale still embedded in his human form.
Even in his human form, even weighed down by the limitations of flesh, that call was there. A faint tug at the core of him, deep within the chest that still remembered fire, storm, and scale. He could feel it, subtle yet insistent, like a song whispered through the bones of the world itself.
Every dragon knew it—the pull of their origin, their home, their power. Some would falter along the way, distracted by hunger, by pride, by weakness— but he knew he wouldn't.
He exhaled slowly, letting his mind sink deeper into meditation, letting the chaotic urges that always pulsed at the edges of his thoughts still themselves for a moment. He felt the subtle whispers of the Pyre in the shifting wind, in the warmth of the morning sun, in the faint stir of magic woven through the land.
The Ancestral Pyre was no mere place; It was where the first dragons had been born, their scales gleaming like molten metal in the dawn of the world. Sacred and untouchable, it remained beyond the reach of mortal kings and ambitious sorcerers, a place that none dared lay claim to.
Once, there was a time when dragons were not rare. They were the scorched shadow across the sky and the hammer-stroke in the storm. They laid claim to the world with teeth and talons; Where they roamed, crops failed and walls toppled; where they nested, villages learned to fear the very sound of thunder. Men and women built weapons of iron and wove prayers into nets; the world answered with slaughter. The dragons were hunted until their numbers dwindled to a handful, hunted until the land itself seemed to demand an end.
It was then, in the slow, hard silence that followed the killing, that a goddess—soft and terrible in equal measure—turned her face toward what remained.
From her mercy, two blessings had been granted to the few survivors, each a cunning rope tied to a very particular fate. First, she taught the surviving dragons the art of taking human form: the skin and gait that could hide them among those they once hunted. It was an extinction-avoidance, yes, but more than that it was a tether—their pride folded into a mortal shell. Second, and crueller in its cunning, she granted dragons the ability to entrust their souls into a living human at the moment of their death. The host would carry that soul; taken back to the Pyre, the vessel could knit the dragon back into flesh, bone, and scale.
The goddess had not simply spared them—she had forced them to need what they had dominated. She taught dragons dependence on those they had once scorned.
It was an elegant, dreadful balance. Pride tasted like iron in his mouth as the memory settled: dragons, the apex, made to see humans as necessary. A conservation of life, yes, but also a design to stop them from turning the world to ash again. The blessings bound dragons to people, and in that binding lay the goddess' purpose: to fold humility into power, to make the high and mighty see value in the lowly, lest both fall together.
Soren could taste the irony every time he thought of it. The gods had made them dependent. The high and terrible, reduced to bargaining with mortals. Dragons, whose laughter once bent mountains, were given the most humiliating lesson in humility: learn to need the very things you were bred to trample. The gifts preserved dragonkind, yes—but they also taught dragons to value humans, to see, in flesh and bone, the means of their continuance. It had been genius in its cruelty.
He felt the mechanics of it as clearly as the Pyre's pull. A vessel must stand close—within reach when death brushed the throat—and must not harbor hatred toward the dragon whose soul it would inherit. That was the rub: dragons needed hearts that leaned toward them, not those that seethed. Hence the care, the cunning in recruitment, the soft politicking that one did not expect of something called a Harbinger.
Those facts shaped Soren's plan almost as much as his hunger for restoration. He did not pretend fondness for the goddess's bargain—he called it constraint and cursed it when no one heard—but he could not pretend it was not useful. To reach the Pyre, he must gather steps— not scream across the land like a comet. He needed a willing human. He needed muscles that could carry a soul and a face that would not flinch when he took it.
His thoughts slid, as they always did when he let them, to the sleeping figure against him. The child from the valley—no, the woman—small, stubborn, eyes like lake water. Her magic was raw, promising. She had no family left to anchor her. She had already, by the collapse of the village, become untethered. Practicalities clicked into place with the ruthless clarity of predatory thought: proximity, lack of grievance, talent—Taika fit the checklist poorly in temperament but well in opportunity.
He rose, silent as a thought, already planning the next move: teach her control, blunt the edges of her fear until she favored him enough not to hate him, and walk her—willing or made willing—toward a fire that would set him right again. The goddess's gift was a ladder; he would climb it, whether he liked the steps or not.