Sunrise filtered through the canopy in thin, golden threads.
The treehouse smelled of dew-soaked wood, cooling coals, and the faint iron tang of dragon blood that had drifted up from below during the night.
Ed had not moved from the bedside since carrying Tia back upstairs.
He sat on the floorboards with his back against the bedframe, one knee drawn up, her hand still loosely clasped in his.
She had slept—truly slept—for the first time in what felt like years.
Her breathing was deep and even.
The black marks on her skin were reduced to faint silver-gray traceries, like frost patterns on glass.
He had watched every breath.
Counted them.
Waited for the next one to falter.
It never did.
When the first real light touched her face, Tia stirred.
Her lashes fluttered.
A soft sound escaped her—half sigh, half murmur—before her eyes opened fully.
They found him immediately.
"Ed," she whispered, voice hoarse from sleep and yesterday's strain.
He squeezed her hand once.
"Morning."
She blinked slowly, taking in the room, the light… him.
Then she lifted her free hand and stared at her own wrist.
The marks were still there—faded, quiet, no longer spreading—but unmistakable.
"You did this," she said. Not a question.
"The tree helped."
He kept his tone light, though his throat felt tight.
"I just… asked nicely."
Tia let her arm fall back to the blanket.
A small, shaky laugh escaped her.
"You asked an elder tree nicely. Of course you did."
She pushed herself up on one elbow. Winced slightly—still sore—but the color was returning to her cheeks.
Ed moved at once, sliding onto the edge of the bed to support her back with one arm.
"Easy," he murmured.
"I'm not made of glass."
She leaned into him anyway, forehead briefly resting against his shoulder.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet."
His voice dropped.
"The marks aren't gone. Just… held back. We don't know how long it will last."
Tia lifted her head.
Met his eyes.
"Then we find out how to make it permanent."
Ed exhaled through his nose.
"That's the plan."
She studied him for a long moment—searching, gentle.
"You look like you didn't sleep."
"I didn't need to."
"Liar."
He gave a small, crooked smile.
"Old habit. Someone has to keep watch."
Tia reached up and brushed a thumb along the dark circle under his eye.
"Not anymore. Not alone."
The simple words landed heavier than they should have.
Ed swallowed once. Nodded.
They sat like that for a while—her leaning against him, his arm steady around her shoulders.
Morning light strengthened.
Birds began calling somewhere far off in the canopy.
Eventually Tia shifted.
"I smell dragon."
Ed huffed a quiet laugh.
"Yeah. There's a rather large corpse at the bottom of the tree. Probably attracting every scavenger in a fifty-mile radius."
"We should deal with it."
She started to swing her legs over the side of the bed.
Ed caught her wrist gently.
"Not you. Not today."
"Ed—"
"You nearly died last night."
His voice was low, rough.
"You're resting. I'll handle the corpse."
She opened her mouth to argue—then closed it when she saw his expression.
Something raw and unguarded flickered across her face.
"Alright," she said softly.
"But you come back in one piece."
"Promise."
He stood, stretched until his spine cracked, then moved toward the door.
Paused with his hand on the latch.
"Tia."
She looked up.
"Whatever happens next," he said quietly,
"we do it together. No more solo missions. No more carrying everything alone."
Her eyes shimmered. She nodded once—small, fierce.
"Together."
Ed opened the door and stepped out onto the platform.
The dragon's body lay sprawled across the forest floor far below—wings crumpled, scales dulled, already drawing flies and the first curious scavengers.
The smell was starting to rise—thick, coppery, wrong.
He rested both hands on the railing and looked down at it for a long moment.
Then he spoke to the empty air.
"Wanderer's Treasury."
A ripple of darkness opened at his hip.
He reached inside—past gold coins, spare weapons, forgotten keepsakes from a hundred worlds.
He pulled out a long, slender knife he hadn't touched since world eighty-three.
Its blade shimmered faintly, etched with runes that drank light rather than reflected it.
"Time to clean up," he muttered.
He started down the rope bridge.
Behind him, through the open door, Tia watched him go—small, steady, unafraid.
And for the first time in ten years, she did not feel like the last survivor of something already lost.