In the morning, Amanda woke to the feeling of someone touching her armor.
She snapped her eyes open — and saw Mia crouching right beside her. The girl was holding a bowl of steaming stew and watching her with an expression of pure curiosity.
“You sleep in your armor?” she asked. “That must be… uncomfortable.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Amanda lied in her mechanical voice, hoping Mia wouldn’t notice anything, even though her body ached from the hard rock and cold metal.
“You’re lying,” Mia smirked. “You breathe differently when you’re awake. I heard it.”
“You heard my breathing? From a distance?”
“I’m a wolf,” she shrugged. “We hear better than humans. And we smell better too. You smell… different from a warrior.”
“How?”
“I don’t know,” Mia tilted her head, her ears twitching. “Just different. Can’t quite place it. But it’s interesting.”
She held out the bowl.
“Eat. I made it myself.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You always say that, then sit there staring at the food with hungry eyes. I can see it.”
Amanda had no idea how Mia managed it — seeing straight through the helmet — but the girl was looking directly at her eyes hidden behind the red lenses and smiling as if she could see everything.
“I’m not taking off the helmet.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Mia said, setting the bowl down on the rock beside her. “But when you’re alone, you’ll take it off and eat. I know you will.”
She stood up and stretched — flexible and light. Her tail swayed.
“Today I’m riding next to you,” she announced casually.
“Why?”
“Because yesterday you rode in the back, and I kept turning around,” she said it with such simple honesty that Amanda didn’t know how to respond. “This way I can stay beside you and actually watch the road instead of looking back every few seconds.”
She smiled and headed down toward the camp, leaving Amanda with the bowl and the distinct feeling that she had walked into a very strange trap.
“Torglin,” she called.
“Right here, girl.”
“You said she would try to take my helmet off. You didn’t say she would feed me.”
“Well,” the gnome hesitated. “That’s also a method. Building trust, you know. Feed them, give them drink, tuck them into bed… and then — bam! — helmet’s off.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“Me? Never,” his voice practically dripped with a grin. “I’m just observing. Drawing conclusions.”
“Such as?”
Torglin paused.
“That you, girl, are in deep,” he said at last. “Up to your ears.”
Amanda wanted to snap back, but before she could, Mia’s voice rang out from below:
“Reaper! We’re moving out in ten minutes! Don’t make me wait!”
She stood beside her horse, one hand on the reins, her silver hair fluttering in the morning breeze. And she was smiling.
Amanda rose, picked up the bowl — and, making sure no one was watching, quickly lifted her helmet just enough to shove a piece of bread into her mouth.
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The stew was delicious. That annoyed her even more.
“Let’s go,” she said, swinging into the saddle. “We shouldn’t keep our… guide waiting.”
“You’re blushing, girl,” Torglin whispered from somewhere to her right.
“It’s the firelight.”
“Of course,” the gnome’s voice was full of pure delight. “Of course it’s the firelight.”
Amanda clenched her teeth and guided her horse down toward the column that was already forming up.
Mia was waiting for her at the head of the group. When the black figure drew level with her, she smiled — bright, open, and disarmingly warm — and nudged her horse forward.
“Good morning again, Reaper,” she said. “Sleep well?”
“Never better.”
“You’re lying,” she laughed, and her laughter rang out over the steppe — light and clear. “But that’s okay. I’ll learn to tell when you’re lying and when you’re telling the truth. I’ve got a good nose.”
She winked and spurred her horse, pulling ahead.
Amanda watched her go, a chaotic mix of irritation, exhaustion, and something she refused to name swirling inside her.
“Torglin,” she said quietly.
“Yes, girl?”
“If she says ‘you’re lying’ one more time, I’m going to kill her.”
“You will,” the gnome agreed. “Absolutely. Right now, for example. As soon as she says it for the twenty-fifth time.”
“You’re counting?”
“I’m just observing, girl. Just observing.”
Amanda swore under her breath and urged her horse into a gallop, catching up to the silver figure already riding ahead.
For the entire first half of the day, Mia stayed close. She didn’t push for conversation, didn’t ask endless questions — she simply rode beside her, occasionally glancing at the black figure out of the corner of her eye. Her silver tail swayed lazily in time with her horse’s steps, and Amanda caught herself tracking that gentle motion.
“Are you going to keep staring at me like that?” Amanda asked finally.
“Does it bother you?” Mia didn’t look embarrassed in the slightest.
“It’s strange.”
“For humans, maybe,” she shrugged. “For us, it’s not. We watch those who interest us. It’s a way to learn about a person — from their movements, their breathing, the way they sit in the saddle. You, for example, ride like someone with a lot of experience, but sometimes you tense up in places where you shouldn’t. As if you’re used to a different seat.”
Amanda froze. That was dangerously close to the truth.
“Maybe I just didn’t sleep well.”
“Maybe,” Mia didn’t argue. But a spark of satisfaction flashed in her eyes — the look of a hunter who had picked up a fresh trail.
They rode in silence. The sun climbed higher, and the steppe around them rippled like a golden sea of feather grass. Somewhere in the distance, an eagle soared, scanning for prey.
“Reaper,” Mia said after an hour.
“What?”
“Have you ever killed someone not for a reason… but just because you could?”
The question caught Amanda off guard.
“Is this an interrogation?”
“It’s a conversation,” she turned toward her, and there was no challenge in her eyes — only genuine curiosity. “We’re going to be traveling together for several days. We can either ride in silence or talk. I choose talking. What about you?”
Amanda was quiet for a moment. Then she answered:
“No. I don’t kill without reason.”
“Then why do you kill?”
“For survival. For those who need protecting. For…” She trailed off, searching for the right words. “For making the world a little more right.”
“Pretty words,” Mia smirked. “But not true.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“Because no one kills for a ‘right’ world,” she said calmly, without any bitterness. “People kill out of fear, out of hate, out of greed, out of love. Sometimes because there’s no other choice. But ‘a better world’… that’s too grand a reason for a sword.”
Amanda looked at her. Through the red lenses, she saw how the wind played with Mia’s silver hair, how her ears were pressed back — not from fear, but from the tension of thought.
“And why do you kill?” she asked.
Mia didn’t answer right away. Her tail went still, and her ears twitched.
“I kill for my people,” she said at last. “So they can live. So that my children — if I ever have any — never know what chains and whips feel like. So we can walk with our heads held high instead of lowering our eyes when we see a human.”
She fell silent, and steel suddenly entered her voice.
“I kill because if I don’t, they will kill mine. And I will never allow that to happen again.”
Amanda watched her and felt something strange. Not pity. Not admiration. Recognition.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said.
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know,” Amanda looked away. “Just… not this.”
Mia smiled — softly, almost tenderly.
“You’re not what I expected either, Reaper. Not at all.”
They fell silent again, but this silence felt different. Not tense — calm. Amanda caught herself not wanting to break it.
“Mia,” she said after a while.
“Yes?”
“Thank you for dinner. Yesterday.”
Mia turned toward her, and her ears twitched — from surprise or pleasure, Amanda couldn’t tell.
“You’re welcome,” she replied. “There will be another one today. Maybe this time you’ll eat it in front of me?”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
“I’m not hoping,” she laughed. “I’m just waiting.”
She spurred her horse and dashed forward, leaving Amanda behind. Her silver tail swayed in farewell.
Amanda watched her go and thought.
“What difference does it make who she is,” she told herself. “She’s just a traveling companion. A guide. A tool. Nothing more.”
The thought sounded false even inside her own head.
“Torglin,” she called.
“Here, girl.”
“If you say even one word…”
“I’m not saying anything,” the gnome’s voice was pure innocence. “I’m just riding along. Silently. Like a fish. Like a stone. Like…”
“Torgliiin!”
“Shutting up.”
Amanda sighed and urged her horse forward, catching up with the caravan.
Ahead, against the golden steppe, the silver figure of the girl rode on. She wasn’t turning around — yet she was smiling.