Jora watched him for a moment longer than she needed to, fingers curling around the knife as he passed it to her. She didn’t say anything right away—just gave a small nod, steady and sure, the kind meant to anchor rather than alarm. She trusted that instinct of his, even when she didn’t like what it hinted at. Especially then.

“I’ll keep her busy,” she said quietly, voice low so Lyra wouldn’t catch the weight behind it. There was a softness there, but also resolve. “Make it a game. She can help me sort, maybe count pieces. She’ll think it’s fun.” A pause, then a faint, wry smile. “She always does.”

She leaned into his peck without thinking, her free hand briefly catching the front of his shirt before letting go. Just a second longer than necessary. Grounding. “Be careful,” she added—not sharp, not fearful. Just firm. The way she always was with him. “And don’t push yourself just to bring back more than you should. We need you more than we need meat.”

As he turned to gather his things, Jora forced herself to look back down at the counter, focusing on the rhythm of cutting fruit, on keeping her breathing even. Panic wouldn’t help. Preparation would.

“We’ll be here when you get back,” she called after him, glancing up once more, meeting his eyes. There was no doubt in her expression—only faith. “All of us.”

Jora watched him go with her hand still curled in the fabric of his shirt, only letting go at the very last second. She didn’t follow him to the edge of the trees—didn’t call after him either. She knew better than to distract him now. Still, her eyes tracked his shape until the forest swallowed him whole, until the world felt just a little too quiet again.

She exhaled slowly.

“I will,” she murmured under her breath, a promise meant for him alone, even after he was gone.

The hours he was away stretched thin. Jora kept herself busy—kept Lyra busy, just like she’d said she would. They washed fruit, laid strips out to dry, practiced tying bundles with twine. Lyra chattered happily, blissfully unaware of the tension coiled tight beneath Jora’s ribs, and Jora matched her energy with practiced ease. She smiled. She laughed. She made it normal.

But every so often, her gaze drifted to the sea.

The ship was closer now. Not close enough to see faces or flags—but close enough that there was no denying its intent. Jora marked its progress carefully, committing angles and distance to memory, her mind quietly mapping contingencies. Hide routes. Supplies. What she could carry if she had to.

Her hand found her stomach more than once.

Stay, she urged silently—to the baby, to Sage, to the fragile peace of this place.

When she finally heard movement beyond the cabin—the scrape of weight being dragged, the familiar rhythm of Sage’s steps—relief hit her so hard she had to brace herself against the counter. She moved to the doorway just as he emerged from the trees, laden with game, dirt-smudged and alive.

Thank the gods.

She didn’t rush him. Didn’t smother him. She simply stood there, watching as he went straight to work, efficient and focused, building the fire and setting up the smoker like someone who understood exactly what was at stake.

“You did good,” she said quietly, stepping closer at last. Her hand slid to his arm, fingers curling there just long enough to feel his warmth. Solid. Real. “This will buy us time.”

Her eyes flicked briefly back toward the water, then returned to him, sharper now—but steady.

“We’ll salt and smoke as much as we can tonight,” she continued. “Pack light essentials too. Just in case.” A pause. Then, softer, meant only for him: “I’m glad you’re back.”

She lingered beside him as the fire caught, the smoke curling up into the evening air—a signal, perhaps, but one she couldn’t afford not to send. Whatever was coming, they would meet it prepared.

Together.