As the day wore on, they fell into an easier rhythm. The shared revelations—partial though they were—had created a foundation of tentative trust. They still didn't know each other's names or exact circumstances, but they understood each other's pain. And in that understanding, something like companionship began to take shape.
"Tell me something about your mother," Reloua said as they navigated around a massive root system. "Something good. Not about her death, but about... her life."
Teleu was silent for so long she thought he wouldn't answer. Then:
"She used to sing. Every morning before dawn, she'd go to the highest tower and sing to greet the sun. Said it was an old tradition from her homeland." His voice remained even, almost detached. "The palace guards used to set their watches by it. When mother's song began, you knew dawn was moments away."
"What did she sing?"
"Prayer songs. Calling on the ancestors to guide the day, to watch over the kingdom, to keep the people safe from harm and the crops abundant." He paused. "After she died, no one continued the tradition. The tower stands silent now."
"That's... incredibly sad."
"That's what happens when people die. The traditions they kept die with them, unless someone else takes them up." He glanced at her. "What about yours? Your mother. What do you remember?"
Reloua smiled despite herself. "She laughed. All the time. Even when things were difficult or serious, she'd find something to laugh about. She used to say that laughter was rebellion against despair, and despair was the only enemy that could never be defeated by force."
"Wise woman."
"She was. Is. Was." Reloua's voice caught. "It's strange how the tense shifts. How someone who was so present, so vital, becomes past tense in an instant."
"The body becomes past tense," Teleu said quietly. "But the person... maybe they're more present tense than we realize. Maybe that's what those singing trees were trying to tell you."
They walked in silence for a while after that, each lost in memories of mothers who'd loved them and left them and, perhaps, were still watching from whatever lay beyond the veil.
As evening approached, Teleu stopped in a small clearing where a rock overhang provided natural shelter. "We'll camp here tonight. There's water nearby, and the overhang will hide our fire from aerial observation."
As he began making camp, Reloua gathered firewood. She noticed how he tested the ground before building the fire, how he positioned himself where he could see approaches, how his hand never strayed far from his blade.
Dakare used to move like that.
She pushed the thought away.
"Stop staring," Teleu said without looking up.
"I wasn't—" Reloua began, then stopped. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just... don't." He struck flint against steel. "People who stare are usually trying to figure out how to use you. Or how to survive you."
"I'm not trying to do either."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
"Understand you, maybe?" Reloua settled across from him as the fire caught. "You save my life but claim it's just self-interest. You share your grief but maintain distance. You give me water and food and protection, but insist you're not a hero. I'm just trying to figure out which version is real."
Teleu looked up at her then, firelight dancing in his dark eyes.
"They're all real," he said. "I saved you because it served my interests. Leaving you would have created complications I didn't need. I shared what I did because you asked directly and the information cost me nothing. I help you survive because we're heading in the same direction." He returned his attention to the fire. "Don't make it more complicated than that."
The bluntness should have stung, but Reloua found it oddly clarifying. No false promises. No pretending this was something it wasn't.
"Fair enough," she said.
Silence settled between them, but it felt different now. Less tense. More like an understanding had been reached.
They prepared their simple meal in silence. When he handed her roasted rabbit, she took it without elaborate thanks. Somehow she sensed he'd find it unnecessary.
As the stars appeared through the canopy, Reloua watched him across the fire. He sat with his back to the rock face, positioned where he could see both the flames and the forest beyond. Always alert. Always watching.
There was something almost... reliable about that. Not in a warm way. But in the way a well-made blade was reliable. It wouldn't comfort you, but it would cut when you needed it to.
"Get some rest," Teleu said without looking at her. "I'll take first watch."
"You need sleep too."
"I'll manage. Someone needs to make sure we're not ambushed in our sleep."
Reloua wrapped herself in the cloak he'd given her days ago and settled near the fire. Before she closed her eyes, she glanced at him one more time.
He hadn't moved. Hadn't relaxed. Just... watching. Keeping vigil like it was a military position that needed holding.
Dakare used to do that too. Stand watch while she slept. Keep the perimeter secure.
She'd taken that for granted until the day he stayed behind to buy her time she couldn't afford to waste.
Her eyes closed.
Somewhere in the darkness, Teleu kept his watch.
The girl was observing him. Had been all day. Noting how he moved, how he chose campsites, how he positioned himself. It wasn't romantic curiosity—it was assessment.
Smart.
She'd need protection when they reached Gold Land. Someone had sent professional killers after her, which meant she was either valuable or threatening to someone with resources.
When they reached the border, she'd likely make some kind of offer. He'd listen when the time came. See what she had to offer. See if the arrangement was worth the risk.
But that was a decision for later.
For now, he watched the forest and kept the fire fed.