The immense carcass of the giant spider lay a few yards away, its many legs splayed at unnatural angles, a stark, grotesque reminder of the mortal danger they had just faced.
Leonotis, leaning heavily on his root-sword, his chest heaving, noticed something odd. Perched almost jauntily on top of the spider's ruined head, amidst the ichor and shattered eyes, was a cluster of small, faintly glowing fungi.
They were a sickly purple, their caps weirdly swollen.
Aren't those berserk mushrooms? Leonotis thought, a chill running down his spine despite the heat of their exertion.
Gethii said they're native only on the other side of the Kingdom, how did they get here? And on a spider? The implications were perplexing.
The sun had begun its slow, blood-red descent, casting long, eerie shadows through the trees that seemed to twist and writhe like dying things.
They found a small, defensible clearing a little way off, the lingering stench of the dead spider urging them to put distance between themselves and the kill.
They sat, sharing a handful of dried berries Low had managed to find earlier and some tough, travel-worn jerky – a meager feast after their harrowing ordeal.
The usual nervous energy, the sharp edges that often crackled between them, were replaced by a quiet, bone-deep weariness and a profound, unspoken understanding, a shared acknowledgment of their deepening reliance on one another.
Leonotis chewed slowly, the bland taste of the jerky doing little to dispel the lingering tension in his shoulders or the metallic tang of fear in his mouth.
He looked up at Low and Jacqueline, their faces smudged with dirt, sweat, and spider gore, their clothes torn, their exhaustion a palpable thing.
"Thanks," he said, the single word feeling heavier, more significant than he'd ever known it to be. "For… for not leaving me in that spider forest. For coming back."
A wave of shame, hot and uncomfortable, washed over him at the memory of his impulsive, arrogant decision.
Jacqueline, who had been silently staring at the darkening woods, her expression unreadable, finally met his gaze.
A shadow of her perpetual sadness still lingered in the depths of her blue eyes, but there was a new warmth there as well, a flicker of connection.
"I… I still miss my servants terribly," she admitted, her voice soft, almost a whisper that seemed to get lost in the rustling leaves.
"Mbuna, he would have had this entire campsite organized and a proper meal prepared before we even sat down, fussing about damp ground and the chill in the air. Betta would have complained about the quality of the firewood but built the best fire nonetheless."
She swallowed, a visible tremor in her hand as she picked at a dried berry.
"They were… loyal. Devoted. Like no one else I have ever known."
Her gaze drifted towards the dying light. "But… seeing how you and Low fought today… how you didn't hesitate to help each other, how you trusted each other's strengths… I… I see a different kind of strength, a different kind of bond, in this… companionship we have found."
She offered a small, hesitant smile, a fragile thing in the growing darkness. "Perhaps… perhaps being alone isn't always the only way to be safe, or to be strong."
Low, who had been meticulously cleaning her precious throwing stones with a scrap of cloth, finally looked up, her usual guarded expression softened by fatigue and something less definable.
"I… I've always been alone," she said, her voice surprisingly quiet, almost rough with unshed emotion.
"In the orphanage… you learned pretty quick that no one was really looking out for you but yourself. Anyone who acted like a friend usually wanted something, or would turn on you the moment it suited them."
She shrugged, a quick, jerky movement, a flicker of old pain in her eyes.
"Being with you two… it's… different."
She paused, struggling for words. "Scary, sometimes, because… well, everyone leaves eventually, don't they?"
She swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to the smooth, cool stone in her hand.
"But… it's also… unexpected. This… feeling. Like maybe someone actually has your back for a change. This… comfort. I didn't think I'd ever feel anything like it again."
She didn't meet their eyes, but the raw, vulnerable honesty in her voice hung heavy and resonant in the twilight air.
The silence that followed was no longer tense or awkward, but contemplative, almost peaceful.
The simple, shared meal felt richer, imbued with the unspoken weight of their shared ordeal and the fragile, fiercely budding connection that had taken root in the unforgiving heart of the dangerous wilderness.
They were three individuals, vastly different, scarred in their own ways, bound by circumstance and now, perhaps, by something more profound, more resilient.
The vast, uncaring world outside their small, flickering firelight suddenly felt a little less daunting, a little less lonely.