The cave was quieter than Ahayue had ever known.
Once, the steady voice of Andalusia filled it—her muttered chants, her laughter echoing strangely against the stone, her sharp commands during lessons. Even her silences had carried weight, a presence that wrapped around him like a cloak. Now, there was only the low crackle of firewood and the dripping of mineral water from the ceiling into shallow puddles.
For weeks, he lived in that hush.
Ahayue sat by the hearth most mornings, staring into the flames until his eyes stung. His hands moved mechanically—splitting meat from bones, arranging strips to dry, grinding herbs Andalusia had once instructed him to collect. He repeated her lessons like a mantra, not because he needed to survive, but because he was afraid that if he stopped, she would truly vanish. Every small ritual was a tether to her memory.
Sometimes he spoke aloud.
"Is this how you wanted the roots cut?" he muttered, knife scraping on stone. "You'd scold me for making them too thick. I can almost hear you now…"
The words disappeared into the cavern, unanswered.
At night, he lay awake on his bedroll, shadows crowding the ceiling. Sleep brought him dreams of Andalusia—her figure wreathed in firelight, her hand heavy on his shoulder, her gaze proud but burdened with loneliness. Always, she turned away before he could follow. Always, he woke with a wet face and clenched fists.
He thought the world had ended with her. Perhaps it had.
But life, stubborn as weeds through stone, continued. Hunger forced him into the forest; the forest led him into chance.
The Hunt
It was late afternoon when Ahayue went hunting. His quiver felt light against his back, only three arrows left, but he trusted his skill more than luck. Andalusia had made him stalk prey silently, like shadow wrapped in flesh. Today, he slipped among the trees with the same stillness.
Birdsong cut abruptly. The forest hushed in a ripple, as if holding its breath. Ahayue paused, scanning. Then—snarls. Not far. Wolves.
He followed, boots sinking softly into moss. The smell of blood guided him before his eyes caught the sight: a great oak rising from a clearing, its gnarled branches twisted like outstretched arms. At its base, wolves circled, teeth bared, eyes fever-bright. Above them, clutching desperately to a thick branch, was a girl.
She could not have been older than Ahayue by more than a year. Her hair, dark and tangled, hung over her face. One arm bled freely, claw-marks carved across her skin. Her legs dangled limply, as though strength had left them. She was half-conscious, lips moving in a whisper that the wind swallowed.
The wolves leapt, snapping inches below her feet.
Ahayue's bow was in his hand before thought caught up. He nocked an arrow, drew, and let it fly. It struck the first wolf in the flank, sending it howling. The others turned, hackles raised, but he was already moving. Another arrow found a throat. The third scattered them into the trees, yelping in retreat.
The clearing fell still, save for the girl's ragged breaths.
Ahayue lowered his bow, heart hammering. He looked up at her.
"It's safe," he called, though his voice cracked. "They're gone."
Her fingers slipped. With a weak gasp, she tumbled. He dashed forward, catching her before her body struck the roots. She was lighter than he expected, bones under skin, and burning with fever.
Her eyes fluttered open just long enough to meet his. They were gray—storm-cloud gray, wide and haunted. She whispered something he didn't catch before sinking into darkness.
Care in Shadows
Back at the cave, Ahayue laid the girl on his own bedroll. Her breathing rasped, shallow but steady. Blood seeped from the wounds on her arm and leg, matting her torn clothes. He remembered Andalusia's voice: "Herbs first, always. Stop the rot before it begins."
He hurried to his stores. A pouch of dried yarrow. A jar of honey thick as amber. Leaves of comfrey. He crushed, mixed, and laid poultices across her cuts. She twitched at the sting but did not wake.
For days, Ahayue tended her. He changed bandages, fed her broth by trickling it past her lips, bathed her fevered skin with damp cloths. It was strange—once he had been the one receiving care, Andalusia looming like a stern guardian. Now he was the caretaker, hands clumsy yet earnest.
When exhaustion dragged him down, he would sleep by the fire, waking at every shift of her breath. He spoke to her sometimes, though she did not respond.
"You'll live," he said quietly. "I won't let you go."
And in those moments, he almost felt Andalusia watching over his shoulder, guiding his hands.
Awakening
On the seventh morning, Ahayue was outside the cave, stringing strips of venison to dry. Smoke curled lazily from the firepit. His mind was still heavy with dreams of Andalusia when a sharp sound broke his thoughts: a startled cry.
He turned. At the mouth of the cave stood the girl. Awake. Pale as bone, trembling, her hair wild around her face. She took one look at him, then at the dark maw of the cave behind her, and bolted forward, nearly stumbling.
Ahayue froze, holding a strip of meat in one hand. He must have looked absurd—calmly standing, smoke at his back, the air smelling of salt and blood.
"Wait," he said softly. "You're safe here."
But her fear was raw, animal. She darted past him, only stopping when her legs gave out a few paces away. She fell to her knees, breathing in ragged gasps, eyes darting like a cornered fawn.
Ahayue set the meat aside and approached slowly, palms open. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Her gaze flicked up, wary. Then, to his surprise, her voice cracked through the fear:
"Why… why am I here? Who are you?"
He crouched a few feet away, giving her space. "You were hurt. Wolves. I found you in the forest and brought you back. My name is Ahayue."
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, with trembling fingers, she touched the fresh bandages on her arm. Her gray eyes brimmed with tears.
"You… healed me?"
"I tried," he admitted. "Most of it was herbs my mentor taught me to use."
Something in his voice seemed to ease her panic. She slumped slightly, exhaustion creeping over her again.
A Name Given
That evening, she sat by the fire, wrapped in one of Andalusia's old cloaks. Her body was frail, but she ate the broth Ahayue gave her with cautious eagerness, as if remembering hunger.
At last, she spoke. "My name… is Alusya."
The syllables carried a weight, a tremor of sorrow.
Ahayue repeated it softly, as if binding it to memory. "Alusya."
Her eyes reflected the fire. After a pause, she added, "I was exiled."
He said nothing, waiting.
"My family sinned against the God," she whispered. "The tribe judged us. They… they killed them. All of them." Her voice broke, and she pressed trembling hands against her face. "Only my brother lived long enough to see me off. He… he sent me away, told me to run. But they found him. A bow—" She choked on the word. "He died because of me."
The fire cracked. The cave seemed to tighten around them, shadows listening.
Ahayue's chest ached with a hollow sympathy. Loss—he knew it too well. He reached for words but found none strong enough. Finally, he said, "Then you're not alone. Not anymore."
Alusya lowered her hands, eyes red. "Why help me? You don't even know me."
He thought of Andalusia's last lessons, of her solitude stretching across centuries. He thought of how heavy silence could be.
"Because someone once saved me," he said simply. "I won't waste what they gave."
Bonding in Ashes
Days passed, and Alusya stayed. Her strength grew slowly, though scars still marred her arm. She began helping where she could—fetching water, gathering kindling, even smiling faintly when Ahayue burned a stew too thick.
Sometimes they spoke little, sitting side by side while firelight danced. Other times, stories spilled in fragments. She told him of her tribe's festivals, the songs her mother used to hum, the way her brother laughed when he teased her. Ahayue, in turn, spoke of Andalusia—not everything, but enough for Alusya to see the shape of his grief.
Loneliness met loneliness, and something tender took root.
One night, as embers glowed low, Alusya whispered, "Do you ever feel like the world forgot you?"
Ahayue looked at her. Her eyes shone, raw and searching. He nodded once. "Yes."
Her hand, tentative, brushed his. "Then maybe we can remind each other we're still here."
The fire hissed softly, as though in agreement.
And for the first time since Andalusia's passing, Ahayue felt the cave no longer empty.