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They make camp on the outer shore of Visages’ island, far enough away where the creaking and groaning of the disjointed creatures that roam it can’t be heard anymore. They might have gone farther, but after the grueling fight with the first Axon, nobody wanted to push themselves any further than they had to.
Now, they’re all huddled around the crackling fire, nursing wounds, sipping soup, and trying to ignore the full-body aches that infect every inch of their being. Someone—probably Sciel—added too much seasoning to the stew, and it’s aggressively herby, like drinking a garden. But Maelle doesn’t care. The joints in her arms are throbbing to the rhythm of a song she can’t name, her legs feel like overcooked noodles, and every time she blinks, it takes her longer and longer to open her eyes again.
She’s hunched forward like a feeble young tree during a monsoon, her bowl resting heavy in her hands. She lifts a spoonful, misses her mouth by a margin large enough to feel like a failure, and lets it fall back into the broth with a sad splash.
Across from her, Lune is filling in everything that’s happened today in her journal, seemingly unperturbed by the achiness the rest of them are feeling. Sciel is already on her third bowl of soup. Verso has been mostly quiet since the fall of the Axon, and Monoco is lying flat on his back, occasionally letting out a dramatic sigh to make sure everyone remembers he got scratched earlier.
But Maelle? Maelle is fighting a different battle entirely.
Sleep.
Her eyelids feel like they’re being weighed down by cinderblocks. Her fingers loosen around the spoon. Her head droops lower, like a flower on a snapped stem. The warmth of the fire and the heat of the soup have blurred together into a hazy, golden comfort—and then, gently, dreamily…
Plop.
Her face lands in the bowl.
Silence.
And then, laughter.
“Did she just…?” Verso blinks.
“—Maelle?” Sciel’s voice is immediate. Concerned, alarmed, but—wheezing with laughter. “Oh my god, did she just— did she actually— Lune, look at this.”
Lune sets down her journal with a sigh that sounds far too resigned for the moment. She leans over, peers around the fire, and finds Maelle folded completely in half, face planted squarely in her stew.
“She fell asleep in her soup!” Sciel says, absolutely breathless. “She face-planted in her dinner! This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life! We have to preserve her. Like a fossil.”
As Sciel has tipped off of the log she’s sitting on, cackling, Lune calmly walks over and lifts Maelle upright by the shoulders, one hand behind her neck, almost like she’s picking up a kitten by the scruff. Maelle groans a little but doesn’t stir much beyond that—her eyelids flutter, but remain closed, her body completely limp.
Her face is drenched in the yellowish broth.
Sciel howls.
“She looks like she has jaundice!” Sciel yells.
“She’s exhausted,” Lune murmurs, gently wiping soup from Maelle’s cheeks and chin with a cloth she produced from her pocket. “Poor thing was practically sleepwalking back to camp.”
“I don’t blame her, after what that Axon put us through,” Verso says.
“She earned it,” Monoco adds. “She fought like a demon out there.”
“Mm. With a fever, too.”
Sciel blinks, her head shooting up. “What?”
“She’s warm,” Lune says, frowning slightly as she brushes soup-damp red hair back from Maelle’s forehead. “And not from the fire. I think she’s coming down with something.”
That sobers Sciel up immediately, and Monoco leans over to Verso to whisper, “Here comes the mother bear.” Verso snorts.
Sciel goes over, scooping the bowl away and setting it aside, then kneels to help Lune settle Maelle onto her own bedroll.
“Hey, hon,” Sciel murmurs as they lower her down. “You could’ve said something, you know. We’d have wrapped you up and let you nap before dinner.”
“Mmmnn,” Maelle hums faintly, eyes still shut. “’m not a baby…”
“No,” Sciel says, tugging a blanket over her with all the gentleness of a practiced mother hen. “You’re a very tired, very brave warrior who just tried to drown herself in parsley soup.”
Maelle doesn’t answer. She’s already asleep again, cheeks flushed, one hand curled into Lune’s coat like a lifeline.
Sciel sighs, completely and utterly endeared, and smooths the blanket over her chest.
“I’ll make her tea when she wakes up,” Sciel says.
“I’ll check her fever in an hour,” Lune says.
“A second mother bear has left the cave,” Verso whispers to Monoco.
The fire burns low. It’s quiet now—Verso has nodded off where he sits, arms crossed firmly over his chest, and Monoco is buried in his own mane, curled up and snoring like an old dog.
Sciel sits cross-legged beside Maelle’s bedroll, humming under her breath as she stirs a little pot of water over the coals. Lune is kneeling beside Maelle, fingers brushing gently against her brow every few minutes, checking for heat.
She’s still warm.
But she’s sleeping soundly, and that’s what matters.
Her red hair is fanned out across the blanket, slightly damp from sweat (and soup residue), tangled with bits of dry grass and a few flecks of parsley from her very brief encounter with her dinner. Her nose scrunches when the wind brushes her face, but she doesn’t stir. She only sighs, lips parting slightly, one hand still clinging to the edge of Lune’s coat, even in rest.
“She holds on, doesn’t she?” Sciel says quietly.
Lune looks up.
Sciel stares at the little fist around the hem of Lune’s coat and smiles, tired but fond. “Like she’s afraid we’ll disappear if she lets go.”
Lune exhales slowly through her nose and doesn’t answer for a moment. Then, softly: “She’s lost a lot.”
“Too much,” Sciel agrees. “And still…she fights.”
Lune nods. “That’s why we stay.”
Sciel pours the hot water into a tin mug and adds crushed leaves from a pouch—something minty and sharp, for fever. It steams quietly. She sets it near Lune and leans over Maelle, brushing the bangs from her face.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Sciel whispers, soft and sing-songy. “Time to wake up for just a second. Got something nice and warm for you.”
Maelle’s face twitches. She makes a noise halfway between a groan and a word, the kind of mumble that might’ve been “no” or “more soup.”
“It’s tea,” Lune says gently. “Not soup. We promise.”
“’m sleepin’,” Maelle mumbles without opening her eyes. “‘m not a baby…”
“You said that already,” Sciel says fondly. “Which is exactly what a baby would say.”
Maelle squints one eye open, peeking up at them like they’ve betrayed her. “That’s mean…”
Sciel laughs. “Sweetheart, you faceplanted in a bowl. We are well past dignity.”
Lune helps her sit up, propping her against her own chest like a pillow. Maelle doesn’t protest much—just sighs and leans back, boneless and hot with fever. She reaches out for the cup, but her hands tremble.
Sciel steadies the mug for her, tipping it gently to her lips.
“Just a sip,” she murmurs. “It’s mint and chamomile. Good for your head.”
Maelle takes a tiny mouthful, wrinkles her nose, and makes a face.
Sciel gasps. “Blasphemy! That tea is a masterpiece. Brewed with love!”
Maelle giggles faintly, more breath than voice. “Tastes like…wet leaves…”
“That’s because it is wet leaves,” Lune says with a chuckle.
Maelle leans her head back against Lune’s collarbone and closes her eyes again. “Mmm… Sleepy…”
“We can tell,” Sciel says. “Finish the tea, then you can go back to snoozing, okay?”
“Mhm…” Maelle nods lazily.
She does just that, swallowing the rest of the drink, then cuddling up in her bedroll again.
But her brow is furrowed, even in rest, and every now and then she lets out a tiny noise—a sigh, a whimper, a muttered word that doesn’t quite make it out.
Sciel watches her the way a guard dog watches the gate.
She’s crouched close, elbow on her knee, chin in her hand. The lines around her eyes are softer now, the playful edge worn down by quiet worry. She hasn’t made a joke in ten minutes. That’s how Lune knows she’s serious.
“I should’ve noticed sooner,” Sciel murmurs. “That she wasn’t doing great. She looked pale this morning. I just thought it was nerves.”
Lune doesn’t reply right away. She stirs the fire instead, coaxing the embers into a quiet, steady glow. Then: “She hides it. She’s always hiding it.”
“She shouldn’t have to.”
“No. But she’s sixteen. Sixteen-year-olds are excellent at making terrible choices.”
Sciel lets out a breath somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “She’s still just a kid.”
“She’d argue that.”
“Of course she would.” Sciel reaches down and gently tucks Maelle’s hair behind her ear. The red strands are stuck to her forehead with sweat. “She thinks if she’s not useful, she’s dead weight.”
Lune’s eyes flicker to Sciel’s hand. “She’s not the only one who thinks that way.”
Sciel stiffens. “…Low blow.”
“Just the truth.”
A pause stretches between them. The fire cracks softly.
Then, in a smaller voice, Sciel says, “I just don’t want to mess it up. She trusts me.”
“You’re not messing it up,” Lune replies gently. “You’re here. You made sure she ate, even if she passed out face-first into it. You noticed her fever. You’re staying up to watch her. That’s more than most kids ever get.”
Sciel rubs at her eyes. “I still don’t know what I’m doing.”
“No one does. Not even me.”
Sciel gives her a look. “You? The mighty, all-knowing, calmly-makes-plans-in-her-sleep Lune doesn’t know what she’s doing?”
“Not when it comes to this,” Lune murmurs, voice quieter now. “Not with Maelle. Not with…you.”
Sciel blinks.
The fire pops.
And for a moment, neither of them says anything. The air is full of the smell of ash and herbs, warm wool and sweat, and something deeper—unspoken and heavy, but not bad.
“Do you remember what she was like during training?” Lune asks.
Sciel snorts. “Of course I do. The tiny little ginger that’s half a foot shorter than almost all of the others, swinging a training sword around like a knight- hard to forget.”
“She was so ready to fight,” Lune says. “Gave pretty much everyone a run for their money when she sparred them.”
“Oh yeah,” Sciel agrees. “It was hilarious to watch the cocky grins get wiped off their faces. She humbled them real fast!”
Just then, Maelle lets out a soft, congested snore. Sciel snorts, and the moment breaks with a breath of laughter.
“She’s so gross when she’s sick,” Sciel says, adoring. “This is a new level of snot. I think she’s becoming soup herself.”
Lune chuckles and reaches into the supply bag, pulling out a rag and the water canteen.
“I’ll wipe her down again. Her fever’s creeping up.”
Sciel moves aside without being asked, and Lune kneels, dipping the cloth into cool water. She wrings it out, then gently brushes it across Maelle’s temple and cheek.
The girl stirs, eyes fluttering open for just a moment.
“Mmnh… Lune?” she croaks, barely audible.
“I’m here,” Lune murmurs. “Go back to sleep, Maelle.”
Maelle’s eyes barely stay open. “M’okay… jus’ tired…”
“You’re safe,” Sciel adds, soft and warm. “You don’t have to fight tonight. Just sleep.”
And Maelle does.
She drifts back under like a leaf floating on water.
Sciel and Lune sit there a while longer, quiet and still. The fire flickers low, and above them, the stars scatter across the sky like pale silver freckles.
When Sciel leans her head on Lune’s shoulder, Lune lets her. When Lune tilts her cheek into Sciel’s hair, Sciel lets her.
They don’t say anything more.
They don’t need to.
There’s warmth here. Safety. Tired arms and sore feet, yes—but a family in pieces learning how to hold each other together again.
And Maelle, sound asleep between them, is the quiet, beating heart of it all.