Alex stood.
The decision happened quietly, without ceremony. No vow. No final look meant to mean something later. He rose, brushed ash from his knees, and stepped away from the broken foundation.
He told himself it was practical.
If she woke and panicked, that would be worse. If someone else came through the ruins and saw them together, worse still. He had nothing to give her anyway. No food. No water. No answers.
Leaving was cleaner.
He walked toward the far end of the square, where the buildings had collapsed inward instead of outward, creating narrow channels of shadow between stone and timber. The sun hung low enough now to catch the edges of the ruins, light pooling where walls had fallen away, leaving other spaces dim and cold.
Alex moved slowly, scanning the ground as he went.
Something clinked under his foot.
He stopped and crouched, brushing ash aside with his fingers. A metal cup lay half-buried there, dented but intact. He lifted it, turning it once in his hand. The rim was chipped. Old. Still usable.
He tucked it into his pocket.
Further on, near what might once have been a storage shed, he found a broken barrel. Most of its contents had spilled and spoiled, but at the bottom—shielded from the worst of the fire—there was a crusted layer of something thick and dark. Burnt porridge, maybe. Grain boiled too long and left to cool.
Alex scraped at it with a shard of wood until a chunk came loose. It smelled stale. Smoky. But not rotten.
Good enough.
He wrapped it in a scrap of cloth torn from his sleeve and straightened.
That was when he heard it.
Not close.
Not loud.
A sound that didn't belong to the ruins.
Alex froze, breath caught halfway in.
At first, he thought it was just the wind threading through broken beams. But the rhythm was wrong. Too deliberate. Too paced.
Footsteps.
He edged closer to the corner of a collapsed wall and peered around it.
Three figures moved through the far end of the village street, their silhouettes broken by drifting smoke. They weren't guards. No armor. No banners.
Hunters, maybe. Or scavengers.
They walked with the confidence of people who expected to find something worth taking.
Alex's pulse thudded in his ears.
If they reached the square—
He didn't finish the thought.
He turned and went back the way he'd come, faster now, careful but no longer cautious. Ash puffed softly under his boots. His breath came shallow, controlled by habit rather than calm.
When he reached the broken foundation, she was gone.
Panic flared sharp and immediate.
Then he saw her.
She stood a few steps away from where she'd been lying, partially obscured by a fallen beam. Upright, but only just. One hand braced against the stone, fingers splayed as if testing whether it would hold her weight.
Her eyes were open now.
They were a muted gold, dulled by exhaustion rather than brightness. They tracked him as he approached—not startled, not curious. Measuring.
Alex slowed.
"I—" He stopped, then tried again. "I went to look for food."
She didn't answer.
Up close, she looked even more worn. Ash streaked her cheeks. Her lips were cracked, dry. The fabric of her clothes hung loosely, tied and retied until it barely remembered its original shape.
Her horns caught the light faintly, their surface scarred and matte.
Alex held out the wrapped cloth and the cup.
"I don't have much," he said. "But—"
A sound drifted through the air behind him.
Voices.
Low. Unconcerned.
The girl's posture changed instantly.
Not dramatically. No flinch. Just a tightening, like a string drawn a fraction too far. Her hand slid from the stone to her side, fingers curling slightly.
She looked past Alex.
Then she moved.
She reached out and caught his sleeve, her grip light but urgent, nails pressing through fabric. She shook her head once.
No.
Alex followed her gaze.
The figures were closer now. Close enough that he could make out the shapes of what they carried—short blades, hooked tools meant for prying. One laughed softly at something the others didn't bother responding to.
Scavengers.
The word settled unpleasantly in Alex's mind.
If they found the girl—
If they saw her horns—
Alex felt the moment stretch thin.
He could step away. Let the ruins swallow him again. Let the danger pass where it would.
Or—
He looked down at her hand on his sleeve.
It trembled.
He exhaled slowly and made his choice.
"This way," he whispered.
He shifted his body deliberately, placing himself between her and the open street, then angled toward the narrow gap between two collapsed walls. It wasn't a hiding place so much as a wound in the village's remains—tight, jagged, and shadowed.
She hesitated only a second, then followed.
They pressed into the gap just as the scavengers reached the square.
Alex held his breath.
One of the men kicked at a pile of debris, sending ash puffing into the air. Another sniffed, wrinkling his nose.
"Burnt," someone muttered. "Nothing left."
"Check anyway."
Footsteps crunched closer.
Alex's heart hammered hard enough that he was sure it could be heard. The girl stood very still beside him, her shoulder barely brushing his arm. He could feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of his sleeve.
One of the scavengers paused near the gap.
For a moment, Alex was certain they'd been seen.
Then the man spat onto the ground and turned away.
"Waste of time."
The voices faded.
Alex didn't move until the sound of footsteps dissolved into the distance.
When he finally let out his breath, it shook.
The girl looked at him.
Really looked this time.
Her gaze dropped to the cloth in his hand, then back to his face. Something unreadable passed through her expression—suspicion, maybe. Or calculation.
She reached out slowly and took the bundle from him.
Her fingers brushed his.
Warm.
Solid.
Real.
She didn't thank him.
But she didn't leave either.
And as Alex leaned back against the broken stone, the weight of what he'd just chosen settled into him, heavy and unavoidable.
Neutrality, he realized, had burned with the village.
Whatever came next would not let him stand aside.