The path split just after noon.
Not a dramatic fork. No signs. Just two ways forward—one narrow and fast, the other longer, winding around a low ridge.
I stopped.
Porlyusica didn't.
She took three steps, noticed I wasn't behind her, and glanced back.
"Well?" she asked.
I crouched, brushing my fingers over the dirt. The ground on the left path was packed tight, almost too clean. No loose leaves. No fresh prints.
"…This one's used," I said. "Recently."
"And?"
"…That usually means people," I added. "Or things that don't want to be seen."
She waited.
"The other one's slower," I finished. "But quieter."
She turned fully now, studying me.
"…You're learning to dislike convenience," she said.
"I've been burned by it before."
"That's experience."
She stepped back to the fork and nodded toward the longer path.
"Lead."
I blinked. "…Me?"
"You saw it," she said. "So you choose."
I stood, adjusted my pack, and started forward. The longer path curved gently, climbing instead of cutting through. My legs complained immediately.
"…Just so we're clear," I said, "if something eats us, this was a joint decision."
She smirked. "No. This was yours."
"…Fantastic."
⸻
When Tired Is the Point
The climb wasn't steep—but it didn't stop.
My breath grew heavier. Sweat stuck my shirt to my back. That familiar vibration settled deeper now, not pushing, not pulling—just keeping everything from falling out of sync.
I focused on rhythm. Step. Shift. Breathe.
Porlyusica matched my pace without effort.
Of course she did.
Halfway up, my foot slipped on gravel.
I caught myself before falling—but my knee twisted slightly.
I hissed through my teeth.
She stopped instantly.
"Speak," she said.
"Nothing broken," I replied. "Just… annoyed."
She watched my stance. My weight distribution. My breathing.
"Adjust," she said.
I did. Slower steps. Shorter stride.
The discomfort faded from sharp to dull.
"…That worked," I admitted.
"Yes," she said. "Because you didn't pretend it didn't hurt."
"…I'm sensing a theme."
"You should."
⸻
Quiet Doesn't Mean Safe
We reached the ridge as the light shifted, shadows stretching longer. From up here, the forest opened briefly—rolling green, broken by stone and water far below.
I stopped without thinking.
"…Wow."
Porlyusica stood beside me, silent.
For a moment, there was no training. No danger. Just the wind moving through leaves like the world was breathing.
Then a distant screech cut through the air.
Sharp. Wrong.
My body reacted before my head did.
I stepped back from the edge.
Porlyusica's hand lifted—not warning, not command.
Approval.
"Flying predator," she said calmly. "Far enough."
"…I don't like how often that sentence happens."
"You're alive enough to complain."
⸻
Notes Worth Keeping
That night, camp was quiet.
No close calls. No sudden movement.
Just fatigue.
I wrote anyway.
Day 15.
Chose the longer path. Didn't regret it.
Tired legs think slower—must think for them.
Pain isn't failure. Ignoring it is.
Books help. Instinct helps. Neither works alone.
I closed the notebook and tucked it away.
"…Porlyusica?"
"Yes."
"…Thanks. For letting me choose."
She didn't answer right away.
Then: "You chose correctly."
That was all.
I lay back, muscles aching in a way that felt earned.
Tomorrow would be harder.
Which meant today mattered.
And for the first time, I wasn't just following.
I was deciding.