The weather turned on us without asking.
Clouds rolled in low and fast, not dramatic, not stormy—just heavy enough to dull the light and smear the horizon. The wind followed soon after, slipping through the valley like it was testing doors, rattling leaves, brushing past skin.
Porlyusica frowned at the sky.
"We move," she said. No explanation.
I adjusted my pack. "Running or fast walking?"
She glanced at me. "Don't get clever."
Fast walking, then.
The path we'd taken days ago didn't feel the same anymore. Roots were slick, stones darker with moisture. Somewhere in the distance, something moved—too heavy to be wind, too slow to be prey.
I heard it before I saw it.
A low scrape. Stone against scale.
I slowed instinctively.
Porlyusica's hand lifted, sharp and still. Stop.
Between two ridges, something large shifted its weight. Not aggressive. Not hunting. Just… present. A horned back slid past a rock face, followed by a thick tail dragging through moss.
I swallowed. "…We going around?"
"Yes," she said quietly. "Wide."
We moved sideways, careful, every step deliberate.
That was when the ground gave way.
Not a full collapse—just enough. My foot sank. Balance tipped.
The hum under my skin surged.
I corrected.
Too hard.
My body snapped upright, faster than my footing could handle. I stayed standing—but pain flared up my leg like heat poured under the skin. I bit down hard, refusing to make a sound.
Porlyusica saw it anyway.
She grabbed my collar and yanked me back behind the ridge in one clean motion. The creature shifted again, then moved on, uninterested.
Only then did she let go.
I stayed upright for about three seconds.
Then my leg gave out.
I dropped to one knee, breath sharp, fingers digging into dirt.
"…Okay," I muttered. "That one's on me."
Porlyusica knelt in front of me immediately. Not panicked. Focused. She pressed two fingers along my thigh, then my knee, then the calf.
Her jaw tightened.
"You overrode the reflex," she said. "Again."
"I didn't fall," I said weakly.
"You paid," she shot back.
She shifted my leg gently. Pain flared—not blinding, but deep. The kind that promised worse later.
"You didn't tear anything," she said after a moment. "But you're forcing reinforcement where it doesn't belong."
I looked away. "It worked."
She grabbed my chin and turned my face back toward her.
Hard.
"That was luck," she said. "And luck runs out first."
I didn't joke this time.
She sat back on her heels, eyes sharp, searching my posture, my breathing, the way I held myself.
"You feel it before you move," she said slowly. "That hum. You let it decide."
I nodded once.
"That's not control," she continued. "That's your body bracing before it knows what it's bracing for."
"…Is that bad?" I asked.
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she stood, turned, and paced a short distance away. Arms crossed. Thinking.
I waited. Leg throbbing. Rain starting to mist.
Finally, she spoke—without looking at me.
"You're not breaking," she said. "That's the problem. You're adapting."
My stomach dropped. Not fear—understanding.
"And adaptation without guidance," she continued, "creates habits. Some of them kill you later."
That landed heavier than the pain.
She turned back. "From now on, you don't trigger that response unless I tell you to."
I raised a hand. "What if something tries to eat me?"
She stared.
"…Unless it's actively trying to eat you," I amended.
She huffed. "Good."
We made camp early.
Rain came properly after that—steady, soaking, the kind that seeps into everything no matter how well you plan. I sat under a makeshift cover, leg wrapped, chewing dried bread and trying not to flex.
Porlyusica watched me from across the fire.
Not judging. Measuring.
"You write everything down," she said suddenly.
I blinked. "You noticed?"
"You pause every night like you're sorting a battlefield."
"…That's one way to put it."
She nodded. "Good habit. Keep it. Bodies forget. Paper doesn't."
I pulled the notebook out anyway, scribbling through the ache.
Nearly triggered again. It worked. Cost more than yesterday. Porlyusica says adapting without guidance is dangerous.
I hesitated, then added:
Need to learn when not to move.
Across the fire, Porlyusica watched the rain.
"You don't run at monsters," she said quietly. "That's good. But you don't respect the ground yet."
I glanced up. "The ground?"
"It's what kills most people," she replied. "Not claws. Not teeth. Mistakes."
That night, something howled far off.
Not close. Not hunting.
A reminder.
I lay awake longer than usual, leg aching, listening to the rain drum against leaves and stone. The hum under my skin stayed quiet tonight—almost sulking.
Good.
If this was the price of learning where the edge was, I'd pay it.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Because whatever waited ahead—valleys, monsters, storms, or worse—I was starting to understand something important:
Surviving wasn't about reacting faster.
It was about knowing when not to react at all.