Grace goes for a run

---Grace---

"With you?" The question emerges before I can analyze its tactical value, a hint of surprise, though because of my question or Jason's breaking through my carefully maintained control.

"More for you," he clarifies, leaning against the wall with a casual ease that contrasts my still rigid posture. "Since, well, you seem rattled, and they say running helps with that?" He shrugs again.

I catalog this suggestion, assessing its merit against my current physiological state. Elevated heart rate. Residual muscle tension. Lingering sensory hypervigilance. Running would optimize metabolic processes and potentially reset combat readiness parameters.

"You have never attempted this technique?" I ask, genuinely curious about his coping mechanisms. "Running to neutralize stress responses?"

Jason's lips twist into a grimace, his scent flareing with sharp notes of frustration, paine, and anger, though all directed at himself. "Not worth it. Would have to get someone to come with me, and it kind of defeats the purpose if you're with someone as opposed to being alone. Also, well. The fuck would want to, and be able to, run with me?" He slumps.

I consider his reasoning, finding unexpected logic in it, and even more unexpected, pleasure that due to my presence, he can now run without said issues. "I have experience with both methodologies," I acknowledge, my hands relaxing slightly at my sides. "Though I would prefer solitary engagement for this particular excursion."

His eyebrows raise slightly, and I realize my preference might appear as rejection. As such, a tactical communication adjustment is required.

"Not because your presence is unwelcome," I clarify, words coming faster than my usual measured pace. "There are... psychological processes that require isolation for optimal functioning. Concerns I must address without external observation potentially affecting assessment parameters." I stop, uncertain how to communicate this unfamiliar concept.

Jason's face softens into a grin that reaches his eyes. "Hold on a bit, I'll be back."

He disappears into Bearee's office, and my enhanced hearing easily detects their conversation—Jason asking Bearee for directions to "Marclen Woods." I approach silently, positioning myself near the doorway without announcing my presence, a habit so ingrained I perform it without conscious decision.

"Thank you," I say when he emerges, causing him to startle slightly. His scent shifts momentarily to surprise before settling back to normal levels. "Both Bearee and Jason."

I turn toward the front entrance, then pause, calculating optimal communication protocols for my return. "I should ring the doorbell upon returning?"

"Yes," Jason confirms, his posture relaxed despite my previous tactical error regarding personal space. "Just ring the doorbell if no one's outside and someone, probably me, will come open it for you." Before. "You still have that key?"

"Yes." I say. "however, I will ring the doorbell regardless." Jason grunts.

"Thank you," I say, then hesitate, an unusual impulse forming that defies tactical analysis. My hand rises and settles briefly on his shoulder, the warmth of his body registering against my palm. "This is long overdue."

His eyes widen slightly at the contact, pupils dilating by approximately 15 percent.

"Oh, wait," Jason says quickly as I turn to leave. "I was wondering if you'd want to come to the survival school tomorrow? It's Friday, so there's no work. Also, maybe look at my knives? I have one large one and one smaller one, though you already saw the larger one."

I pause, processing this request. His scent carries no deception markers, just genuine interest tinged with nervousness.

"And maybe," he continues, words speeding up slightly, "you could help me with that survival training thing we were talking about? If you want to." His shoulders tense briefly before he deliberately relaxes them. "Completely your choice, though. No oath stuff involved. Just asking."

I analyze this proposition, assessing multiple variables simultaneously. Survival school: opportunity to evaluate local training methodologies. Knife inspection: potential for weapons assessment and improvement recommendations. Training initiation: preliminary capability assessment without full commitment.

"Yes," I state, decision made. "I will accompany you to this survival school. Knife evaluation is tactically sound. Preliminary training assessment represents optimal approach to determine compatibility."

Something in my chest tightens—not pain, but an unfamiliar sensation. "Thank you for specifying this is my decision. The distinction is... Not un-pleasent."

I squeeze his shoulder once more—a gesture I've observed humans use to convey connection—then turn and stride through the door. The cold air hits my face like a familiar blade, sharp and clarifying. My legs, accustomed to traversing far harsher terrain, easily carry me down the driveway.

As I accelerate into a steady rhythm, the Toronto winter surrounds me, its chill penetrating my borrowed clothing. Unlike the killing cold of my homeland, this temperature threatens discomfort rather than death. My muscles warm quickly, loosening with each precise stride.

My thoughts arrange themselves with the metronomic precision of my footfalls. The basement. The wolf-spiders. Jason's concern. Bearee's protectiveness. The oath. The weight of obligations freely chosen versus those imposed.

The frozen air fills my lungs with each measured breath, familiar yet different. Home had winds that would flay skin from bone, ice that could freeze blood in veins, predators that viewed humans as merely another form of meat. Here, the cold is tempered, contained, almost gentle.

And unlike home, I realize as my pace increases, here there are people who will wait for my return. Not out of obligation or tactical necessity, but from something I cannot yet categorize. The thought propels me faster toward the trail, my body functioning at optimal parameters as the houses give way to trees, the pavement to earth, and my mind to the clarity of movement.

---Paladin---

I stand in the center of Durge's temple of judgment, Lucerna, currently in her cane form casting pale light across stone carved with the weight of consequence. The trial room holds the familiar echo of countless verdicts rendered, its pillars rising into shadow above us like witnesses to every judgment delivered within these walls. The stone itself seems to breathe with accumulated justice, cold and impartial as the mathematics that drive my brother to maintain this place.

The brotherhood has gathered at Durge's own request. Each of us carries the same fundamental core—protectiveness, determination, the willingness to shoulder impossible burdens—but circumstance and choice have shaped us into men of different purpose. We are all Jason Stone, yes, but we are none of us quite the same man.

Jar hovers three feet above the floor, his massive frame held in perfect suspension by systems that hum with barely audible noise. His armor gleams dull bronze in the temple's light, each plate a marvel of engineering designed to turn aside attacks that would shatter mountains. The man inside that shell stands nearly three meeters, even without his mechanical enhancements, muscle and bone rebuilt to accommodate strength beyond human limits. His head moves in minute increments, scanning continuously, sences cataloging every heartbeat, every breath, every micro-expression that crosses our faces.

When he speaks, the words emerge in flat monotone, each syllable weighted with tactical assessment. "Small one was harmed. Evidence conclusive. Durge's responsibility acknowledged." His massive hands rest motionless on his knees, but I catch the subtle shimmer of energy fields around his gauntlets—weapons systems held in check but ready to deploy in microseconds. "Recommendation: punishment required. Method: unknown parameters."

The simplicity of his statement cuts through any pretense. Jar sees the world in stark clarity—threats to be resolved, innocents to be protected, problems to be eliminated through blade and fist. That Grace is a child who was damaged places her firmly in his protection protocols, regardless of what she has become since.

Justice stands near the door, and if not for the police hat perched perfectly on his head he could be this realities Jason Stone's identical twin. Same height, same build, same facial features—the resemblance is uncanny enough to be unsettling. The only other tells are his pale complexion and the way shadows seem to bend slightly in his direction, drawn by whatever void exists where his soul isn't.

"Yeah, I'm getting pretty hungry," he says with a shrug: "but draining you guys would be kind of fucked up for our working relationship, and the bro code, bros don't suck out bro's souls and all that." He shrugs again, the gesture still perfectly normal except for how the shadows around him ripple with the movement and the occasional tortured scream. "Got some real pieces of shit to interview later anyway. They're way better for nibbling on—criminals always have so much guilt to work with, and it's not like petoes are people anyway."

Traveler stands to my left, his black leather duster hanging open to reveal the preserved face of someone whose screams were apparently worth binding into the man's garment. The pale leather gleams with inner light, Hebrew script carved directly into the human skin pulsing with protective magics. His blind eyes see more than most sighted men ever will, and right now they're focused on Durge with an intensity that suggests he's reading far more than surface thoughts.

"Brother," he says quietly, and somehow that single word carries the weight of understanding, disappointment, and conditional forgiveness all balanced on its syllables. "The mathematics of consequence here are... complex. The girl may have needed reshaping, but the methods?"

Traveler speaks in equations when he's processing multiple scenarios simultaneously. I can almost see him running probability matrices in his head, factoring in Grace's current trajectory, Jason Stone's influence, potential outcomes across dozens of dimensional variants. His necromantic abilities let him speak with the dead, but his true gift is seeing patterns across realities that escape the rest of us. The fact he has a child not much younger than Grace, well. The man went to war with a reality once when it took his child, and rumers about what his ghoul guardians actualy are are, well.

Azrael leans against the far wall, almost seven feet of demonic muscle wrapped in tribal tattoos that shift and flow across his flesh like living art, he holds his spear Saraphine with casual ease. The weapon itself seems to be following our conversation, its runes flickering with what I swear looks like interest. Which, considering Lucerna, well. Liveing weaponry isn't anything new to our kind.

"Sometimes," he says, his voice carrying the warm rumble of distant thunder, "you have to break something to rebuild it properly. The question isn't whether Durge fucked up—we all know he did. The question is whether what he built from the pieces can be fixed without starting over." He shifts his grip on Saraphine, and I hear what sounds suspiciously like a snort of amusement from the spear itself. "Though I'd like to examine the girl before we decide anything permanent. My experience with traumatic reconstruction might prove relevant to this."

Azrael has spent five centuries as a demon lord, rebuilding himself from someone who let innocents die into someone who would, and has, burned dimensions that harmed a child under his care. If anyone understands the mathematics of breaking and remaking, it's him.

Harald Skulltaker stands in the corner, almost nnine feet of Ororin muscle and controled fury. His beard bristles with accumulated frost, and his blue eyes hold the cold calculation of a man who has measured countless souls and found them wanting. Soulrender, currently slung across his back with her hilt peaking over his left shoulder appears, like Sarapheene, to be watching with interest.

"I can not vote," he says, each word precise as a blade stroke. "I contributed. I will not harm her further. The Deathborn wish justice. They should be here." He pauses, and for a moment his voice carries something that might be regret. "Kate the Initiate stands ready should the brotherhood require... Function."

Harald's admission carries weight beyond its words. For him to acknowledge even partial responsibility means he's calculated his role in Grace's situation and found it meaningful. The mention of Kate makes several of us tense—the Deathborn don't make casual threats, and Kate, in particular, can't just be killed if all else fails.

As if summoned by her name, a small girl steps from Harald's shadow like darkness given form. Barely four and a half feet tall, she looks like any teenage girl until you notice her eyes, obsorbing light rather than reflecting it and so black they look like holes punched into the girl's face. brown hair falls in uneven cuts around features that are becoming sharper, more angular, as her transformation progresses.

"Many among my kind wish Durge dead for what he has done," she says, her voice carrying the flat precision of someone who has shed blood for those who can not. "The violation of a child's mind ranks high among the crimes our kind exist to punish."

Marry's response cuts through the air like drawn steel. "If you try to harm my Durge, I will kill you." The words emerge without heat, just a simple statement of fact delivered by someone who has made similar promises before and followed through.

A boy materializes from Kate's shadow before placing one small hand on her shoulder with gentle authority. He appears to be perhaps ten or eleven, but his hollow black eyes hold calculations that span centuries. When he speaks, his voice carries the mechanical precision of someone who has learned to process multiple complex scenarios simultaneously.

"She wasn't going to kill you're candle in the darkness," he tells Marry with the patience of someone explaining basic mathematics to a child. "The bond is different, yes, but the warmth in the cold? The guiding light? That is the same. She will not kill one who is such to another."

Kate nods once, acknowledging his correction, then steps back into Harald's shadow. The ease with which she moves between darkness and light speaks to training that goes far beyond her apparent age. Then again, she is a deathborn of the first corpse, and that, that is what they specialize in.

Demonic Jason stands apart from the rest of us, his appearance shifting subtly as his mood changes. Sometimes his horns are visible, sometimes they fade into suggestions. His wings fold and unfold in patterns that suggest barely contained energy, and his sharp teeth gleam when he speaks.

"Look," he says, spreading his hands in a gesture that somehow manages to be both reasonable and threatening, "sometimes you have to do fucked up shit to save someone. The real question is whether Grace can be healed before we decide what to do about it." His expression shifts, becoming almost philosophical. "I've done things that would make angels weep and demons applaud, all in service of protecting what I love. But I need to know if she can be fixed before I decide whether Durge needs to have his shoul ripped out or, you know, given a sex demon, or what ever that fucker likes doing for recreation."

Demonic Jason's moral framework operates on scales that encompass entire realities. His willingness to commit atrocities in service of protection makes him uniquely qualified to judge Durge's methods—and uniquely dangerous if he decides those methods were unjustified. The man's also shit at reading a room, with this being hammered home as Marry, snarling, draws souldrinker and hurls herself forward.

Durge moves, shadows rippling before he puts a gentle hand on marry's arm. She stops, head turning to her, as she puts it, 'perfect murderhusband'.

"Demonic Jason." Durge says, voice flat. "Apologize to my Marry."

"Fine, fine." The demon says with a shrug: "don't get you're panties in a noose, I guess."

Marry snarls, actually snarls like an animal before Durge gently pulls her back and away before he flickers, and re-appears at the center of the chamber, Marry now standing at his shoulder, shouldrinker no-where to be seen.

First Hate enters through the chamber's closed main door, his marble features twisted in an expression of perfect hatrid that never changes, never softens, never shifts. Six feet of pure-white marble with praportions that would make David weep, he moves with the measured pace of someone who has learned to control violence that could shatter buildings, and we he stops, he is as still as any of the pillers around us. No breathing. No shifting. No, anything.

"Healer would wish Durge punished," he says, his voice carrying the grinding sound of stone against stone. "Harshly. Though part of that judgment stems from Healer's Mia's existence." He pauses, and something that might be affection flickers across his frozen features. "Mia calls me uncle. She sees man, not monster. Human, in all the ways that matter."

The admission reveals layers I'm still trying to figure out. First Hate was built from concentrated anger, shaped to be the perfect instrument of wrath in service of protecting innocents. That a child sees humanity in him despite his nature speaks to the complexity hidden beneath his marble exterior.

Durge himself remaines in his place at the chamber's center, hands moving in their constant counting rhythm, cataloging evidence and consequence with mathematical precision. Five foot ten of lean muscle wrapped in civilian clothing that does nothing to hide the weapons concealed beneath, he appears deceptively ordinary until you notice his eyes—lifeless blue and twice as cold, holding calculations that would drive lesser minds to madness.

"That would be a solution," he says in answer to the deathborn's wishes, his voice carrying no emotion at all. "The guilty must die. However, the mathematics of justice here are more complex than simple murder might address."

His admission surprises me. Durge rarely acknowledges ambiguity in his judgments, but Grace's situation apparently presents variables that exceed even his analytical capabilities.

The trial itself has become something unprecedented—brother judging brother for a crime that none of us ever thought another would commit, and Durge least of all. Each of us carries the same fundamental nature, but our methods and perspectives have diverged enough that we might as well be different species debating the same core problem.

From the shadows near the chamber's center, Marry watches with predatory stillness, her green eyes tracking every gesture, every micro-expression that crosses our faces. Her single blade rests across her knees, and I can see her calculating distances, angles, possibilities for violence should this proceeding turn against her Durge.

"The question," I say finally, letting Lucerna's light grow brighter, "is not whether what was done to Grace was wrong. We all know it was. The question is what should be done about it.

The chamber falls silent except for the soft counting of fingers against stone, the whisper of mechanical systems regulating Jar's massive frame, the distant hunger in Justice's breathing. We are all Jason Stone, shaped by circumstance into instruments of different purpose, and yet facing the same fundamental question that has haunted us across every reality: How far do we go to protect those we love?

"Vote," I say, and know that whatever we decide here will echo across dimensions, shaping not just Durge's fate but our understanding of where the line exists between protection and violation, between necessary action and unconscionable harm. "Vote to decide what is to be done."

Jar speaks first, his massive frame remaining perfectly still as tactical systems calculate optimal response parameters. "Vote: punishment required. Methodology: Grace's Jason to determine." His bronze armor gleams as he shifts position fractionally. "Small one classification maintained. Durge's action compromised protective directive. However, current trajectory shows stabilization. Jason Stone variant provides recovery vector."

The logic is sound, I realize. Jar sees Jason Stone as Grace's guardian now, the one best positioned to determine what justice should look like. It's characteristic of his tactical approach—identify the optimal operational commander and support their mission parameters.

Justice's appearance shifts. The police hat still sits perfectly aligned on his head, badge catching the temple's dim light, but now his features are distinctly paleor and the shadows bend toward him more directly. alongside his eyes turning a deep arterial red.

"More information." he grunts before. "Fuck it, going to eat." Before he vanishes with a soft pop of displaced air, hunger apparently overriding his patience for extended deliberation. In his place, First Love materializes—soft features, warm brown eyes, everything about her radiating the gentle strength that comes from choosing compassion over expedience. First Hate, her counterpart and husband nods to her, she nodding back with a smile. I, if I didn't know better, would say the marble man blushed, but.

"I agree with finding out more," she says quietly, her voice carrying undertones of healing rather than First Hate's stone on stone. "But I also want to see if Grace can be helped before we decide anything else. She deserves that much, at least."

Traveler runs calculations in his head, probability matrices shifting behind his blind eyes. "The variables suggest multiple potential outcomes," he says finally. "Grace's integration with Jason Stone's reality shows promise. The damage done was extensive, but not necessarily irreversible. I vote for observation and assessment before final judgment."

Harald shakes his head slowly, frost falling from his beard. "I cannot vote. I will not vote. My judgment is compromised by my own actions." His massive hands clench and unclench, Soulrender on his back seeming to vibrate with restrained energy. "But Kate speaks for the Deathborn in this matter. I will back her in this, as will my kin."

Kate steps forward again, her features impassive. "We do not seek immediate vengeance. Understanding serves justice better than blind retribution. But know this—if the child cannot be healed, if what was done proves irreversible, the Deathborn will remember."

Azrael hefts Saraphine thoughtfully, the spear's runes flickering with what looks like approval. "I've rebuilt myself from worse ruins than what Grace started with. Sometimes breaking is the first step toward becoming something stronger. I vote for giving her—and Jason Stone—time to see what they can build together."

Demonic Jason's wings rustle as he considers the question. "I don't know yet whether what Durge did was necessary or just fucked up. I need more data before I decide if he should be thanked or punished. So yeah, observation first, judgment later."

First Hate's marble features shift minutely, the closest thing to expression his stone face allows apart from what ever the fuck that blush thing was from earlier. "Healer would want Grace protected above all else. If this Jason Stone can provide that protection, can heal what was broken, then let him do so. I vote for conditional judgment based on outcomes."

The votes are largely settled when heavy footsteps echo in the chamber's entrance. I turn to see a massive figure approaching through the shadows—someone who moves with the controlled precision of a weapon given human form.

Étienne Tremblay enters the trial chamber like death itself wearing human skin. Seven feet tall with a frame as broad as a doorway, he represents everything terrifying about what a human being can become when survival strips away everything soft. His massive physique is a testament to decades of brutal training, every muscle group honed into a functional weapon. The meticulously maintained mustache frames a face carved from winter stone—flinty gray eyes that reflect nothing but cold, absolute calculation.

Twin fleshing hatchets rest at his hips, and when he moves, darkness seems to fold around him like a living thing. The shadow magic that makes him more than human also makes him something that exists in the spaces between life and death. His French Canadian accent cuts through the chamber's silence like his hatchets through flesh.

"Brothers," he says, each word weighted with the authority of someone who has never needed to repeat himself. "I apologize for interrupting, but circumstances require it."

Behind him, the shadows bulge outward before a small figure emerges from the darkness. She can't be more than seven years old, this universe's Mia Stone, with dark hair falling in uneven waves around features that carry the hollow look of recent trauma. Her clothes are too large, clearly borrowed, and she clutches something small against her chest—a short axe that seems far too serious for a child her age.

"This reality's Mia Stone," Étienne announces without preamble, his voice carrying that distinctive accent that somehow makes every word sound like a threat. "Retrieved from traffickers twenty minutes after Hunter secured Healer's version. The girl has expressed interest in becoming a deathblade."

The statement hits the chamber like a physical blow. Several of us straighten, and I hear Marry's soft intake of breath from her position near the wall. A seven-year-old wanting to become a deathblade represents complications none of us anticipated.

"The transformation is... significant," Étienne continues, his massive frame somehow making the chamber feel smaller just by his presence. "Enhanced physical capabilities, extended lifespan, emotional modifications that increase tactical efficiency while reducing psychological vulnerability. It cannot be reversed once begun, however."

Mia herself remains silent, but her eyes—too old for her face, already carrying the weight of experiences no child should endure—move between us with calculating assessment. She's studying the brotherhood, cataloging strengths and weaknesses with instincts that speak to survival training learned through necessity.

"The question," Étienne says, his eyes like frozen lakes reflecting nothing, "is whether the brotherhood has opinions regarding her choice. The deathblade path offers strength, yes, but at considerable cost. Perhaps, for a child, too much."

Durge speaks before any of us can respond. "Am I permitted to offer an opinion, or does my current trial status preclude my involvement in this?"

I consider briefly. "Different matter entirely. Your input is acceptable, Durge."

Durge nods once, then addresses Mia directly rather than speaking through Etienne. "Deathblade transformation is irreversible. It will change how you experience emotion, how you relate to others, how you see the world itself. Before choosing such a path, you should speak with others who have walked similar roads. Understand the full weight of what you're considering, Mia."

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

It's the most human I've seen Durge in months—actual concern for a child's welfare overriding his usual mathematical detachment. The fact that he's addressing her as an autonomous individual rather than discussing her situation around her speaks to unexpected respect for her agency.

Jar's tactical systems whir as he processes this new variable. "Brotherhood resources available for alternative placement. However, child's preference carries weight. Forced protection often fails."

Traveler's blind eyes focus on Mia with intensity that suggests he's reading far more than surface details. "There are other paths to strength," he says gently. "Azrael's officer VHara has been expanding her druid networks. Your abilities, combined with proper training, could develop into something remarkable without requiring you to give up, humanity."

Azrael shifts Saraphine to his other hand, the spear's runes pulsing with what looks like agreement. "Trees don't try to kill you for existing," he points out. "Well, usually. And druids get to help things grow instead of just being really good at killing them."

"My Sergeant could take her," Traveler adds. "Mia Stone from my reality serves as bodyguard to my Bearee, not that she needs a bodyguard, but there more friends now anyway, as well as Mia being nominal commander of my bloodknight companies. She'd understand the complexities involved, might provide perspective this Mia needs."

Harald rumbles deep in his chest, a sound like distant thunder. "Hilda would welcome another child. The girl would learn strength without sacrificing her humanity." He pauses, considering. "Though she would also learn to break armies with her bare hands, should circumstances require it. The Dragon Slayer would also taken an interest, as, I suspect, would Hunter."

First Love materializes closer to Mia, radiating warmth and safety in equal measure. "There's no shame in choosing gentleness over violence," she says softly. "Strength comes in many forms, little one. You've already survived what would break many adults. You don't need to become a weapon to prove your worth."

Demonic Jason crouches down to Mia's eye level, his features softening into something less intimidating. "Whatever you choose, kid, make sure it's what *you* want, not what you think you need to survive. The world's got enough broken weapons in it already, and trust me, I know what I'm talking about. Made enough of them."

Kate steps forward from Harald's shadow, her own transformation evident. "The First Corpse offers purpose," she says, speaking directly to Mia. "But it also takes things from you that you can never get back. Make certain you understand the price before you agree to pay it, girl. You are not yet hollow. Not yet unsalvageable. Not yet be-reffed of humanity."

Kavuks appears beside Kate with that disconcerting precision that marks all his movements. "Time exists for consideration," he says, his hollow eyes fixed on Mia with what might be compassion. "Choices made in haste often carry consequences that extend beyond immediate circumstances. Better to choose with full understanding than to regret because you didn't consider everything, Mia."

I move forward, Lucerna shifting into her gratesword form as we come to a stop before the girl. "Paine can be used to assist others." Lucerna speaks, voice comeing from the blade. "you have gone through something none should. Others should not. Consider that." I return to my place.

Mia listens to each of us in turn, her small hands tightening around her axe. When she finally speaks, her voice carries the careful cadence of someone who has learned that words have weight and consequences.

"I want to be strong enough that no one can hurt me again," she says simply. "Or hurt anyone else while I'm watching."

The honesty in her statement cuts deeper than any blade. Here stands a seven-year-old who has been forced to confront the reality of human cruelty, who has made the decision that strength is preferable to vulnerability. The fact that she frames her desire in terms of protecting others as well as herself, even with Lucerna's words speaks to a moral compass that hasn't been destroyed by trauma.

"Strength comes in many forms," I tell her, letting Lucerna's light warm rather than illuminate. "The question is what kind of strength you want to build, and what you're willing to sacrifice to achieve it."

Étienne nods approvingly, the gesture somehow managing to be both respectful and threatening. "The choice will remain available. Training in other disciplines might provide perspective that informs the decision when she's ready to make it with full understanding."

The chamber falls quiet as we process this development. Two children damaged by adult cruelty—Grace being slowly rebuilt through Jason Stone's patient presence, and Mia standing at a crossroads that will determine what kind of person she becomes.

"For now," I decide, "the girl should have choices. Let her speak with those who've walked different paths to strength. When she's ready to choose, she'll do so with full knowledge of what each option offers."

The brotherhood nods in general agreement. Whatever our differences in methodology, we're united in believing that children deserve better than the violence that shaped them—and that includes the right to choose their own path to healing and strength.

"The trial reconvenes when we have more information about Grace's progress," I announce. "Durge, you remain under conditional judgment pending outcomes. Étienne, ensure the girl has access to those who can show her different forms of strength."

"The girl will have time to consider," he says, his voice carrying that accent that cuts through the air like a blade. "But understand—if she chooses the Deathblade path, there can be no hesitation. No second chances. Only strength or death."

Mia looks up at him without flinching, her too-old eyes meeting his calculating gaze. "I understand," she says simply.

Something passes between them—recognition, perhaps, or acknowledgment of shared understanding about what survival costs. Étienne nods once, a gesture that somehow conveys both respect and warning.

As the brotherhood begins to disperse, I catch sight of Mia watching us with those too-old eyes. Whatever she chooses, I realize, she'll do so having seen what different versions of strength look like. That's more than many children get—the luxury of choice in how they heal from wounds they never should have received.

The mathematics of justice, it seems, sometimes require patience rather than immediate resolution. And perhaps that's the most human thing any of us can offer—the gift of time to choose wisely rather than react in haste.

---Jason---

I sprawl across my bed, one hand resting on my uncomfortably distended stomach. The ceiling above me seems to pulse gently with every heartbeat, a visual reminder of just how much pizza I've managed to cram down my throat, despite Grace eating the stuff like she'll never get any more.

"Ugh," I groan to the empty room while noteing, by smell drifting up from my sheets, I need to strip my bed tomorrow. "Why do I keep doing this to myself?"

It's a rhetorical question with an obvious answer: because pizza is delicious, and I have absolutely no self-control when it comes to food. Especially not after twenty-eight years of never being able to see what I was eating. The visual appeal of food is still novelty enough that I keep overindulging, as if my eyes are trying to make up for lost time by feasting alongside my stomach.

Through the wall, I can hear the low murmur of voices from the living room – my parents, no doubt discussing Grace in hushed, concerned tones. I should probably be out there, defending her, explaining... what, exactly? The truth is so far beyond anything they'd believe that our hastily constructed Romanian backstory, flimsy as it was, is probably more plausible than reality.

My bedroom door creaks open, and I lift my head just enough to see my mother's silhouette in the doorway.

"Can I come in?" she asks softly.

"Sure," I reply, making a half-hearted attempt to sit up before flopping back onto my bed with the squeek of springs and a huff of air. "Just lying here regretting my life choices. Specifically, the choice to eat half a pizza by myself."

Mom crosses the room and perches carefully on the edge of my bed. Her weight causes the mattress to dip slightly, and I have to brace myself to avoid rolling toward her. Her eyes are crincled slightly in worry, and she's tapping her hands against her thighs, which is a clear sign she's agetated.

"Jason," she begins, her fingers absently smoothing a wrinkle in my comforter, "I had an interesting conversation with Grace earlier."

My stomach does a little flip that has nothing to do with excessive pizza consumption. "Oh?" I try to keep my voice neutral, but mom's trained ear probably picks up every nuance of tension behind the single syllable.

"She offered to leave," Mom says, watching my face carefully. "Did you know that? She said if I wasn't comfortable with her staying here, she'd go live by the creek."

I wince, imagining Grace in her fur and leather outfit, crafting a shelter from fallen branches beside the water. The worst part is, I know she'd do it without hesitation. She'd probably have a fully functional camp set up within hours, complete with traps for local wildlife and some kind of primitive alarm system.

"That sounds like Grace," I sigh, finally managing to pull myself upright. "She's very... practical."

"Practical," Mom repeats, as if testing the inadequacy of the word. "Jason, that woman was completely serious about living in a ravine in Toronto in February. That's not practical – that's either desperation or delusion."

I shake my head, knowing I need to tread carefully here. "It's neither, Mom. It's just... where she comes from, that kind of self-sufficiency is normal. Trust me, if you'd asked her to leave, she absolutely would have gone straight to that creek and set up camp. And she would have been fine."

Mom's eyes narrow slightly, her professional assessment mode fully engaged now. "And where exactly does she come from that living in a creek bed in sub-zero temperatures is considered 'normal'?"

I rub my temples, feeling a headache building behind my eyes. "It's complicated, Mom."

"So uncomplicate it for me," she says, her tone gentle but firm. The same tone she's used my entire life when she knows I'm keeping something from her.

"I can't," I admit. "Not fully. Not yet. Just... please trust me when I say Grace isn't taking advantage of me. If anything, it's the other way around, and I have no idea how, well. I have no idea what to think about that."

Mom's eyebrows rise at this. "How so?"

"She's teaching me things. Important things." My hand drifts unconsciously toward my eyes, stopping just short of touching them. "And she's not asking for anything in return. She made breakfast this morning because she felt she owed me for letting her use the hot tub. Who does that?"

"Someone with an unusual understanding of reciprocity," Mom observes, professional detachment momentarily overriding maternal concern. "That sort of rigid exchange-based interaction often develops in environments where resources are scarce and trust is limited."

I can't help but laugh. "You're analyzing her."

"I can't help it," Mom admits with a small smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "It's what I do. And Grace is... fascinating from a clinical perspective. But I'm not just speaking as a psychologist right now, Jason. I'm speaking as your mother. I'm worried."

I reach out and take her hand, smaller fingers warm in mine before squeezing gently. "I know you are. But I promise, Grace isn't dangerous. At least, not to us." The qualification slips out before I can stop it.

Mom's gaze sharpens immediately. "But she is dangerous to others?"

"Only if they tried to hurt us," I say quickly, realizing I've already said too much. "Look, she's protective, okay? That's not a bad thing."

"Protective how, exactly?" Mom presses, her clinical detachment slipping further, hand now squeezing mine.

I sigh, knowing I've backed myself into a corner. "She's... skilled. At defending herself and others. Where she comes from, those skills are necessary for survival."

Mom's silence speaks volumes. She's piecing things together, drawing conclusions based on the fragments I've given her and her own observations. It's what she's been doing since before I was born, what she does for a liveing.

"Jason," she finally says, her voice very quiet, "I'm going to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me. Is Grace running from someone? Someone dangerous?"

The question catches me off guard. Of all the theories she might have developed, that wasn't one I'd anticipated. But it's as good an explanation as any for Grace's hypervigilance, her combat readiness, her odd social behaviors if you know, don't know she's actually from another reality and has interdimentional ranger lifeforce magic.

"No," I answer truthfully before pulling mom into a one-armed hug. "She's not running from anyone. She's just... lost. In a way. She ended up here by accident, and now she's trying to figure out how to navigate a world that operates by completely different rules than the one she's used to."

Mom studies my face as I let go, reading between the lines with that uncanny perception that's always made lying to her nearly impossible.

"She's important to you," she says, not a question but a statement.

"Yes," I sigh. "She is."

"Why?" The directness of the question reminds me of Grace.

I consider. It's not that hard, not really. Not when I think about it. "Because she just sees, me," I finally say. "Really sees me. Not as 'poor blind Jason' or 'Jason who needs help' or any of the other labels people have been putting on me my entire life. She just sees... me. The man. Jason Stone, who's helping her for reasons she doesn't quite understand, but he's helping her anyway. Someone worthy of listening to. Someone who's just, normal. Strange, but normal."

Mom's expression softens, maternal love temporarily overwhelming professional concern. "Oh, sweetheart." Now it's her turn to pull me into a hug, though with both arms and tighter now, reminding me, for just a moment, of when I was small.

"And I see her too," I continue, the words flowing more easily now. "Beyond the weird behaviors and the blunt statements and the... everything else. There's something about her that's just... real. Authentic in a way most people aren't."

"You have feelings for her," Mom says, another statement rather than a question.

Heat creeps up my neck. "It's not like that. It's more... we understand each other. In ways that don't make sense but somehow do."

Mom pulls back, before going quiet for a long moment, her fingers still absently smoothing the comforter. "I won't ask her to leave," she finally says. "But I want you to be careful, Jason. There's clearly more going on with Grace than you're telling me, and that worries me. A lot."

"I know," I say with a nod. "And I promise I'll tell you more when I can. Just... give her a chance, okay? She's trying. She's just not great at the whole normal human interaction thing."

Mom's laugh is soft. "Yes, I noticed that." She stands, smoothing her slacks with practiced motions. "Get some rest. Food comas need time. I'd know."

She bends to press a kiss to my forehead—a gesture that always makes me feel like a child again in a good way, regardless of my age. As she reaches the door, she pauses.

"Jason? One more thing."

"Hmm?" I'm already sinking back into my pillow, the pizza-induced lethargy reclaiming me as I crawl into my nice warm blankets.

"I love you. No matter what you're not telling me."

"Love you too, Mom," I murmur, my eyes growing heavy as she softly closes the door behind her.

Sleep claims me almost immediately, pulling me down into dreams more vivid than any I've experienced before.

I find myself standing in an enormous mead hall, the likes of which I've only seen in movies or read about in fantasy novels. Massive wooden beams arch overhead, dark with age and smoke, their curves reminiscent of a ship's hull turned upside down. Flickering torches line the walls, casting dancing shadows across intricately carved pillars that depict scenes of battle and hunting. The air is thick with the scent of woodsmoke, roasted meat, and the honeyed sweetness of fermented mead.

Down the center of the hall runs a table so long I can barely see its end, hewn from a single enormous tree trunk, polished to a gleam by countless hands and years. Pewter tankards and platters scattered across its surface catch the firelight, glinting like stars. Surrounding the table are benches packed with men—burly, bearded warriors with braided hair and arms thick as tree trunks.

They're singing.

The song pulses through the hall, a rhythmic chant that seems to vibrate in my bones rather than just my ears. Deep voices rise and fall in perfect synchronicity, punctuated by fists pounding on the table. I can feel the percussion in my chest, but the words themselves slide through my fingers when I try to focus on them. The language is nothing I recognize—harsher than French or Spanish, more melodic than German, with vowels that stretch and consonants that bite.

I stand at the edge of the gathering, simultaneously present and invisible. No one seems to notice me as they sing, their faces flushed with drink and passion for whatever tale they're recounting. Their expressions shift in unison—from solemnity to fierce pride, from sorrow to a wild, almost savage joy.

Suddenly, a massive presence looms beside me. I turn to find myself looking up, and up, and up at a giant of a man—easily eight and a half feet tall with shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway. His red beard cascades down his chest, interwoven with small metal trinkets that clink softly when he moves. I recognize him somehow, though I can't place from where.

"You hear but do not understand, little brother," the giant says, his voice so deep I feel it rumble through the floorboards. "That is why I have called you."

He places an enormous warm hand on my shoulder, and the weight of it nearly drives me to my knees. The moment his skin makes contact with mine, the song changes.

The words remain unintelligible, but now I *see* what they sing.

The air before me shimmers and parts like a curtain, revealing visions that move in time with the rhythm of the song. First, I see Earth—our modern world in all its frantic activity. Cities sprawl across continents, airplanes streak through skies, people hunch over phones and computers. The relentless pace of contemporary life unfolds before me, billions of humans rushing towards something only they can see.

Then comes a blinding white flash—so intense I try to shield my eyes, but this isn't physical light. It rips through the vision like reality itself is tearing. In its wake, darkness spreads across the world like spilled ink.

The singing grows more urgent, the tempo quickening.

Now, strange creatures emerge from shadows—some resembling wolves but with too many limbs, others like massive insects with gleaming carapaces. Humanoid figures with twisted features and impossible anatomy stalk through familiar streets. Beings that seem partially mechanical, with glowing circuitry embedded in flesh, hunt in packs through abandoned buildings. None are larger than humans, but their numbers are overwhelming—an endless tide of nightmares made flesh.

Humanity fights back. Regular people armed with whatever they can find—baseball bats, kitchen knives, hunting rifles—stand against the onslaught. Some discover new abilities awakening within themselves—strength beyond normal limits, reflexes that defy physics, talents that seem almost magical.

Alliances form and shatter. Battles rage across familiar landmarks now reduced to rubble. Blood stains the vision red as the singing reaches a fevered pitch. I watch as a crucial moment arrives—figures meeting in what once was a great city. A choice is presented. A decision made. The wrong one.

The world burns. Populations are consumed, or worse.

The last immage before the vision collapses as the song ends on a discordant note that feels like a physical blow is a group of men standing on a hill, a forest to their backs, the land slowly dying around them.

The giant's hand tightens on my shoulder, and he leans down until his face is level with mine. His eyes reflect the firelight like twin suns, blue as my own, but also not.

"UNDERSTAND!" he bellows, his breath hot against my face. "YOU MUST UNDERSTAND!"

I jolt awake, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape. For a moment, disorientation grips me—the mead hall felt so real, the visions so vivid. Even now, echoes of that strange song ring in my ears.

A voice from down the hall cuts through my confusion.

"Jason!" Mom calls up. "Why is Grace on the internet?"

I blink, trying to process the question through the fog of my fading dream. Grace? Internet? The two concepts seem completely disconnected, like trying to use a fish as a bicycle.

"What?" I croak, my voice rough from sleep.

"Your friend Grace," Mom repeats, louder. "She's trending on Twitter. Can you come down here, please?"

I stumble out of bed, still half-trapped in the dream's imagery. Monsters emerging from shadows. People discovering strange powers. The giant's command to understand. It all swirls in my mind as I pull on a shirt and shorts, trying to make sense of both the dream and my mother's bizarre question.

What could Grace possibly have done to end up on the internet? Do I really want to know?

---Grace---

The fire crackles before me, smelling of the pine kindling I lit it with while sending small embers dancing into the winter air. I sit on a fallen log I dragged here while exploring the trail Bearee had described. The familiarity of open flames against the night soothes something restless within me, a fragment of home in this strange land of glass and steel and men who refuse to use the power they possess.

I pull the squirrel from its makeshift spit, already skinned and gutted as I normally do, though this one does not appear to have the teeth I would fassion into trap components. The warm, rich taste of the meat fills my mouth as I bite into it, and for a moment, I'm transported back to my homeland. My shoulders relax fractionally—this simple act of hunting, preparing, and consuming prey grounds me when everything else feels unstable.

This is what my elder kin would call a touchstone—a reminder of who I am amidst all this unfamiliarity. The rushing creek nearby, though half-frozen, speaks in a language I understand. Water is the patient element; unlike the steady earth or flaring fire, water carves its path over time, relentless and inevitable. Much like adaptation, I suppose.

My thoughts drift to Jason and our conversation in the basement. His reaction when I used the word "burden" continues to puzzle me. His shoulders had hunched inward, his spine curved slightly—a protective posture triggered by that specific word rather than my explanation of mercy-killing. In my world, acknowledging one's potential to become a burden is simply practical recognition of reality so you can insure you do not continue down that path. Here, it seems to carry emotional weight I do not understand.

More puzzling still is why I care about his reaction at all. His discomfort should be irrelevant to me. Yes, he is, for better or worse my guide in this world, but guides guide weather or not those they guide care about them. Yet I find myself reviewing our interactions, analyzing the minute shifts in his expression when certain topics arise, cataloging which subjects cause his scent to change to distress.

The flavor of the squirrel meat reminds me of the pizza from earlier tonight. With Jason's parents returning from their trip, we'd gathered around the kitchen counter, the air heavy with tension and unspoken questions. The pizza had arrived in flat cardboard boxes—an efficient delivery method I hadn't encountered before. I remember Jason's father, Magnen, pushing the box closer to me, encouraging me to take more without words. "Another slice?" he'd asked, his eyes assessing me with careful precision as he should considering my presence around his, as far as he was aware, disabled and so vulnerable son.

The explosion of tastes—savory, tangy, rich with herbs and spiced saultid meet unfamiliar to me—had been unlike anything in my experience. I had consumed it with the methodical efficiency I bring to all survival tasks, yet something about the flavor had triggered an unfamiliar response. Pleasure, perhaps. Not the simple satisfaction of satiated hunger, but something more complex.

I'd noticed Jason's father watching my reaction, his engineer's eyes cataloging my movements with professional curiosity. And Jason, despite his pretense of blindness, had seemed aware of my enjoyment, his lips curling into a faint smile as if he were spasifically watching for my response.

There had been no strategic advantage for his family in providing this food, no tactical necessity—merely a desire to share something they believed I would enjoy. Even Bearee, with all her suspicion and protective wariness, had offered food without condition or demand for repayment.

They had given without expectation of return, a concept so foreign to my existence it creates a strange pressure in my chest when I contemplate it. In my world, resources are never shared without clear reciprocal benefit or established clan obligation. Yet Jason's entire family seems to operate under different principles entirely—giving food, shelter, clothing with no demand for immediate compensation.

The memory of the basement stairs surfaces unexpectedly. My foot had slipped on the unfamiliar surface, I still getting used to the socks that Jason had suggested I wear to sheidl my feet against chafing. Though I could have dealt with said useing Vigger, once again, blending in with this world's people is, for now, the best stratagy. I'd begun to fall backward. Most people, recognizing my physical capabilities, would have let me fall. The impact would not have injured me significantly. Yet Jason had moved without hesitation, placing himself behind me, risking his own balance to prevent a fall that presented no real danger to me.

More significantly, he had touched me without permission—something I had explicitly warned against. He knew the potential consequences. He knew I might lash out instinctively. He knew a fall would not harm me. Yet he had moved to catch me anyway, his reaction immediate and unplanned, as if stabilizing me was as natural as breathing.

Would he have done the same for anyone? The question troubles me more than it should. His actions suggest he would risk himself for others without calculation, without weighing their value or strategic importance. Such behavior defies all survival logic I understand.

Yet I cannot dismiss it as mere weakness or foolishness. There is something in this approach to existence that seems to function in this strange world of abundance—something that allows for different types of strength than those I've been taught to value.

The fire pops loudly as a pocket of sap explodes in the heat alongside a flare of pine scent, drawing my attention back to the present. I wipe the grease from my fingers on a nearby leaf, after all saliva can, if chanced uppon, be used to affect me by mages, before my thoughts circle back to Jason and his family. Their subtle dynamics—Bearee's fierce protection, Magnen's analytical observation, Jason's careful navigation between them—form a complex system of support unlike anything in my clan structure.

The death oath provides a convenient explanation for my continued association with Jason. Yet even I recognize that explanation is becoming increasingly insufficient to account for my behavior. There is something else developing—something I lack proper terminology for, something that exists in the spaces between tactical advantage and mere obligation.

I find myself... curious about what this might become. And curiosity, as the Druid often warned, is both the most powerful force in nature and the most dangerous trait a ranger can possess.

My contemplation is interrupted by a voice calling from up the trail.

"Miss? What are you doing?"

I stretch and stand, wiping grease from my face with the back of my hand. After tossing the bones into the creek, I turn to face the approaching woman. Her stance—hands on hips, face pulled into an expression of practiced outrage—marks her as someone who seeks conflict rather than resolution.

"You can't light a fire here," she declares, her voice sharp with self-importance.

I assess our surroundings before responding. "There are no trees that can burn, no people to breathe in the smoke, and no liquids that can be caught in the sparks. As such, why can't I light a fire here?"

"Because you can't," she snaps, folding her arms across her chest. "So you can't."

A familiar pressure builds behind my sternum—the urge to eliminate threats efficiently, in this case with my blade. One step, two quick stabs. The animals will consume the corpse. In my world, this woman's attitude would earn her just that. But I'm learning that different rules apply here, where words often serve as both weapons and shields.

With effort, I suppress the instinct. "Are you one who deals with this? A ranger, then?"

"Doesn't matter." She withdraws a glass rectangular device—a phone, like Jason's—and waves it at me. "I'm recording this, and you can't light that fire here."

I shrug, having planned to extinguish it soon anyway. Squatting by the creek, I cup my hands to gather water and throw it onto the flames. They hiss and retreat, steam billowing upward. Two more handfuls and the fire dies completely.

"The fire is out," I state, rising to meet her gaze. "Now, can you leave me in peace?"

"What were you eating?" she demands instead.

"A squirrel I hunted," I answer with the shrug I have seen Jason use. "Though this one seems young, as it does not have the meat-ripping teeth of adults and so could not be used for trapping supplies.

Her expression shifts to confusion. "Meat-ripping what? What are you on about?"

I forget sometimes how different our worlds are. "Adult squirrels, especially at this time—although perhaps it is different this deep into the warmlands—have meat-ripping teeth, as they can only consume flesh when flesh is all that is available.-"

"I don't care," she interrupts, her blue hair quivering as she shakes her head. "You made an illegal fire and killed and ate a cute squirrel. Now I'm going to report you, and you are going to get arrested."

She fiddles with her device, smirking with the satisfaction of someone who believes they hold power. I feel my patience thinning, but force myself to respond with words rather than my blade opening her throat.

"Who is going to report me? You? Who is going to arrest me? You? You and who?" I allow an edge to enter my voice. "If you were put into the world that I came from, you would not last a week before being consumed. So do not dare to tell me what I can and cannot do in a place that is not traveled by people, as there are no tracks within the snow or the mud apart from my own, and now your unwanted bootprints."

The woman sputters and stomps away, her indignation carrying her back down the trail. I allow myself a small smile before gathering my equipment and the plants I've harvested. Despite their unfamiliarity, they will serve as ingredients for remedies I can prepare later.

As I begin walking back, I find myself thinking about Jason's dwelling. "Home," I murmur, testing the word. It shouldn't feel right after less than a week, yet there's a warmth to the thought that I can't deny.

It's strange. Magnen and Bearee are wary of me, but I understand their concern. They see Jason as vulnerable despite his adaptation to his condition—a blindness that in my world would have been a death sentence. Among my people, such a disability would make one a burden, and burdens are not tolerated.

Yet here, Jason has not just survived but found purpose. And I... I fixed his blindness with vigger, something their advanced technology couldn't accomplish. The memory of his face when he first truly saw me—the wonder, the disbelief—stirs something unfamiliar in my chest.

I have watched him closely since then. The way he moves through his world with a newfound confidence yet still retains the careful awareness of someone accustomed to navigating by touch and sound. The way his expression shifted when I told him of my psycopathy--concern, yes, but measured concern, and a desire to learn when confronted with the unknown.

If I hadn't been able to heal him... would I truly have killed him as my instincts and training dictate? The thought sits uncomfortably now. I would have seen it as mercy, clean and quick, sparing him from a world that would eventually consume him. But I've watched him navigate his life with more grace than many warriors I've known. His blindness didn't make him weak—it simply forced him to develop different strengths, different ways of contributing.

My thoughts are interrupted by a faint sound from nearby. My heightened senses detect the presence of a small creature in a box just off the path. Curious, I investigate to find a tiny kitten, black from nose to tail tip, huddled against the far wall and shivering with cold.

A growl builds in my chest—not at the kitten herself, but at whoever abandoned her. Children are sacred. The future. A quick death at least would be cleen. A quick death I can understand. This? The one who left this kitten here should be hunted down and given to the wolves. Or turned into a hat for Jason.

I reach into the box and gently lift the small creature, its brown eyes regarding me with a mixture of fear and desperate hope. From my pocket, I extract a piece of squirrel meat I'd saved and offer it. After a cautious sniff, the kitten devours it so quickly she nearly takes my fingertips as well.

Without thinking, I open my coat and tuck the tiny animal against my chest. It immediately curls around my neck, a soft purring vibrating against my skin. The simple trust of this vulnerable creature is, strange.

In my world, something so small and defenseless would not survive long. The weak perish—it is the law of nature. Yet here I am, protecting this kitten from that very law instead of giveing her a quick death. Just as Jason's parents protected him, gave him tools and support rather than abandoning him to fate or simply killing him at birth when they realized he would remaine blind.

Perhaps there is wisdom in this approach that my people have never considered. Perhaps there are different kinds of strength than those I've been taught to value.

I zip my jacket to shield the kitten and increase my pace toward Jason's home—because it is home now, at least for a time. I need to ask him how to care for this creature, as my knowledge of nurturing young is limited. The small weight against my chest feels strangely significant, as does my concern for its welfare.

The druid would know what to do, but he is dead by my hand, however unintentional. Another thought that sits uneasily now. I have never questioned the necessity of death before—it simply was, like the cold or the hunt. Yet now I find myself wondering, questioning, feeling.

This new world is changing me, I realize. Or perhaps it is simply revealing parts of myself that had no place in my homeland. Jason has become more than just the recipient of my death oath—he has become a guide to this strange reality where weakness is not always punished and strength takes many forms.

For better or worse, our paths are linked. And for the first time, I find myself wondering if it might be for the better.