GRAY STARED at the girl in front of them. She wasn't just some stray who wandered in. She walked with too much ease, like the forest had cleared the way for her. Her cropped denim jacket clung lightly to her frame. "You guys know each other?" Gray asked, the words slipping out before he could even figure out who he was really addressing.
But the girl answered anyway, hands on hips, flashing a grin wide enough to cut tension in half. "What are you doing here?" she asked, head tilting. "And who's this weird handsome guy?"
She was looking at Gray.
He stared. He'd been complimented a lot of things in his life—smart-ass, moron, walking disaster, occasionally "diabolical little shit" from certain neighbors—but never handsome. Certainly never paired with the word "weird" like it was some compliment. His lips curled in vague discomfort.
"Gray," he said flatly. "Newbie here. Freshly traumatized. Did you seriously just blow us all away with a wind spell?"
The girl only smiled with a certain shyness, then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a small silver earring that winked beneath the moonlight like a secret. "Yes," she said.
Gray cringed.
Troy cleared his throat, not out of politeness but to re-establish gravity. He stepped forward and gestured toward the trees where the engkantos were now slowly rising, brushing dirt and leaves from their dark green suits like soldiers returning from a drill. "What are you doing out here in the dark with the city police?" Troy asked, his voice flatter now. Almost pointed.
"Them?" the girl looked over her shoulder. "Oh. Don't worry. They're with me."
"They're police?" Gray said, eyes flicking to one of the engkantos he'd previously suplexed into the earth. The engkanto glared at him like he was weighing the punishment for that insult. Gray raised a hand slowly, an awkward half-wave, before giving a sheepish smile that said, please don't eviscerate me.
His eyes scanned the clearing. The engkantos were standing again now, some dusting off, some checking bruises. And just like that, the imagined glory of the battle drained from Gray's memory like cold water. They hadn't survived because they were strong. They had survived because they were lucky... and not alone. He looked at Troy and wondered, not for the first time, what would've happened if they'd gone toe to toe. The truth was, he didn't know. But one thing was obvious now. Even if they teamed up, they still wouldn't stand a chance against Amara.
Gray turned, and sure enough, her eyes were ice again. Focused. Flat. Calculating. He was just glad they weren't aimed directly at him. If looks could kill, his soul would already be filing for reincarnation.
"In my dreams," the girl named Mayumi said, and the strange lilt of her voice caught Gray's attention again.
"Dreams?" Troy asked, his arms folding as he stepped closer.
"Yes," Mayumi replied without hesitation. "I always find myself on this side of the mountain. Like something's pulling me here."
Her voice was gentler now. The grin had faded, but not from fear. From reverence. As if speaking it aloud made it more real.
"As if..." she hesitated.
"She wants you here," Amara said, her voice slicing through the space between them like a thread pulled taut. Her gaze, hard and searching, fixed on Mayumi like she was trying to read a book without opening it.
Mayumi didn't flinch. In fact, her eyes locked with Amara's, and for a moment, the air between them tightened. Like two people standing at the edge of something neither of them could name but both somehow recognized.
Until pain took its place.
Gray winced, hand shooting up to his shoulder. Wetness bloomed beneath his fingers. He looked down and saw blood darkening the fabric of his shirt, a blot slowly swallowing white into rust. The wound from the earlier fight. One of the engkanto's blades must have nicked him deeper than he'd realized. He sat down on a rock half-buried in the dirt and sucked in a breath as he peeled the shirt away from the wound. The gash wasn't enormous, but it was angry, raw, and slick with blood. For a second, he just sat there, unsure what to do.
Then hands came.
Soft. Steady. Clean despite the dirt on their owner's boots. A cloth pressed into his wound. Fingers worked with practiced ease, tying something tight. He turned his head slowly, and there was Amara, crouched beside him, her expression carved from silence. Not concerned. Not cold. Just focused.
Gray didn't move. He didn't speak. He just watched.
Her hands, despite everything he'd seen them do—slice through aswangs, parry arrows, break spears—were gentle now. Deliberate. They moved across his skin like they had nothing to prove. And for a moment, he wasn't looking at a warrior. He was looking at a girl with long, careful fingers and a mind that never stopped turning.
He swallowed something in his throat. Something sharp, not pain. If he spoke, he knew it would come out wrong. Too light or too serious. So he didn't say anything. He just let her patch him up. And for once, the silence wasn't uncomfortable.
Gray didn't say anything at first. He just sat there, letting the silence breathe between them, letting the ache in his shoulder remind him that he was still human. He watched her hands, how they moved with care, even if her face never showed it. Amara kept her eyes on the wound, never once raising them to meet his. Not out of coldness. Not even distance. But something quieter. Like fear. Like if she met his gaze, something fragile might shift.
He wondered if she even noticed it.
She tied the final knot on the makeshift bandage, tucking the cloth in neatly. It should've felt transactional—here's a wound, here's a fix—but it didn't. Her touch lingered just enough to feel like presence. Not attention. Presence.
That was when Gray finally spoke, his voice low. Not joking. Not sharp. Just wondering aloud. "You've had the same dreams, right?"
Amara paused. Just for a breath. Then her hands pulled back. She stood, brushing her palms against her thighs. Gray caught the others watching now. Troy, Mayumi, even the engkantos lingering quietly at the edge of the clearing, their militant posture softened into curiosity.
Amara didn't answer right away. She let the stillness stretch out like thread between them, tugging tight. And only after it held long enough to quiet every other noise did she speak. "Not this side of the mountain," she said finally. Her voice was even, but something in it was taut, drawn like a bow. "At the café. One of the anino himpilan. The moment I arrived, I found Ishmael, Gavin, and the others already there."
Gray blinked at her. He couldn't explain it, but hearing it from her lips made the whole thing feel heavier. Realer. Like they weren't just pieces in a game anymore. He frowned, looked around at the group, and said, "Okay. Mythical creatures. Magical gods. Dream convergences. Does anyone here happen to be a certified mystical mythological explanation guru or something to explain what is happening?"
No one answered. Troy scratched his jaw. Mayumi tilted her head like she was still trying to find the right punchline. Even the engkantos stayed quiet. And that said more than words ever could.
Then Amara broke the silence again, her voice snapping them back to the present. "We need to get back to the city," she said, eyes scanning the treeline. "But not tonight. Outlaws move more freely in the dark, and even with our numbers, they outnumber us ten to one."
Gray glanced around them. There was no fire this time. Only moonlight and tree shadows. The forest feels more threatening now. It felt like it was holding its breath.
No one argued.