It’s a quiet night. There’s a fire crackling in front of the camp, with Rue sitting on the ground next to it, and the Seikrets curled up next to the pop-up tent. She’s absently scraping a whetstone across the edge of her carving knife, blowing on it, checking it, then going back to her sharpening.

Alma, settled on the side of the fire closest to the tent, is watching her hunter through the curtain of her hair—the working of strong, burn-coated arms, the way her legs are splayed, how her hair is down and brushed over her shoulders. The right side of her body, the more scarred and damaged, is angled towards her, and that’s what gets her the most.

She remembers the earlier days of the expedition, when Rue didn’t trust her as much, when she kept the handler on her left side, out of her blind spot. She used to huff and growl and glower at her, or shuffle away when she came too close.

And yet here she is, letting the handler stay in her blind spot. The spot that leaves her most vulnerable. The sheer level of unspoken trust is something she treasures, however…