Swanly stepped back, her hand reaching instinctively for a weapon she did not have. Her breath came faster.

"No," she whispered. "No, no, no."

Kael’s gaze sharpened. "Swanly."

"What bit you?"

"A clawbeast."

"That is not an answer."

"It is."

"Was it infected?"

"No."

"Did it have black saliva?"

"No."

"Cloudy eyes?"

"No."

"Rotting smell?"

"No."

"Did it move wrong?"

"It was alive."

"Alive things can still be infected."

Kael stared at her.

The cubs stared too.

Swanly realized she sounded half mad, but she did not care. This was not something to be calm about. She had watched whole shelters fall because one person hid a bite. She had watched children sleep beside parents who did not wake human. She had watched kindness become death because someone did not want to be left behind.

She pointed at his arm again. "Show me."

Kael did not move.

Swanly’s voice shook. "Show me."

Something in her tone must have reached him, because the hardness in his eyes softened by a fraction. Slowly, he extended his arm.

Swanly stepped closer with caution.

The cubs shuffled with her, tiny bodies pressed near her feet like worried shadows.

The smallest whispered, "Papa no die?"

Swanly’s throat tightened. "Nobody is dying."

Kael looked at her.

She did not look back.

She took his wrist and lifted his arm toward the light from the waterfall. The bite looked ugly, yes, but the blood was red, not black. The edges were torn, but not gray. The skin was hot from injury, but not spreading dark veins. There was no rotten smell, no oily discharge, no twitching under the flesh.

She leaned closer and sniffed before she could stop herself.

Then froze.

Kael’s ears flicked.

The cubs blinked.

Swanly slowly lifted her head. "I just sniffed your arm."

Kael’s gaze held hers. "You are a snow fox beastwoman."

"That does not make me feel better."

"It is not infected," he said.

Swanly looked at the wound again.

This time, she forced herself to see properly.

It was a normal bite.

Deep, painful, and messy, but normal.

Her shoulders loosened.

She let out a breath.

"Okay."

Kael watched her carefully. "You feared I was turning into one of those things."

"Yes."

"I would have told you."

Swanly looked up sharply. "Would you?"

His face stilled.

The question sat between them.

In her old world, the answer would have been no. Most people would not say it. They would hide it, run from it, beg, lie, cry, threaten, or swear they were different. Fear made honest people selfish and selfish people monstrous.

Kael’s eyes did not move from hers.

"Yes," he said.

It was only one word.

But something in the way he said it made her believe him more than she wanted to.

Swanly looked away first.

"Fine," she muttered. "Then sit down. I need to treat it."

Kael frowned. "Treat?"

"Yes. Clean it. Cover it. Stop it from getting worse."

"It will close."

"I did not ask what your dramatic beast body thinks it can do."

The smallest cub whispered, "Mama scold Papa."

The second cub nodded with tiny awe. "Papa listen?"

The eldest looked deeply impressed, as if Swanly had just challenged a mountain and the mountain had blinked first.

Kael did not sit.

Swanly looked around the cave.

There was nothing.

Beautiful cave, yes. Waterfall curtain, yes. Moss bed, animal skins, a flat stone, a few bone tools, some dry grass, a pile of bark fibers, a hollowed gourd, and a few leaves stacked near the wall. But actual medicine? Bandages? Clean cloth? Antiseptic? Anything that did not look like a craft project from the dawn of time?

No.

Swanly closed her eyes.

Unless she used her space.

Before she could say anything, Kael turned and picked up a fur hide bundle from beside the cave wall. He held it out to her.

"Here," he said. "Your fruits."

Swanly blinked.

"My fruits?"

He nodded once.

She took the bundle.

It was wrapped carefully, tied with a strip of hide. When she opened it, a sweet scent spilled into the air, bright and fresh enough to make her mouth water immediately.

Inside were fruits she had never seen before.

One was round and pale gold with soft red freckles across the skin. Another was long and deep purple, almost black near the stem, with a waxy shine that looked unreal. A third had translucent green flesh beneath a thin cracked shell, and when Swanly pressed it gently, juice glimmered at the split like honey.

Her stomach made a sound.

The cubs all looked at her belly.

The smallest gasped. "Mama belly talk."

Swanly covered her stomach. "Mind your business."

Kael watched her face.

Swanly looked up at him with a smile before she could stop herself.

"Thank you."

Kael froze.

It was not a small freeze.

It was full-body.

Even his tail stopped moving.

Swanly’s smile faltered. "What?"

He did not answer.

For him, those two words were stranger than the way she held the cubs. Stranger than the way she inspected prey like a hunter from another life. Stranger than the way she had touched his arm with worry instead of disgust.

Thank you.

He had brought her fruit because she had always demanded fruit.

Even while they traveled, even when the forest was dangerous, even when he had to leave before dawn and return after nightfall, she would ask for sweet fruit and then complain if it was bruised. She hated raw meat. She hated the smell. She hated the cave. She hated the cubs’ mouths when they nursed from her. She had stopped feeding them too soon on purpose, forcing him to mash meat, soften it, beg her, carry screaming hungry cubs through the night while she turned away and covered her ears.

He remembered their mouths searching for milk she refused to give.

He remembered the smallest cub crying until his tiny body went limp.

He remembered kneeling beside her and asking her to feed them just once more.

He remembered the way she had looked at him as if he and the cubs were chains around her throat.

Now she was thanking him for fruit.

Kael did not understand.

Swanly shifted awkwardly. "Is saying thank you illegal too?"