Hans woke up with the strange sensation of having actually rested.

  His body, though still sore, no longer ached with every movement. His head no longer pounded like a war drum, and for the first time in a long while, he felt as though he had slept enough.

  But his stomach had other priorities.

  A deep hunger growl shook him even before he managed to sit up. He ran a hand over his face, trying to clear his mind, and blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the shelter. A faint glow from the oil lamp still illuminated the stone walls, but the first thing that truly caught his attention was the sound.

  A steady, measured rhythm. Firm footsteps. The rustling of leather against wood.

  Hans frowned and looked around.

  Lysandra wasn’t just awake—she was moving with the urgency of someone who had no time to waste. Her hands worked with precise efficiency as she packed, securing bags, tightening straps, checking every detail with the focus of a seasoned fighter. This wasn’t just preparation. It was determination. And urgency.

  Hans narrowed his eyes, still shaking off the haze of sleep. His stomach growled again, almost as if demanding answers.

  —And what about food? —he asked, his voice still rough.

  Lysandra didn’t even turn.

  —I save your life, I feed you… what more do you want?

  Hans blinked.

  —Well, if you're offering…

  Lysandra shot him a sharp look, and Hans wisely chose not to finish that sentence.

  —Check the bag on the chest —she added with a sigh.

  Hans followed her indication. On top of an old, worn wooden chest lay a small cloth bag, tied with a simple knot. He grabbed it with curiosity and opened it, expecting to find something substantial—perhaps dried meat, a wedge of well-aged cheese, or, if he was lucky, a thick and hearty loaf of bread.

  What he found was… less promising.

  A dark, compact loaf with a faint scent of spices. It wasn’t rock-hard, but it didn’t look particularly appetizing either.

  He held it in his hand, inspecting it with suspicion.

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  —What is this?

  Lysandra clicked her tongue.

  —Trail bread. Won’t fill you up, but it’ll keep you standing.

  Hans blinked, then looked at the bread with resignation.

  —So it doesn’t stop the hunger, but it won’t let me drop dead either?

  —Exactly.

  Hans let out a short chuckle, then took a bite. The texture was dense, the flavor barely passable, with a hint of spices that kept it from being completely bland. Not the worst thing he’d eaten, but certainly nothing he’d trade his soul for.

  —Thank you. —he said at last, without a hint of sarcasm.

  Lysandra didn’t respond, but Hans noticed that her expression softened for the briefest moment before she returned to tightening one of her pack’s straps.

  The air in the shelter felt heavy, charged with a quiet urgency that Hans couldn’t quite ignore. Something had changed since the night before, though he wasn’t sure what.

  —So, uh… what’s the rush? —he finally asked.

  Lysandra didn’t pause. She simply picked up her dagger and fastened it to her belt before replying.

  —Because we’re leaving.

  Hans raised an eyebrow.

  —We?

  —I’m leaving. —Lysandra turned to face him, her tone firm—. You can stay here if you want.

  Hans blinked, taken aback by how blunt she was.

  —Wait, you’re serious?

  Lysandra folded her arms, her gaze assessing him.

  —You don’t have to come. I saved your life, I gave you food. You’re recovered. I owe you nothing, and you owe me nothing.

  Hans didn’t respond right away. He looked around—the small shelter, the few embers still glowing in the fireplace, the marks on the stone that told him others had taken refuge here before them.

  He could stay. He could wait for Lysandra to leave and then figure out what to do with himself.

  But the idea didn’t sit well with him.

  He stood up, dusting off his clothes and fastening his sword at his side with a gesture far more confident than he actually felt.

  —Well, I owe you one.

  Lysandra tilted her head slightly, as if doubting what she had just heard.

  —I didn’t ask you to.

  Hans smiled easily.

  —Doesn’t matter. You saved my life. Least I can do is help.

  She narrowed her eyes, as if trying to determine whether the man in front of her was serious or if this was just another sign of his usual clumsiness.

  Hans shrugged, unconcerned.

  —Besides, if you’re in such a hurry, an extra pair of hands might come in useful. I’m not saying I’m the best travel companion, but at the very least, I know how to run when things go south.

  Lysandra let out a slow breath, looking at him with a mix of frustration and resignation.

  —If you come with me, there’s no room for mistakes.

  Hans grinned confidently.

  —I always mess up at the worst times. But somehow, I’m still alive.

  Lysandra shook her head, but a flicker of amusement crossed her face before she turned away and resumed packing.

  She slung the bag over her shoulder and strode toward the exit without looking back.

  —Do what you want. But if you fall behind, I won’t wait for you.

  Hans smirked, realizing that, somehow, he had just gotten himself into something much bigger than he’d anticipated.

  Before stepping outside, Lysandra hesitated for just a moment. Without turning, she spoke, her voice as cold as ever:

  —And when this job is done, we go our separate ways.

  Hans raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue.

  —Right, right. No lasting bonds. Got it.

  Lysandra shot him a sharp look over her shoulder.

  —Don’t get the wrong idea. This isn’t an alliance. It’s just a… temporary coincidence.

  Hans let out a short laugh and shrugged.

  —Whatever you say.

  But as he stepped out into the daylight, following Lysandra’s brisk pace, a thought crossed his mind.

  Something told him this "temporary coincidence" was going to last a lot longer than she expected.