Annemarie woke with a headache. Not the sharp, blinding kind, but the dull, wrong kind— the kind that made her limbs feel heavy and her thoughts sluggish.

  She pushed herself upright, rubbing her temples. The cottage was quiet, the faint scent of last night’s stew still lingering in the air. Venison. Outside, the muffled sounds of morning filtered through the thin shutters— birds, distant chatter, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith at work.

  Brandon sat at the table, boots propped up on a chair, absently rolling a coin between his fingers. He looked up as she stirred. “Morning,” he said, but his voice was cautious.

  Annemarie sighed. “I’m fine.”

  Brandon raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

  She hesitated. The truth was, she wasn’t sure. She still didn’t remember what had happened the night they arrived, not fully, but the memory of that eerie blue glow lingered at the edges of her mind. Like something seen through fog.

  But she didn’t want to talk about it.

  So instead, she forced a small smile. “I will be.”

  Brandon studied her for a moment longer before exhaling through his nose.

  “Alright.” He stood, stretching. “I’m gonna go explore.”

  Annemarie tilted her head. “Explore?”

  He shrugged. “Check out the neighborhood. See what people do around here. Maybe find something useful to do while you rest.”

  She rolled her eyes, but the gesture was fond. “Getting cabin fever?”

  “Maybe,” he admitted. “But we live here, right? Might as well figure out what that actually means.”

  She hummed in agreement. “Just don’t get arrested.”

  Brandon grinned. “No promises.” And with that, he stepped outside, closing the door softly behind him.

  Annemarie remained still for a moment after the door shut, staring at the worn wood of the table where Brandon had been sitting. The quiet of the cottage pressed in around her, wrapping her in a stillness that felt both comfortable and unnerving. She ran a hand over the blanket pooled in her lap, fingers tracing the embroidery along its edges. Brandon had taken care of her. Tucked her in. Let her sleep.

  It would have been sweet, if the thought of being an invalid didn’t make her want to crawl out of her skin.

  She exhaled slowly and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cool against her bare feet, grounding her in the present even as her thoughts drifted. That damnable blue light still clung to the back of her mind, familiar and foreign all at once. It was her own power, she knew that much, but she hadn’t meant to call on it. She didn’t even remember how.

  Her head throbbed again, a slow, dragging ache behind her eyes. She grimaced, pressing her palms to her temples as if she could smooth out whatever had tangled inside her.

  The smell of the dying fire still wafted through the air, mixed with the faintest trace of something herbal— tea, maybe. Had Brandon made it? She couldn’t remember.

  Annemarie pushed herself out of bed, wincing as her muscles protested. How long had she been asleep? Days? Hours? She glanced toward the window, where pale morning light spilled through the warped glass. Outside, the town was waking. Somewhere beyond the cottage walls, people were talking— low voices carrying snippets of mundane conversation. She caught a word here and there, but none of it stuck.

  Annemarie let her hand fall away from her forehead and inhaled deeply, steadying herself. The world hadn’t ended overnight. She was still here. Still breathing. Still herself, more or less.

  Brandon would be back soon. And when he came back, she would have to pretend she wasn’t unraveling.

  Brandon didn’t have a plan.

  He wandered through Ismay’s Landing, hands in his pockets, watching the town wake up. Shopkeepers opened their stalls, farmers hauled goods toward the market, children darted through the streets, laughing as they played.

  It was peaceful. Stable. A world away from the chaos of their arrival. And yet, beneath it all, he felt unsettled.

  His feet carried him toward the outskirts, where the town’s training grounds lay— a wide, open field bordered by a wooden fence. There were targets for archery, sandpits for sparring, and racks of dull-edged practice weapons. A handful of soldiers and young trainees were already at work, their movements crisp and disciplined.

  Brandon hesitated at the entrance.

  He had never been much of a fighter. Even back on Earth, he had never wanted to be. But here, where everything was unpredictable, where Annemarie had collapsed and Julia carried daggers like a second nature— he wondered if maybe he should learn.

  “Looking for something?”

  Brandon turned. A grizzled man, older but broad-shouldered and steady-eyed, leaned against the fence. His tunic was worn but clean, a longsword strapped to his hip.

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  “Uh,” Brandon rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe?”

  The man smirked. “You ever held a blade before?”

  Brandon hesitated. “Not really, no.”

  The man nodded toward the practice racks. “Name’s Ulric. Pick one.”

  Brandon blinked. “Brandon. And wait, just like that?”

  “You won’t learn by standing around,” Ulric said simply. “Unless you’re here to watch. In which case, you’re standing in the wrong spot.”

  Brandon exhaled. “Alright.”

  He stepped forward, scanning the weapons. Some were heavier than he expected, others awkward in his grip. Eventually, he settled on a training sword— not too long, not too unwieldy.

  Ulric nodded in approval. “Good. Now hold it like this—“

  The next few hours passed in a blur of footwork, stances, and careful corrections. Brandon found the rhythm of it surprisingly fun— the way movement flowed, the balance between speed and control. It was physical, engaging, something he could focus on without overthinking.

  But then, as he swung a little too hard and nearly overbalanced, the reality of it hit him.

  This wasn’t just a game.

  Julia and Melissa carried weapons because they expected to use them.

  And him? Could he actually hurt someone if it came down to it?

  Brandon’s grip tightened around the hilt.He wasn’t sure if he liked the answer.

  Brandon lingered for a moment by the door, taking in the sight of the cottage in the soft, fading light. The rough edges of their first days here had been smoothed out— less makeshift, less transient. The scent of fresh-cut wood from the patched beams mixed with the warmth of the fire, and the rough wool blankets they’d scavenged were neatly folded at the foot of their bed. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs.

  His boots were caked with dust from the training grounds, his hands still raw from wielding the practice sword, but he ignored the stiffness in his limbs as he crossed the room. Annemarie barely stirred, her face half-buried in the quilt, only the tousled crown of her dark hair visible. The firelight cast a faint glow over her skin, highlighting the flush on her cheeks, the fine sheen of sweat at her brow.

  He sighed, brushing the back of his knuckles lightly against her forehead. Definitely too warm. “You probably caught something,” he said, keeping his voice low, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile moment.

  She made a vague, miserable noise and burrowed deeper into the blanket. “Great. I escape one world just to get taken out by the flu in another.”

  Brandon huffed a quiet laugh. “At least it’s not the plague.”

  “That we know of,” she grumbled, cracking one eye open.

  He rolled his eyes and nudged her shoulder. “Come on, smartass. Let’s get you off this chair before you pass out in it.”

  Her attempt at protest was half-hearted at best. She let him pull her to her feet, leaning against him more than she probably realized, her weight a sluggish, boneless thing. He guided her toward the bed, lowering her carefully onto the straw mattress. She sighed as he tucked the quilt snugly around her, settling instantly.

  “Domestic as hell,” she muttered, eyes already slipping shut.

  Brandon shook his head, exasperated but fond. “Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep.”

  The fire crackled softly, throwing shifting shadows along the rough stone walls. Outside, the last sounds of the town winding down drifted through the thin window— a cart rumbling over cobblestones, distant voices fading into the quiet hum of the evening.

  Brandon sat back, stretching his legs out in front of him, watching the flickering flames. His mind still buzzed with the day’s discoveries— bits of information, glimpses of something bigger, things he’d need to talk to Annemarie about when she wasn’t half-delirious with fever. But that would need to wait.

  For now, for just this moment, they were safe.

  The fire had burned low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the small cottage. The air was cool, the scent of damp wood and faint embers lingering. Outside, the wind rustled through the trees, whispering against the walls.

  Brandon stirred in his sleep, something— a sound, a shift in the air— pulling him from his dreams. He blinked, disoriented, before realizing what had woken him.

  A faint, ragged breath.

  He turned sharply toward Annemarie

  She was awake— or something close to it— her chest rising and falling in uneven, shallow gasps. Her skin was pale but drenched in sweat, her curls plastered to her forehead. The quilt was twisted around her, tangled from restless movement.

  Brandon sat up immediately. “Anne?”

  She didn’t respond at first, her eyes glassy and unfocused, caught somewhere between wakefulness and fevered delirium.

  “Anne,” he repeated placing a hand against her forehead. Too warm. Too warm.

  She let out a small, broken noise, her breath hitching as she shivered violently despite the heat radiating off her.

  Brandon swallowed hard. “Shit.” He shook her shoulder gently. “Hey, you with me?”

  Annemarie blinked slowly, her gaze struggling to focus. “Brandon?”

  “I’m here,” he said, voice softer now. “You’re burning up.”

  She let out a weak, breathless laugh. “Yeah. Not having a great time, if I’m being honest.”

  Brandon exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “You’re really sick, love.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, swallowing with difficulty. “Fever dreams. Nightmares.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Everything feels wrong.”

  Brandon’s stomach twisted. He had never been good at feeling helpless, and this— watching his partner curled in on herself, struggling for breath, utterly miserable— was exactly that.

  “Alright,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “Here’s the deal. Any worse, and I’m getting Gwri.”

  Annemarie groaned. “Bran—“

  “Nope.” He leveled her with a look, unwavering. “Promise me.”

  She hesitated, but she was too exhausted to argue properly. “Fine,” she mumbled. “Promise.”

  Brandon exhaled. “Good.” He helped her sit up enough to drink some water, then carefully untangled the quilt, making sure she wasn’t overheating. “You need rest,” he muttered.

  Annemarie let out a tired sigh, already sinking back into the mattress.

  Brandon stayed awake long after she drifted off, listening to the uneven sound of her breathing, watching the dying fire cast restless shadows across the walls.

  He told himself she’d be fine.

  He wasn’t sure he believed it.