Page 11 of Free Fire Zone
Then she's gone, disappearing around the bend with silent steps that barely disturb the fallen leaves. I remain frozen, watching the space where she stood, allowing her scent of sun-warmed leaves and ocean spray to fade naturally rather than tracking it.
I finally stand, stretching wings that ache from holding them still for so long. Lamain will be waiting to speak with me, but for a moment longer I stare down the empty path, memorizing how the sunlight dapples the spot where she last stood.
She felt it too. That knowledge burns in my chest like molten copper, fierce and bright as my eyes. It gives me hope.
For what, I’m not sure. But if it involves her, I’m excited.
3
LOXLEY
The morning sun filters through the canopy, casting dappled shadows on the jungle path. My feet know this route by heart - every root, every stone, every twist in the trail that leads to my favorite waterfall. These daily walks ground me, keep me sane in a world that still feels too big, too unpredictable.
A rustle of wings announces his presence before I see him. Mazan lands with impossible grace for someone his size, those midnight-blue wings folding against his back. He doesn't speak - he never does during these moments. Instead, he falls into step beside me, his long strides matching my shorter ones without effort.
Two months ago, I would have bolted at the sight of him. Now... now I find myself tracking the distance between us. Five feet. Then four. Then three. Each walk brings him closer, like a dance where neither partner acknowledges the music.
Today, his arm nearly brushes mine. The heat from his body reaches across the two feet he left between us, but he never pushes, never demands. His presence is like the jungle itself - steady, constant, patient.
A branch snaps under my foot, and I tense instinctively. Mazan's step doesn't falter, but I catch the slight tilt of his head, the way those copper-red eyes scan our surroundings. Always watching, always protecting, though I never asked him to.
"The southern path flooded yesterday," I murmur, breaking our usual silence. "We'll need to take the ridge trail."
He nods, those golden lines across his obsidian skin catching the sunlight. When we reach the fork in the path, he doesn't hesitate to follow my lead. The trust in that simple action catches in my chest - not because he gives it, but because I'm starting to expect it.
The ridge trail climbs higher, narrower. Our shoulders brush once, twice. I don't flinch away. His wing shifts, creating a subtle barrier between me and the drop-off to our right. He doesn't comment on it. I don't acknowledge it. But it's there, like everything else building between us - unspoken, unhurried, and unavoidable as the tide.
The waterfall's distant roar grows louder as we climb. I focus on each step, on the solid ground beneath my feet - anything but the warmth radiating from his presence beside me. It's easier to pretend he doesn't affect me than to examine why he does.
My mind drifts to yesterday's walk. The empty path. The silence that felt wrong instead of peaceful. I'd caught myself glancing over my shoulder, searching for wings that weren't there, for copper-red eyes that didn't watch my steps.
The realization sits like a stone in my stomach. When did I start measuring my days by his presence? When did solitude stop feeling like safety and start feeling like absence?
A loose stone shifts under my foot. Before I can stumble, Mazan's hand hovers near - not touching, never touching without permission - but ready. The gesture sparks memories of other days when he wasn't here: the hollow echo of my footsteps,the way the jungle felt too vast, too empty. How I'd wandered further than usual, as if distance could fill the space he'd left.
I hate it. Hate how my body has betrayed me, learning to expect him. Hate how my shoulders tense on the days he's gone, how my eyes search shadows that hold no demons. Hate that I've let someone become necessary again.
Mazan moves ahead as the path narrows, his wings tucked tight to clear a fallen tree. The sunlight catches those golden lines across his skin, and I realize I've memorized their pattern. Like I've memorized the exact shade of his eyes, the way his horns curve, how his hair falls across his forehead when he looks down at me.
"Stop," I whisper to myself, too quiet for even his keen ears. Stop noticing. Stop wanting. Stop needing.
But my traitor heart doesn't listen. It counts the days between his visits, marks the hours until dawn might bring his shadow back to my path. And I'm left wondering when solitude stopped being enough.
It pushes me to start trying to shake him. A small part of me knows that if I just told him to stop following me, he would. But…I don’t.
Instead, I start making it harder to find me. Even if I shouldn’t. Even if I won’t admit to myself why.
The next week, I take the eastern path instead of my usual route. My heart pounds with each step away from our normal trail, wondering if this will be the day he gives up. But when I round the bend, there he is - waiting at the crossroads, those copper-red eyes calm and understanding.
The next time I know he’s coming, I skip my morning walk entirely. I pace my treehouse instead, watching the sun climb higher. When I finally venture out in the afternoon, he's there at our usual meeting spot, wings folded, reading a scroll as if he has all the time in the world.
"The weather's nice today," he says, tucking the scroll away. No demands for explanations. No guilt. Just acceptance.
Not that I owe him anything. But it would be natural for him to wonder where I was. And yet, he doesn’t push.
A few more weeks pass. I take random routes, change times, sometimes turn back halfway. Each time, Mazan adapts. He never questions, never pushes, never shows frustration. When I appear hours late, he greets me with the same quiet nod as always. When I show up on new paths, he somehow knows that’s where I am.
Today, I've led us down a barely-visible track that winds through dense undergrowth. The path is rough, uncomfortable - chosen specifically to test his patience. But Mazan moves through the thorny vines with the same grace he shows on wider trails, those golden lines on his skin catching the filtered light.
