The following days were hell.
Every morning, she resumed her path.
Tired. Aching. Her back burdened with her hammer, legs heavy with dust and dried sweat.
The black mountains drew closer, slowly, like a terrible promise etched on the horizon.
And I was still there.
In her shadow. Unexpected. Unpredictable.
Sometimes, I appeared at night, when she thought she could sleep.
Sometimes, during a fight, emerging just after a Gorvak, or at the same time, pushing her reflexes to the brink of panic.
I spared her nothing.
Not once.
I attacked without warning.
I aimed for the cracks. The mistakes. The slightest hesitation.
And when she fell, because she did fall, I disappeared.
Leaving her alone. Out of breath.
To get back up or die.
She never died.
The Gorvak came at her in twos, sometimes threes. At first, she fought them without strategy. By instinct. By rage. But day by day, her movements sharpened. Her breathing steadied. Her body adapted.
