Her blade snapped up at the sound of a crash. Her eyes sharpened, pulse erupting in her chest, as she searched for danger. And yet, there was none. No beasts, no soldiers, no glass-eyed men—just the manthing, looking dazed. He had fallen, she realised. Samaire did not relax, per se, but she sheathed her blade and returned her attention to packing her equipment. She retrieved her pack from its suspension, rolling her bedroll tightly, folding her blanket into a tiny square. 

Boots were pulled onto cold feet, laced swiftly by numb fingers. Samaire gloved her hands, buckling armor with the ease of familiarity. Her nerves were alight, heartbeat fluttering in her chest, but the armor was steadying. With armor, with her sword, she could survive whatever monsters crept in the woods.

Tucking her dagger into a sheath in the small of her back, Samaire strapped her sword about her hips. It was warm, a touch of comfort in the night. Swinging her back onto her aching shoulders, she looked to the manthing. It almost looked human, like a child run ragged by play. For a moment, she could see Uriah again, exhausted after a day in the forge. It was as if the manthing had reached into her chest and squeezed her heart until it burst in a spray of meat and blood. She swallowed, eyeing his proffered wrists.

They didn’t have time for her to drag him, but there was something in his eyes. Or rather, there was a [i]lack[/i] of something in his eyes. There was no humanity there. He looked almost like a cat Gildas had kept—it had seemed a sweet thing, affectionate and curious, but it had once clawed their Aunt Elora so badly she had needed stitches.
Samaire moved instead to the tree. Unknotting the chain was not as easy as tying it had been. Several minutes later, it went slack, and she wrapped it tight around her arm once more, jerking her head west—away from the doe.

“Go.”