Paris sat inside the tent she shared with Josin, staring at the busy camp beyond. It was late in the afternoon, which meant it was almost time for her to meet Joyce at the camp's eastern fence so they could go out together to a secluded clearing where they trained.

Her eyes drew away from the tent's outside world, her attention falling to her cot. After a few weeks of chopping chunks of wood for fuel and helping the shepherds shear their sheep without the scissors she had gotten used to in Lance's farm, she finally earned enough goodness points to get herself a blanket. She did have to ask nicely—probably the nicest she had ever been. Josin had been right when the woman said the nights in the Woods could be so freezing. It's amazing Paris even has fingers after weeks of sleeping in the cold.

She blew a breath. That seemed like a long time ago now. Her mood further soured when she noticed the sheathed blade lying atop her unmade bed. Apart from sparring with Joyce—at least, attempting to not fall on top of it—she barely found any use for her blade. The memory of her getting it from Darwolf, the resident blacksmith, was still vivid in her mind. It was the day after she beat up Joyce in a fair hand-to-hand fight and the boy decided it's time to bring Paris's training to the next level.

She had been excited. Mostly because she had been at it for more than three months. That's way too long, even for her. It's only proper they saw some progress.

At this point, it wasn't that easy to bruise her anymore. After spending countless nights nursing her aching body to sleep, it seemed to learn how to make itself tough so the next blows wouldn't hurt it as much. That's one trait Paris admired about her body. No, scratch that. It's the only thing she liked about this meat bag she was given.

It's a shame it's just sitting there, doing nothing.

She caught wind of patrol parties being deployed out of the camp earlier while she was shearing wool—with a scythe, no less—and found out Joyce was among the lucky ones who were going.

"What about training?" Paris had asked Joyce as he was stuffing random things into his belt and a small satchel.

The boy looked at her like she was asking whether the sun was setting on the west instead of the east. "Figure it out," he said. "I'm sure you can find another sparring partner while I'm gone."

Paris almost laughed in his face at that. Her, find another trainer? Sure. She might as well dance around naked. "Can I go with you?" she asked instead.

Joyce paused half-way of slotting a rolled blanket into his satchel. "Did you forget the last time you came face to face with a demon?" he faced her fully when she failed to answer in time. "That's right. You almost died."

She pursed her lips, unable to counter his argument. "I won't always be there to save you, Paris," Joyce continued, securing the tip of his satchel with a sharp pull of the drawstrings. Then, he slung it over one shoulder. "It's best for you to learn how to save yourself first."

"How can I get better if you won't let me fight a demon?" Paris crossed her arms, stepping sideways to block Joyce's direct path out of his tent. "Let me go with you."

Joyce's arm shot towards her shoulder. He shoved her out of the way. "No," he said. "If you really want to go, ask the Elders."

Paris pouted. He knew how much she hated seeing those robed people. She did her best to avoid colliding with them as much as possible. There wasn't anything good in getting involved with the government. Especially for someone like her. She might piss them off enough to chase her out of the camp. By then, she would truly be alone.

So, she had no choice but to go back to the shepherds and continue shearing sheep with her borrowed scythe. The gardeners have done a good job of keeping their reaping tools sharp but it didn't hold up against the sheep's tougher wool. Perhaps she'd drop by Darwolf's again and explain the concept of the scissors again.

She spent the hours after noon in the stables. As soon as the light around the camp resembled the time when the sun was beginning to go down, the lead shepherd made her stop shearing and sent her back to her tent. She had been staring at the other workers working since then. Now, the light was closer to gray than the bright amber characteristic of morning light. As expected, the interlocking threads of brittle thorns and dried canopies made it impossible to see the sky in its whole glory.

A sigh blew out of her lips once more. Even Josin wouldn't be home tonight as she was among the parties sent as patrol. Suddenly, having the tent to her own didn't sound like a good idea. It was too lonely. And quiet. And well...it didn't really matter.

Paris was used to being alone because she always felt like she didn't belong back in Stonedenn and would never start at any point. But now...in a place where she had something in common with virtually all of them, she expected something different. She'd expected to be welcomed, to be included.

So why was it that she was sitting alone in her tent, left alone once again?

Paris frowned as the lanterns started lighting up outside. She huffed in pulling herself straighter and ducked out of the tent, watching people pass around a lit torch. When a person gets the torch, they would run around their tent and bring every lamp they had closer to each other in a neat pile. Then, they'd tip the flame close to the wick of each one and wait for the fire to give birth to its smaller twin.

The process went on, until the torch burned bright in front of Paris. The woman who passed it to her had a wolfish grin, accentuating her round face. Blond hair framed it with wavy locks. From behind the dusty, silver-rimmed spectacles, Paris glimpsed blue eyes.

Paris gingerly plucked the torch from the woman's hand and watched her scuttle off to a tall, muscular man carrying two children in his arms—one boy and one girl, both bearing their mother's smile and their father's brown hair.

Oh.

Paris shook her head and moved to light the single lantern in her tent. When the flame sparked to life, she shoved the torch in the hands of the first person she saw. Whoever it was, they took it with a reluctance fit for a sheep. Paris couldn't care less. She just wanted her light.

After hanging the lantern on the spare space in the rod holding the tent's awning up, she turned and steered her course to the one place she aimed to go despite her reservations.

The Elders' tent.

Joyce had been right. She should take it up to them if she wanted to get better at slaying the main reason she was even out in this strange place.

Then, her senses picked up a commotion happening somewhere in the inventory tents down west. She paused her purposeful walk and lingered a few meters away. People dressed in tunic and trousers like her ran around in both frantic and determined steps. One woman on the older side screamed at the young ladies, waving her cane in the air.

"What are you bums doing all afternoon, eh?" the woman was saying, her shrill and stern voice floating above the taps of feet, the curious mutterings of gathering onlookers, and the neigh and bleats of the shepherds' cohort of animals. "You've got the whole time to make sure we won't run out of wood throughout the night."

Paris raised an eyebrow. Running out of firewood? Where did the ones she chopped yesterday go? Oh, right. If the whole camp's fire depended on them alone, they would need cartfuls just for a day. And the timber gatherers weren't known to be that punctual or diligent either.

A smile crept to Paris's lips. This might be her chance to finally get to be of use to the camp. She forgot about going to the Elders' tent and instead strode towards the angry woman with a cane.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Paris prodded, keeping her voice calm and modulated. It seemed to get the woman's attention just fine because she stopped waving her cane around. The frightened ladies scattered into a multitude of directions after their leader's attention was diverted elsewhere. "I can get you some firewood to at least get us through the night."

The woman tapped her cane on the ground. Doubt crept into her narrowed eyes. "I've never seen you here before," she said. "Where are you working?"

Paris scratched her chin. Her curls bounced against her back as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. "I've been working with the shepherds and sometimes with the timber gatherers. I chopped the firewood yesterday," she said. "I'm quite new. Arrived a few months ago."

"I don't know, girl," the woman said, a frown twisting her already wrinkled face. Streaks of gray hair highlighted her brown hair which was pinned up in a loose bun with a branch taken from the abundance around them. "I don't like sending someone so late. At least take Reimer with you. Go with Wharton too, if you can wake him up. I'll talk to the Elders on your behalf."

Paris suppressed pumping her fist in the air. She couldn't be too jubilant in times of stress like this. Still...

She got to go out! Take that, Joyce. It's time for her to go demon-hunting.

Soon, Paris was shuffled into a small tent with two other men. Both of them rubbed sleep out of their eyes, yawning one after the other.

"What is this commotion, Keira?" the man with dark hair and hairy, angular features said as the old woman sauntered in, followed by Elder Balwyn. The blond woman's ponytail was as rigid as ever. The man blinked at Balwyn's presence. "Oh, good evening, Elder."

"Paris," Balwyn said, drawing everyone's attention to the both of them.

Paris swallowed against the tightness in her throat. "Y-yes?"

Balwyn rested a hand on the pommel of her sword peeking through the slit of her tunic. Even so late at night, the Elder had not bothered changing into more comfortable clothes. "While I appreciate you volunteering to help us in our plight, I am somewhat concerned about the real intent of this mission," she said. "Can I trust you, Paris?"

She blinked. "O-of course," she said, the lie coating her tongue as fluid as she wanted it to. "We need to ensure our people don't freeze to death throughout the night. While I, myself, can survive without fire for a whole night, I don't know about the others. As you well know, we are the only ones who kept the demons in check. If we fail to survive this single cold night, there won't be anyone to hold them back from attacking Lycranse."

Paris did her best to smile despite the spiraling thoughts in her head saying she's spewing nonsense. "Let's say I'm merely helping our people's welfare," she said. She held her arms up. "No hidden motives. I just want to help."

Balwyn narrowed her eyes. Paris assumed the Elder didn't believe her words as much as she did. A few beats passed until Balwyn blew a breath. "Fine," she said. The hand on her sword lifted to give Paris a light pat on the shoulder. "Good luck."

Paris nodded her thanks. Then, Balwyn's grip on her flesh tightened. The Elder leveled her gaze on Paris. "Don't get separated from your group," she said. Her tone was both threatening and concerned. "Whatever you do, don't provoke the demons into attacking you. We only kill them if they attack us first. Don't engage in battle on your own."

Paris stared at Balwyn's eyes, deep into her electric blue irises. "I'll keep that in mind," she said.

Balwyn seemed satisfied with that. The grip on Paris's shoulder loosened. "Go and get ready," she turned to the other two men who stood idly on a corner. "You, too."

With that, she jerked her chin at the old woman who was apparently named Keira, and stepped out of the tent, leaving them on their own.

Paris stared at her hands. Just a few minutes from now, she'd be holding her dagger with them. Ready or not, she'd find out.

Sooner or later.