Falin knelt on the wet sand before sunrise, his medic pouch already open. Broken crates and a snapped mast leaned among the rocks behind him. A woman lay near the tide line, pale and breathing thin. He pressed crushed herbs to the cut on her temple and learned her name later. For now, he only knew he would not let the sea take her back. He checked her ribs with careful hands. Galathea stirred, green eyes half-open, fixing on him before slipping closed again. She tried to speak. He shook his head. "Quiet. Breathe." Then he saw the tracks. Deep cart ruts and overlapping boot prints cut the sand a stone's throw up the beach. Four men, maybe more, hauling something heavy. Fresh. The wind carried voices from the headland. Searchers from her own order, combing the wreck line. If they found her here, in his hands, they would take her before she could stand. Falin whistled once, low. His panther came fast through the dune grass, white coat catching the gray light. He lifted Galathea against his chest, her armor cold through his sleeve, and mounted in one motion. The cat turned inland without being told. They rode hard for the ravine. Steep walls swallowed them. A shallow stream ran under the panther's paws, and dense green spilled from the rocks above, hiding the sky. No one on the coast could see them now. Falin slowed only when the voices were gone. Galathea's head rested against his collar. She was still breathing. He carried her through the last stretch of forest to his hollow and shut the door behind them. The searchers would keep walking the shore. They would not find her. Not today. Inside, he laid her down, and the work of keeping her alive began.