Griff circled above the ridge where Marcus had nearly died three winters ago. The ice storm had brought down half the cliff face that day, and somewhere in the rubble below lay the steel knife he'd lost when the rocks buried him. She'd found it yesterday, wedged between two boulders, the blade still sharp despite the rust. Now she clutched it in her talons, feeling its weight pull at her as she flew toward camp. He would want it back. He would probably smile and thank her and then march right back into danger, because that's what Marcus did. That's what he always did, no matter how many times she warned him, no matter how many scars he collected. The knife grew heavier with each wing beat. But something else caught her eye as she descended—a glint of silver among the broken rocks. Griff banked hard, the knife swinging in her grip. There, half-buried in scree, lay a small glass orb wrapped in silver wire. The darkness inside swirled like smoke trapped in ice. She'd seen Marcus wearing it the morning of the rockfall, the chain around his neck. He'd clutched it while she dragged the rope to him, his fingers bloody on the silver. Now she had to choose: carry the knife or carry this fragile thing that might break if she gripped too hard. Griff dropped the knife. It clattered against stone as she carefully lifted the amulet in her talons. Marcus needed to remember what nearly killed him, not what he used to fight back. She landed on the old stone circle that marked the spot where the rescue party had pulled him out. The settlers had built it as a warning to others, but Marcus walked past it every season without a glance. Griff set the amulet down in the center of the circle and stepped back. Let him come find it himself. Let him see where his recklessness had left him bleeding and broken. She wouldn't carry his lost things to him anymore, wouldn't make it easier for him to forget how close death had come. If he wanted the amulet back, he would have to face what it cost him. She launched into the air and turned toward camp, already planning which path would force him past the stone circle. Griff chose the twisted tree that overlooked the main trail, the one with branches that grew together like woven fingers. From this perch she could watch both the stone circle and the path Marcus always took toward the high country. She settled onto the highest branch and went completely still. When he came this way—and he would, because he never listened—she would make sure he saw the silver glint in the circle below. She would dive at his head if she had to, force him to look down at the place that almost became his grave. Her talons gripped the bark. This time he would remember. This time she would make him understand that staying alive mattered more than whatever pulled him toward danger.

Marcus had not come. Three days Griff waited on the twisted tree, watching the trail and the stone circle below, but he never appeared. She flew back to camp twice each day to check if he'd taken a different route, but each time she found him near the tents, repairing gear or talking with others. On the fourth morning, she found the tracks. Four wide pads pressed into the mud near the water barrel, each one the size of Marcus's palm. The rear print showed the drag mark of a dewclaw. Griff went completely still on the tent pole above. Mountain lion. The same kind that had ambushed Marcus two winters ago, the one that left three claw marks across his shoulder before she drove it off. She lifted into the air and followed the tracks northeast, away from camp. They led her up a rocky slope to a narrow gap between two boulders. Beyond it, arranged in a rough pile against the stone, sat dozens of skulls. Deer, elk, smaller animals she couldn't name. All bleached white by sun and time. The mountain lion had claimed this territory and marked it with death. Griff's wings faltered. The stone circle didn't matter anymore. The amulet didn't matter. Marcus would come this way eventually, following some trail or chasing some goal, and the lion would be waiting. She couldn't force him to remember the past when the present was already hunting him. Griff circled back toward camp, scanning the ground. She found the kill site in a ravine below the skull pile. A dark red pool spread across the rocks, still wet in the center. Bones jutted from the crimson like broken teeth. Fresh. The mountain lion had fed here within the last day, maybe less. She landed on a boulder above the blood and called out three sharp cries. Death above. The warning echoed off the rocks, but no one was close enough to hear. Marcus couldn't avoid what he didn't know was coming. She launched skyward and flew straight for camp. This time she wouldn't wait for him to walk past a stone circle or notice a lost amulet. This time she would land on his shoulder and scream warnings until he listened, or until she drove him away from this place herself. Protection meant more than memory. It meant keeping him alive today. But when she reached camp, Marcus was gone. His pack sat near the tent, but his water flask and knife were missing. Griff shrieked and circled higher, searching the trails. There—a figure moving through the trees, heading northeast. Toward the skull pile. Toward the lion's territory. She dove hard, wings folded tight, and struck his shoulder with her talons extended. Marcus stumbled and turned, his hand raised to shield his face. She hit him again, driving him backward down the trail. He shouted something she didn't care to understand. She kept hitting him, forcing him step by step away from the northeast path. Finally he retreated toward camp, cursing and waving his arms. Griff landed on a branch between him and the direction he'd been walking. She spread her wings wide and went completely still. Marcus stared at her for a long moment, then looked past her toward the northeast. His hand moved to his shoulder where the old scars lay hidden beneath his shirt. He turned and walked back to camp. Griff stayed on the branch until he disappeared into his tent, then flew to the amulet in the stone circle and carried it back. She dropped it on his tent flap where he couldn't miss it. Some memories weren't meant to teach lessons. Some were meant to be kept close like talismans against the darkness. She found a small faceted crystal near the kill site earlier, shaped like a heart and still clean despite the blood nearby. She'd carried it back in her beak, and now she buried it beneath the tent corner where Marcus slept. A reminder for herself of what she'd almost lost twice, and what she would fight to keep.