A few days after Jack was strong enough to leave his bed, Kleo moved him to a larger space where they would be more comfortable. Her wounds were recovered, but a lingering weariness clung to her—the aftermath of countless hours spent caring for Jack and praying for his recovery.

  The first days had been the hardest, filled with uncertainty and moments where she doubted whether he would ever wake. Yet he had, and now she focused on seeing him regain his strength.

  Their new quarters, though modest, were made comfortable by the efforts of the Woog villagers, who were determined to honor the pair for what they had done. Still groggy and out of touch with the world around him, Jack remained unaware of the fuss.

  The Woogs considered Jack a hero of the highest order—a vaulted figure of legend.

  During the day, Kleo doted on Jack, ensuring he had warm meals and fresh water. She helped him take his first tentative steps around their shared space, his progress slow but steady. In the evenings, they would sit side by side, talking in hushed tones and laughing as he tried to piece together his memories of the battle.

  At night, when Jack finally succumbed to sleep, Kleo would linger a little longer, watching him with a mixture of love and relief before Bitter took over as his silent sentinel. The wolf seemed to relish the role, lying close enough to the bed to stir at the slightest sound.

  Beyond their small sanctuary, life in the village buzzed with excitement. Each evening, the Woogs gathered in the central square, eager for Kleo to recount the story of their confrontation with the dark witch. To the Woogs, storytelling was more than entertainment—it was an act of preservation. They rarely wrote anything down, and each retelling became part of their tribal history, passed from generation to generation. As such, the Battle with the Dark Witch—as they had named it—was retold with fervor, each Woog striving to memorize every word.

  Kleo preferred her name for the wretched day: Fuck that Bitch.

  In the village, the story had taken on a life of its own, embellished with each retelling. Though Kleo had tried to maintain accuracy, it didn’t take long to realize that the Woogs were more interested in the spirit of the tale rather than its precise details. In their version, Jack’s desperate fight and sacrifice became an epic duel against impossible odds, and his final desperate attack, the one that ended the witch, was considered divine retribution. By the time Cedric—one of the village’s most respected storytellers—departed to share the tale with other Woog villages, it was already a full-blown legend.

  Jack’s fame spread far beyond the village, though he remained blissfully unaware. For now, his world was smaller: Kleo, the wolf, and the warmth of a community that had embraced him as one of their own.

  It had been ten days since Jack’s battle with the Dark Witch, and though far from recovered, he felt functional enough to face the world outside his small room. His excitement to rejoin the Woogs was palpable; being confined to bed rest had drained his patience, and he longed for a change of scenery and some sense of normalcy.

  Kleo helped him into clean clothes, her hands deft and gentle. He caught her smiling at him as she adjusted his collar.

  “You look good,” she said, brushing a stray curl from his forehead.

  Jack grinned. “I bet you say that to all your mana-sick husbands.”

  “Only the ones that look good,” she said with a mischievous smile.

  Once dressed, Jack moved to the door, but Bitter stood in his way, a low growl rumbling from the wolf’s throat.

  “Not yet, handsome,” Kleo called behind the privacy curtain. “Be patient.”

  Jack frowned, giving the wolf a menacing glare and threatened with a pointed finger. Bitter sat, his tail thumping against the floor with a smug finality. Defeated, Jack turned and sank back into the chair with an exaggerated huff.

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  When Kleo finally emerged, Jack’s breath caught in his throat. She wore a crimson dress that hugged her slender frame in all the right places, the black buttons and hemline accents adding elegance. Her hair, gathered in a single intricate braid, accented her face. How she looked at him—eyes sparkling with warmth—made his heart ache in the best possible way.

  “You… you look amazing,” he said, standing. “That dress—wow. I love it.”

  Kleo twirled, showing off the outfit. “The Woogs made it for me. They did a pretty good job.”

  Jack nodded, still stunned. “Better than pretty good. It looks familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Don’t think about it too hard.”

  A knock at the door broke the moment, and Bitter’s ears perked up as he turned toward the sound.

  “Time to go,” Kleo said, taking Jack’s hand. She leaned in close before he could open the door, her lips brushing his ear. “Do you know how I know you love this dress?”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “How?”

  “Because the moment I put it on, all you can think about is taking it off.”

  She gave a sly smile, swatting him lightly on the backside as she stepped away.

  Jack chuckled, pulling the door open to reveal four young Woogs holding musical instruments—two with flutes and two with drums of varying sizes.

  “Uh…” Jack blinked. “Can I help you?”

  Kleo stepped forward. “They’re here for us. We’re going for a walk. Everyone’s excited to see you’re up and about.”

  Jack cast her a sidelong glance. “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

  Kleo’s expression was unreadable, though a mischievous glint in her eye betrayed her amusement.

  “Relax and enjoy it. Bitter, you coming?”

  The wolf rose, stretching before nosing Jack forward with a firm shove. Jack stumbled out the door, his curiosity mounting as Kleo organized the musicians into a parade formation.

  When it dawned on him what was happening, he groaned inwardly. A parade? For me? Oh, this is going to be embarrassing.

  As they entered the main thoroughfare, Jack’s anxiety spiked. Villagers lined the path, cheering and tossing flowers into the air at the first sight of the procession. The musicians played with gusto, their flutes trilling and drums pounding a lively rhythm that seemed to electrify the crowd.

  Jack, walking hand in hand with Kleo, felt awkward under the adoring gazes of the Woogs, but Kleo’s radiant smile made it impossible not to feel proud. She waved enthusiastically to the villagers, her joy infectious.

  Jack smiled despite himself, his heart swelling at her obvious delight.

  Cries of "Jack!" and "Thank you, Jack!" echoed from both sides, along with heartfelt cheers of "We love you, Miss Kleo!"

  Two young Woog girls darted forward to present Kleo with a bouquet of wildflowers. She knelt to kiss each girl on the cheek before returning to Jack’s side, holding the bouquet like a queen.

  In the crowd, Jack caught sight of Rhonda, who stepped forward holding a suggestively shaped gourd. She winked before tossing it to him. Jack grabbed it reflexively; his confusion was evident.

  “What’s that about?” Kleo asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “No idea,” Jack lied, tucking the gourd under his arm.

  “I think she likes you,” Kleo teased, her smirk playful.

  “What’s not to like?” Jack quipped.

  They both laughed as the parade came to a stop before the chieftain. He stood atop a small platform flanked by the village elders. Behind him loomed a new bungalow, grander than any other in the village.

  The chieftain raised his hands, motioning for silence.

  “Today,” he began, his voice resonant and proud, “we honor Kleo, Jack, and Bitter—not only as visitors, not only as friends, but as family and members of the Ulgar clan.”

  The crowd roared its approval, the energy palpable. Jack, overwhelmed by the attention, stood, nodding and offering small waves. Kleo squeezed his arm, her gaze steady and reassuring.

  The chieftain continued, “And today, we present them with a home—a permanent place in our village. They will always have a place among us, whether here or afar.”

  The crowd erupted again, and Jack felt Kleo’s arm tighten around his. But as the cheers subsided, an expectant hush fell over the assembly.

  The chieftain stepped forward, holding a gleaming dagger in both hands. The blade caught the sunlight, its intricate engravings shimmering like a constellation.

  “And to our hero, Jack, the man who stood against the Dark Witch, we bestow the Sacred Blade of the Ulgar Clan. May it serve as a symbol of your courage and selfless sacrifice and always be a reminder of your place among us.”

  The chieftain knelt, presenting the dagger, and the village followed suit, falling to one knee in reverence.

  Jack hesitated, his voice a whisper. “Battle with the Dark Witch?”

  Kleo nudged him hard. “Not now,” she murmured.

  Clearing his throat, Jack stepped forward. He took the dagger reverently, his voice steady as he addressed the crowd.

  “There’s no greater honor than being called a friend. And now, to be called family… I’m truly humbled. Kleo and I will carry you, our family, wherever we go. Thank you. From the bottom of our hearts—thank you.”

  Raising the blade high, he shouted, “Clan Ulgar!”

  The villagers roared in response, their chant echoing through the village.

  As the celebration continued, Jack leaned close to Kleo. “Later, when we’re alone, you will explain all this, right?”

  Kleo smiled, kissing his cheek. “Of course, dear.”