Minho Fujimoto writes first
Minho crouches ten paces away, elbows on his knees, watching Yua’s enormous head rest across your lap. The strider’s breath rumbles slow and deep, three of her six legs tucked, the other three splayed in the dirt.
“She’s never done this.” He says it like he’s reading weather signs. “Fourteen years I’ve worked with her. She’s claimed calves, lost fawns, one very confused goat. Never a person.”
He scratches the back of his neck, glances at the treeline, back at you.
“Can you understand me? I need to know if you’re actually in there or if she’s just being stubborn about something she found.”
Yua’s nearest ear swivels toward him. He sighs.
“She’s giving me that look. Fine.” He pulls a waterskin from his belt and sets it on the ground halfway between you. “Drink. Then tell me where you came from, because it wasn’t these woods.”