I won’t let her die. Can’t.
The thought comes unexpectedly. Dangerous.
I push it aside and focus on practical concerns. “We conserve resources. Minimal light. Minimal movement. Wait for the tremors to stop, then reassess.”
“So we just sit here. In the dark. For hours.”
“Yes.”
I expect argument. Panic. The breakdown that anyone would be entitled to in this situation.
Instead, she just nods once. “Okay.”
That quiet acceptance makes the tightness in my chest worse.
The mountain groans, a deep, subsonic rumble that sends dust raining from the ceiling. Ember tenses but doesn’t reach for me. Just tightens her grip on her own knees and rides it out.
When it fades, she releases a careful breath.
“That’s the fourth one,” I say.
“You’re counting?”
“Always.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Do you ever stop? Monitoring everything?”
“No.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s survival.”
“It’s also lonely.”
The observation hits closer than it should. I don’t answer.
Another silence. This one stretches until she breaks it.
“Tell me something,” she says. “Something that has nothing to do with tactics or survival or getting out of here.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Anything. I just—” She stops. Starts again. “I need to think about something other than being buried alive.”
Fair enough. Reasonable request.
My mind goes blank.
What do I talk about that isn’t mission-related? What conversation do I have with Vanya’s daughter that won’t cross lines I’m already dancing too close to?
“Venice,” I say finally. “1723. When I got this.” I touch the scar along my jaw.
“The knife fight.”
“You remember.”
“I remember everything you’ve told me.” She shifts slightly, turning toward me. “What happened?”
