"I see things," I say. "Things other people can't."
She doesn't move. "What kind of things?"
"Lies." The word comes out flat. "Truths. They look different to me. Threads in the air—silver when they're honest, darker when they're not. Every lie someone tells, every truth they hide, every half-thing they believe about themselves. I see all of it."
Her breathing has stopped.
"You can—" She tries to turn and I hold her in place. "You can tell when people are lying?"
"I can tell everything. Whether they know they're lying. Whether they've lied so long they think it's true. Whether the lie is something small or something that's rotting them from the inside out." I press my forehead against the back of her skull. "I can't turn it off. It's always there. Every conversation, every interaction, every fucking person in a room—threads everywhere, tangled together, screaming."
She's very still.
"That's why they call you mad," she says quietly.
"That's why Iammad." No point softening it. "Centuries of noise. The world is built on lies. Every polite smile, every treaty, every marriage. Rot underneath. All of it."
"But you can't lie," she says slowly. "Can you? I've noticed—you deflect, you omit, but you never actually—"
"No." The word tastes bitter. "I can't. The words won't come."
She's quiet. I can feel her putting pieces together—every conversation we've had, every time I said something too honest, every time she waited for the lie that never came.
"That's why I'm different," she says. "Isn't it? That's why you—" She stops.
"Yes."
"Because I don't lie to you."
"Because you don't lie at all." My arms tighten. "You don't have threads. None. You think something and you say it and there's nothing underneath. No tangle. No noise. Just—quiet."
"You're the only quiet thing I've ever touched." I press my mouth against her hair. "And I am not sane enough to let that go."
She doesn't say anything for a long moment.
Then her hands come up to rest on my forearms. Not pushing away. Holding on.
"Órhal," I say.
"Yes."
"You're not going to tell me what it means."
"Not yet."
She makes a frustrated sound and I smile against her temple. The steam curls around us, thick and warm, and for a moment there's nothing but the water and her skin and the sound of her breathing.
She laughs. Shaky, but a laugh.
I let her go.
We dress in silence. I pull on what I came in—dark tunic, darker trousers—and she retrieves her dress from where it fell, the wine-red fabric still damp at the hem from the steam. I lace her up again, slower than necessary, and she lets me.
When we're both dressed, I move toward the door.
She follows. Not beside me—a step behind, her eyes on the back of my head. I can feel her thinking. Rearranging every conversation we've had. Every time I said something too blunt. Every time she braced for a lie that never came.
The corridors are quiet this deep in my territory. No guards. No staff. Just stone and silence and the sound of her footsteps behind mine, slightly faster than they need to be to keep up.
