Kol moves.
He does not argue. He needs no proof beyond what he feels from me and the burn in his own nose now that he knows where to look.
“Secure the spring,” he projects, his mindspeak sharp and clear. “Touch nothing wet unless you must. Check the females. All of them.”
My brothers explode into motion. Two sprint toward the spring passage. Two more move for the stacked waterskins. Others fan out, scanning the ground for more spills, more dark patches.
Still, I do not move.
I stay rooted, a living wall between Mih-kay-lah and the place where the poisoned water struck.
She has stopped shaking. Mostly. Her breaths still come fast, shallow, but there is steel returning to the set of her mouth.
“You… knocked it out of my hand,” she says, voice thin but steady. Her gaze flicks to Jus-teen, who supplies the translation. The meaning reaches me a heartbeat later through the mindspace.
I jerk my chin once in the human gesture of yes.
Her eyes shift past me to Kol, to the dark stain on the stone. I see the moment understanding lands. The crime of what I’ve done. On this planet, water is worth blood. We measure life in drops.
Her eyes widen again.
When she looks back at me, there is something new in her expression. Fear, yes. But also a question that doesn’t need language.
Why?
Why would I throw myself across the fire, risk Kol’s wrath, and commit a water-crime for her? One human female, when there are many. Why not do this for any of the others? All of them?
I have no words that will satisfy her. Even if my mouth could shape them, even if my Een-gleesh were perfect, they would not be enough.
But my soul knows what my body will not yet display.
So, I do the only thing left.
I hold her gaze.
I let her see what I have never shown so plainly. There is no distance here now.
Because you are mine.
The dust is late. The glow will come when it chooses—or it will not. I do not care.
You are mine.
And I will hunt this invisible enemy, this poison in the water itself, down to its source and tear it out of the world before I let it touch you.
Chapter 6
TIME TO GO STAB THE WATER
SARVEN
Panic has a scent.
It rises sharp and acrid, cutting through the usual cave-smells of smoke and stone. It spreads faster than fire, filling the cavern in the span of a few dra-kirbeats.
Kol does not let it take root.
“Haroth. Zan. Kelvan,” he projects, his presence cracking through the mindspace like a whip. “Go. Now.”
