The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not a smile, but something close to acknowledgment.
Silence settles between us again, thicker but not uncomfortable. A warm breeze blows in from the desert, carrying bits of sand. The camp murmurs behind us, distant enough to feel unreal.
“What are you carving?” I ask.
His blade stills and for a long moment, he doesn’t answer. I start to think I’ve crossed some invisible line when he finally speaks.
“My Mudrosti.”
I don’t have any idea what that Urr’ki word means so I wait.
“It’s a record,” he continues after a pause. “Of what matters.”
“That’s… concise,” I say.
“It’s not meant to be understood by others.”
I nod, absorbing that.
“Then I won’t ask what it means.” He glances up quickly as if he hadn’t expected restraint. I gesture toward the stick anyway. “I am wondering when you carve on it.”
His fingers tighten around it slightly. “At turning points.”
That makes sense. The council. The children. The city that may or may not exist. The direction everything has shifted without asking our permission.
“And this is one of those?” I ask quietly.
His jaw flexes and he doesn’t answer for a long, pregnant moment.
“No,” he says.
I don’t push. Instead, I sit on a nearby stone, careful to leave space between us. Close enough to speak without raising my voice. Hopefully far enough to not intrude.
“You don’t have to like this,” I say after a moment. “But it’s happening.”
“I’m aware.”
“You objected.”
“I objected to you going unguarded.”
“That’s not what you said.”
His blade resumes its slow path through the wood. “It’s what I meant.”
I watch his hands as he works. Strong. Scarred. Steady in a way that speaks of long discipline rather than ease.
“You don’t trust me,” I say.
He looks up then, fully this time. “I trust you with the children.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Another pause. This one heavier. He stares at the stick in his hand as if weighing the words he wants to say. I can’t tell if it’s because he’s unsure what to say or if he’s trying to be nice. He looks up, meeting my eyes and I could almost swear there is a fire burning in his.
“I don’t trust what draws attention,” he says at last. “And you do.”
I swallow, unsure why that stings more than it should.
