That gets his attention. He turns, fully this time.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“No,” I agree. “But you implied I needed watching.”
“I implied you needed protection.”
“Those aren’t the same thing?”
“They are when the result is the same.”
I cross my arms, irritation sparking despite my intention to stay calm.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
He studies me, gaze steady and unflinching. “The council already did.”
“That was about logistics,” I snap. “Not about whether I’m capable.”
His brow furrows slightly. “This is not about your capability.”
“Then what is it about?” I demand.
He exhales through his nose, a controlled release that tells me I’ve stepped on something sharp.
“You are too valuable,” he says.
I frown, unsure how to take that. The words aren’t what I expected and they’re too open to interpretation. They make me feel… less and I don’t like that at all.
“I am not a resource,” I say tightly.
“That is not what I meant.”
“It’s what you said.”
Silence stretches, taut and brittle.
“You stand where lines intersect,” he says at last. “Children. Leadership. The land itself. If something happens to you?—”
“—then what?” I cut in. “Everything falls apart?”
His jaw tightens. “Yes.”
The certainty in his voice hits harder than fear would have. I stare at him, pulse pounding. I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.”
“That’s not reassuring,” I say. “That’s reckless.”
His eyes flash. “You think I don’t know reckless?”
“I think,” I say slowly, choosing my words with care, “that you’re projecting danger because it’s easier than admitting uncertainty.”
The silence that follows is heavy and not just between us.
“You mistake caution for fear,” he says coldly.
