“And you? What do you want?”
The question hung between us. He could lie. Could tell me he was here to protect me, to honor Torek’s memory, to be a hero. The kind of pretty words people used when they wanted something.
“The same thing,” he said. “The fifth key.”
Honest. I hadn’t expected honest.
“The difference,” he continued, “is that I’m not willing to kill you to get it.”
“How do I know that?”
“You don’t.” He held my gaze. “But I’ve been here three days. I could have searched the property by force. Could have torn this place apart while you slept. I didn’t.”
“Because you need me to find it.”
“Because Torek trained me. And I won’t dishonor that by hurting someone he chose to protect.”
The words hit me somewhere soft. Somewhere I’d been trying to keep armored.
I looked away. Looked at the fire, the flames dancing orange and gold. Looked at the quilts folded over Torek’s chair, the ones I’d made during long winter nights while he told me stories about the wars he’d fought and the students he’d trained.
“He talked about you sometimes,” I said. “Especially toward the end.”
The Vinduthi went still. Not the combat stillness I’d seen before. Something else. Something almost vulnerable.
“What did he say?”
“That you were the best he’d ever trained. That you’d become something remarkable.” I made myself look at him. “He called you the ghost boy. Said you could disappear into shadows so deep that even he couldn’t find you.”
“He taught me how.”
“He wanted you to know he was proud of you. He said... he said if you ever came here, I should tell you.”
The silence stretched. I watched something move across his face, too fast and too complicated to read. Grief, maybe. Or something older than grief. The expression of someone who’d been carrying a weight for years and had just been told they could set part of it down.
“Thank you,” he said. His voice was rough. “For telling me.”
I nodded. Didn’t trust myself to speak.
The fire crackled. Turnip shifted by the door, his armor plates scraping against the floor. Outside, the sun continued to rise, painting the gray-green sky in shades of gold.
We sat in silence for a long time. Not uncomfortable. Just... present. Two people who’d lost the same person, sharing the same grief in the same room.
The sigils curved across his cheekbones like brushstrokes. I wondered what they felt like. Raised? Smooth? I reached for my tea and stopped wondering.
Eventually, I stood. Went to the stove. Started pulling out ingredients.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Making breakfast.” I cracked eggs into a bowl. “You’ve been eating field rations and cold food for three days. That stops now.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” I looked at him over my shoulder. “I’m doing it anyway.”
He didn’t argue. Just sat at the table, watching me work, his hands wrapped around his tea.
I cooked. Eggs from my strange hens. Bread I’d baked two days ago. Preserves from the cold storage, dark and sweet.
