The security guard she pushed to safety is staring at us, eyes wide, a trickle of blood down his temple. My glamour has half-reknit itself in the chaos—the wings are gone, at least—but I can feel the edges fraying.
“Go,” I tell the man, voice sharpened with compulsion. “Call emergency services. Tell them you had ‘another minor slide.’ Nothing more. Do you understand?”
He nods too fast, scrambles to his feet, and bolts.
Alina twists in my arms to glare up at me.
“Did you just Jedi mind-trick him?” she demands.
“I corrected his perception,” I say. “Your kind is not ready to see what truly walks along their fault lines.”
She snorts, then winces as the adrenaline hits her all at once.
I loosen my hold enough to look her over.
No blood. No obvious injuries.
A smudge of dirt on her cheek, hair wild around her face, eyes blazing.
She has never looked more like mine.
“You run toward collapsing structures,” I say, unable to keep the edge out of my voice. “You ignore orders. You risk yourself for another with no hesitation.”
She bristles.
“Oh, I’m sorry, next time I’ll let a guy get crushed because some random Demon Lord told me to stay put.”
“You are not trained for war,” I snap.
She jabs a finger into my chest.
“I am trained for emergencies,” she fires back. “I’ve done disaster assessments, rescue coordination, triage. I’ve pulled people out of sinkholes and flood zones. You think this is the first time the ground tried to kill someone in front of me?”
The anger in her scent is sharp.
So is the fear under it.
Not for herself.
For others.
I swallow down a fresh surge of reluctant respect.
“You act like a first responder,” I say quietly. “Not a civilian.”
She lifts her chin.
“Yeah, well. Someone’s gotta.”
The earth under our feet sighs.
It recognizes her.
So do I.
I take a breath, trying to cool the heat in my veins.
The Rooted Marches have been groaning for months.
