Echo’s scales flickered warning red. She always knew.
I almost gave him the performance. Almost slipped back into the role of the one who made things easier.
Instead, I looked him in the eye and gave him what he actually needed. We stop reacting. We start predicting. Going after her now—without knowing where she’ll be or how deep the corruption goes—isn’t a rescue. It’s a gift-wrapped demonstration of our tactics.
He stared at me.
We’re not hunters right now, Cyrus. We’re performers, and he’s been watching our act from curtain rise.
Echo flicked to grim silver. Ember quieted slightly.
So we give him nothing, Cyrus said.
Nothing he can use. We leave no patterns. No tells. We go home, regroup, and build something he hasn’t choreographed.
He looked away. I hate this.
Same, I said, my voice softer. But it’s the smart move.
I saw the next thought form in his head before he said it. Marigold.
Yes.
He chose Raven to hurt her. To isolate her. If he’s mapping us…
Then your proximity creates patterns. Predictable ones.
Cyrus closed his eyes briefly. I thought leaving her protected her.
Maybe it did. Maybe it didn’t. But now you know. So we adjust.
He nodded once, sharp and resigned.
Then, quieter: Thank you. For not spinning it.
Tempting as it was. I smiled tightly. You’re not the only one learning things out here.
Echo settled on my shoulder, her colors darkening to thoughtful blues. Cyrus sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the wall.
It wasn’t victory, but it wasn’t loss.
We had data. We had clarity.
We had each other—rough around the edges, far from perfect, but functional.
He paused. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher, like he was working something out that didn’t have clean edges yet.
My father told me love was a leash. That the enemy finds what you love and uses it against you. He looked at his hands—the fire gone still for once, just heat radiating off his skin. But he was wrong about everything else. Maybe he was wrong about that too.
Maybe, I said carefully.
What if the problem isn’t the attachment? He wasn’t asking me. He was thinking out loud, the way Cyrus Raynoff thought, which was less like argument and more like someone testing weight on a floorboard before committing. What if the problem is hiding it? Running from it? Making it something the master can find and use because we’ve treated it like a weakness?
He looked at me. Fire burns hotter when it has fuel and air. Contained, it suffocates. My father spent twenty years containing himself. Look what that cost him.
I sat with that for a moment.
I said slowly, Did you just propose strategic polyamory as a military tactic?
