“No.”
My gaze shifts to her.
“Elowen—”
“I am not leaving.”
“This is no longer a question of pride,” I reply evenly. “It is a question of survival.”
“This is my home,” she counters, her voice tightening. “I am not abandoning it because a handful of frightened men decided to start a mob.”
“A mob with torches can burn more than a shed,” I say.
“And running away will only prove them right.”
The lifeline sparks with stubborn defiance. I exhale slowly, forcing down the instinctive irritation that rises in response.
“You misunderstand,” I tell her calmly. “If we leave, it is not retreat.”
“Oh?” she says, folding her arms. “What would you call it?”
“Strategic relocation before I am forced to reduce half this village to ash.”
She glares at me.
“That is not helpful.”
“It is accurate.”
She turns away briefly, looking toward the distant flames beyond the rooftops. When she speaks again her voice is softer, but no less certain.
“If I run now, they will never stop believing I’m guilty.”
“They already believe it,” I say bluntly.
She flinches slightly but does not look away from the fire.
“Maybe,” she admits. “But if I stay… maybe that changes.”
Stubborn. Infuriatingly brave. And absolutely immovable once she decides something matters.
“Besides, do you think they’ll come here,” she says quietly.
“Absolutley.”
“And you?”
I glance down at her.
“What about me?”
“Will you let them?”
A faint smile returns.
“No.”
She studies my expression.
