The silence stretches. The fire pops and hisses, ash-touched flames dancing in patterns that don’t follow natural physics. Outside, the darkness presses against the shelter’s walls, and I can feel the Reach’s hunger—patient, eternal, waiting for wards to fail and prey to expose itself.
“I won’t be delivering you to the Ashen Flight.”
The words emerge before I can examine their implications. Her eyebrows rise—the first genuine expression of surprise I’ve seen from her.
“That is an option?”
“It should have been.” I give nothing away, though the confusion beneath my control is considerable. “You represent a significant strategic asset. Standard protocol requires reporting and delivery of anomalous magical resources.”
“But you won’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Because the thought of others touching her produces a reaction I don’t understand. Because somewhere between the ritual site and this shelter, I made a decision that has no rational basis.
“You’re more useful as an independent operative.” The lie sounds hollow even to my ears. “The Choir wants you. Your continued freedom will draw their attention, create opportunities for elimination.”
One corner of her mouth lifts, edged with what might be respect or might be challenge. “I appreciate the honesty, at least.”
Some truths aren’t ready for speaking, and others should never be spoken at all. Instead, I watch her retrieve her boot and resume her mending, her fingers steady and sure on the needle.
Her hair has dried from the earlier ash exposure, curling more freely now around her face and shoulders. The firelight catches copper and gold in the strands as she moves.
Fuck. I’m noticing too much. The way she holds her needle, the way her breathing slows as she focuses on delicate work, the way her lips press in concentration when a stitch requires particular care.
These aren’t tactical observations. These aren’t data points. These are the kind of details assassins can’t afford to collect.
“You should sleep.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Dawn will require travel through unstable terrain. Rest while the wards hold.”
She finishes her current stitch before responding. “What about you?”
“I will maintain watch.”
“All night?”
“Sleep is optional for my kind. I will rest when circumstances permit.”
She studies me again, and I see the calculation happening—determining whether she can trust me enough to sleep in my presence, weighing the risks of vulnerability against the cost of exhaustion.
“If you wanted me dead, you would have let the Choir take me.”
“Correct.”
“And you need me alive to be useful as your weapon.”
“Also correct.”
She nods once, then sets aside her mended boot and shifts position, arranging her pack as a pillow and stretching out on the floor with her back to the fire. Her good ankle crosses over the damaged one, a position that would allow quick movement if needed.
Even settling down to rest, she prepares for violence.
“Arax.”
My name in her voice produces an unexpected response—a flicker of sensation in the space behind my ribs where emotions are supposed to live. I buried that space lifetimes ago. It shouldn’t be flickering.
“Yes.”
