“I knew where you were. The entire time. I didn’t have to look—I could feel your position, track your movements.” Her brow furrows. “That’s not a standard combat adaptation.”
“No.”
“Does it concern you?”
“It requires analysis.”
“That’s a yes.”
I don’t confirm or deny. The quiet extends, filled only by the distant sounds of the Reach—groaning terrain, shifting ash, the constant low pressure of corruption against my domain.
“We should rest.” I redirect to practical matters. “The battle depleted resources. Tomorrow we need to reach the forward camps and resupply.”
“The Ashen Flight camps.”
“Yes.”
“Where you could turn me over to your commanders and fulfill the protocol you mentioned.”
The words produce an immediate and violent rejection before I can examine the source of it.
My domain flares without conscious direction, erasure magic surging outward before I can contain it.
Tanith’s eyes widen. She felt it.
“Apparently not.” Her voice carries a note I can’t identify. “That wasn’t a controlled response.”
“No.”
“Your magic reacted to the idea of turning me over.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The question demands an answer I don’t have. I examine my response with detached scrutiny, searching for a rational explanation, finding none.
“The answer eludes me.”
“You keep saying that. For someone who operates on logic and precision, you seem to encounter a lot of unknowns when it comes to me.”
She’s correct. My behavior since encountering her at the ritual site has been characterized by irrational decisions, unexplained compulsions, and responses that contradict centuries of disciplined control.
The pattern suggests a conclusion I’m not prepared to examine.
“Rest.” I make the word a command, though I have no authority to command her. “We move at first light.”
Her eyes lock on mine for a long moment, and I see the analysis happening behind them—the same sharp scrutiny she applied during battle, now focused entirely on me.
“Arax.”
“Yes.”
“During the fight. When I went down from the backlash.” She pauses, choosing her words with care. “You were at my side before I finished falling.”
“Efficient response time is essential in combat situations.”
“That wasn’t efficiency. That was—” She stops herself, shaking her head. “Never mind. You’re right.”
She must stay where I can see her.
The thought surfaces without invitation, and I recognize it for what it is. Not tactical assessment. Not professional calculation.
Fixation.
