“Someone else developed the techniques they’re using.”
“Or the techniques developed themselves. Magic in the Reach follows its own logic.” He turns his hand, and suddenly we’re not brushing—we’re touching. His palm against the back of my hand, deliberate and undeniable. “Corruption, given sufficient time and sufficient fuel, evolves toward efficiency. The Choir may believe they are driving the expansion. They may simply be servants of a process that would continue without them.”
Move away.
Break the contact and redirect to safer territory—tactical planning, route discussion, anything that doesn’t involve his skin against mine.
I don’t move.
“If that’s true, eliminating the Choir won’t stop the Reach.”
“Nothing will stop the Reach.” His fingers shift, tracing patterns across my knuckles that send lightning up my arm. “The question isn’t prevention. The question is how many survive the collapse.”
“That’s a dark outlook.”
“It’s an accurate outlook. Survival requires accepting reality, not wishing for alternatives.”
His touch continues—light, exploratory, as if he’s mapping the terrain of my hand the way I’ve been mapping the terrain of the Reach. I watch his fingers move and tell myself this means nothing. Professional proximity. Shared stress. The natural result of days spent in each other’s company with no one else to focus on.
The lies don’t hold.
My pulse has quickened. It hammers in my throat, in my wrists, in places I refuse to name. His touch isn’t innocent—can’t be, not with the deliberate precision he brings to everything. He’s choosing this. Choosing to trace the line of my knuckles, the spaces between my fingers, the sensitive skin of my inner wrist.
Stop this.
I don’t want to stop him.
“Arax.”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing?”
His hand stills on mine.
“Gathering data.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting.”
He withdraws his hand slowly, deliberately, leaving my skin cold where the contact ended. When I look up, his expression has returned to its usual controlled neutrality—but his eyes hold a heat that wasn’t there before.
The awareness builds. Not diminishing with distance—amplifying. Every inch of space between us feels charged.
“We should rest.” His voice has gone controlled again, but the roughness underneath remains. “Tomorrow requires travel through contested territory.”
“Contested by whom?”
“Choir cells. Ash-touched wildlife. The terrain itself.” He returns to his position against the far wall, restoring the space between us that should make this arrangement manageable. “The forward camps lie two days to the northeast. We will need to maintain peak efficiency.”
I gather my maps and return them to my pack, using the motion to steady my hands and calm the racing pulse his touch ignited.
I close my eyes and pretend the heat building in my core is a product of the dying fire rather than his proximity. The lie is transparent, but I commit to it anyway.
He has decided, through some logic I don’t understand, that my survival matters to him. The way his presence pushes against the Reach’s corruption creating a pocket of stability that extends to include me.
In the morning, we’ll walk back into the dying world. We’ll navigate contested territory, eliminate threats, and document the slow collapse of everything we’ve ever known.
