TWELVE
ARAX
Vaelrix gathers the intelligence documents and returns them to Syrren. “The Yael witch remains in your custody. You’re responsible for her security and her continued availability as an operational resource.” Her gaze sharpens. “Is that understood?”
“Understood.”
“Good. Syrren will provide updated intelligence on Choir movements. You’ll operate independently, reporting through standard channels.” She pauses, and when she speaks again, her voice carries a warning I don’t miss. “Whatever this is, Scaleleaf—whatever is happening with you—keep it controlled. The Flight can’t afford to lose either of you to complications.”
“There are no complications.”
“I hope you’re right.” She dismisses us with a gesture. “Syrren will show you to quarters. Brief in four hours.”
We exit the command tent into the camp’s chaotic activity. Syrren leads us toward the perimeter structures, its silence carrying the weight of observations they’re wisely choosing not to voice.
Tanith walks beside me. I feel her attention—questions she isn’t asking, conclusions she’s drawing in silence.
She says nothing.
The quarters Syrren provides are small—a single tent partitioned into sleeping and working areas, clearly designed for one occupant rather than two. Syrren glances between us, a reaction flickering in an expression I choose not to acknowledge.
“I’ll have additional bedding sent.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Scaleleaf—”
“The witch requires proximity protection. Separate quarters would compromise security.”
Syrren’s mouth opens, closes, opens again, clearly wanting to comment on the arrangement but has enough sense to recognize the futility.
“Intelligence briefing materials will be delivered within the hour. Commander Vaelrix expects your preliminary analysis by morning.”
“Understood.”
Syrren withdraws, leaving Tanith and me alone in the confined space. She surveys the quarters with the same analytical attention she applies to everything—evaluating exits, assessing defensibility, weighing the practical implications of our proximity.
She turns to face me, and her eyes hold a quality I can’t categorize. “You decided, and you informed Commander Vaelrix. At no point did my opinion enter the calculation.”
The decision formed and crystallized before conscious thought could intervene.
“Would you have refused?”
The question surprises both of us. I watch her process it, watch her consider her answer with the same careful deliberation she applies to all significant choices.
“No.”
“Then asking was unnecessary.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What’s the point?”
She moves deeper into the tent, examining the space we will share. Her fingers trail across the edge of a work table, the fold of a partition, the frame of the single cot that dominates the sleeping area.
“The point is that you assumed. You made decisions about my safety without my input, claimed responsibility for my protection without my consent, and arranged for us to share quarters without asking if that was acceptable.” She looks back at me.
She’s right.
