FOURTEEN
TANITH
The meeting continues for another hour—deployment schedules, resource allocation, contingency planning. I participate where my knowledge is relevant and remain silent when it isn’t, absorbing the dynamics of dragon military operations. They’re efficient, brutal, and entirely unconcerned with the political niceties that human commanders waste time on.
I could learn to appreciate that.
When Vaelrix finally dismisses us, the tent empties rapidly. Dragons have little patience for lingering, and the operational tempo she’s established leaves no room for casual conversation. Within minutes, only Arax and I remain, standing on opposite sides of the map table.
“You corrected her.”
He doesn’t respond immediately. His attention remains on the map, tracing the anchor sites I identified with one finger.
“You corrected your commanding officer. In front of her entire staff. Over my name.”
“It was relevant.”
“Relevant how?”
He looks at me. His expression is as controlled as always, but I’ve spent enough time in close quarters with him to recognize the subtle tensions beneath the surface—the way his shoulders hold fractionally more tightness than usual, the way his focus on me has sharpened beyond professional necessity.
“You’re not ‘the witch.’ You’re not a designation or a resource classification. Using your name acknowledges your position as a participant in these operations rather than an object of them.”
“And that matters to you.”
“Yes.”
The admission is simple and devastating. He’s not explaining the tactical value of my name. He’s not rationalizing his behavior through strategic frameworks. He’s saying that it matters because I matter—that the distinction between my name and my designation is important to him personally.
He’s adapting to me.
He’s changing. For me. Because of me.
The thought should be gratifying. Instead, it terrifies me in ways I don’t want to examine.
“Walk with me.”
It’s not a request. I follow him out of the command tent and through the camp’s organized chaos, past supply stations and ward anchors and dragons moving with urgent purpose. He leads me toward the camp’s perimeter—not outside the wards, but close enough that the Reach’s pressure becomes tangible again.
We stop at an observation point overlooking the corrupted territory beyond. The ash spreads before us in endless gray waves, beautiful and deadly in the fading light.
“The precision strikes.” Arax sounds different out here—less flat, more textured. “You argued for them knowing they would result in cultist deaths.”
“I argued for them knowing the alternative would result in more deaths. It’s not complicated mathematics.”
“It’s not.” He turns to face me, and the closeness ignites heat along my nerves. “Most people find such mathematics… uncomfortable. They prefer to believe in solutions without cost.”
“I gave up on those years ago.”
“When?”
The question cuts deeper than he probably intends. I know what he’s asking—not the philosophical moment when I accepted the reality of impossible choices, but the specific event that taught me.
“You know when.”
“I know what you told me. I’m asking what you have not told me.”
I turn away from him, facing the Reach instead. The corrupted landscape offers no comfort, but it asks no questions either.
