“There was a girl. In the Morrith Sovereignty, before the cascade. Ten years old, maybe eleven. She was already infected by the time I found the research facility—already transforming into one of the vectors they’d created.”
Arax says nothing. His silence isn’t absence but presence—attention given without demand.
“The curse was rewriting her from the inside out. She was still conscious, still aware of what was happening to her. She begged me to stop it. Begged me to save her.”
The memory rises like bile, and I let it. Some wounds need air to heal.
“I couldn’t save her. The curse was too integrated—removing it would have killed her anyway. But I could end it quickly. I could spare her the transformation, spare her from becoming a weapon that would spread the plague to everyone she touched.”
“You terminated her.”
“I terminated her.” The words taste like ash. “Ten years old. Looking up at me with eyes that still hoped I might find another way. And I ended her because the alternative was watching her become a monster, and then watching that monster create more monsters, and then watching those monsters spread until there was nothing left.”
“Does it get easier?”
“No.” The same answer he gave me in Niren Hollow, but it lands differently now. “But the capacity to carry it develops. You learn to function beneath the burden.”
“That’s not the same as easy.”
“No. It’s not.”
We stand in the dying light, neither needing to explain what the other already knows. The corrupted horizon stretches out, featureless and still. The camp hums behind us with preparations for strikes that will kill dozens to save hundreds of thousands.
“The way you argued in there.” His voice shifts, returning to a more neutral register. “You challenged Vaelrix’s approach directly. Most people don’t challenge dragon commanders.”
“Most people aren’t trying to prevent a regional collapse.”
“Others would have framed their objections more… diplomatically.”
“Diplomacy wastes time.” I shrug. “You wanted my expertise. That means accepting that I’m going to give it honestly, even when honesty is inconvenient.”
“I didn’t say it was inconvenient.”
“Your commanding officer’s expression suggested otherwise.”
His expression flickers—amusement crossed with resignation, there and gone in an instant.
“Vaelrix is… adjusting to your presence in operational discussions.”
“Is that a polite way of saying she doesn’t like having a human witch tell her she’s wrong?”
“It’s a factual observation.”
“Arax.” I step closer, closing the distance between us. A distance I would be smart to maintain. “Why am I here? Not the tactical justification—I know I have expertise the Flight lacks. But why am I standing in strategic planning sessions? Why am I being consulted on operations that have nothing to do with my protection?”
He doesn’t step back. Doesn’t create the distance that would make this conversation easier.
“Because your perspective has value.”
“My perspective on Choir ritual frameworks. Not my perspective on military strategy.”
“Your perspective on both.” His focus on me intensifies, that concentrated regard I’ve learned to recognize. “You see angles that dragon training doesn’t prepare us to consider. You think about survivors, about collateral implications, about consequences that extend beyond immediate mission objectives.”
“You’re saying I make you think about mercy.”
“I’m saying you make me think about choices. About the difference between endings that serve purpose and endings that merely conclude.”
“This is reckless.” The words emerge before I can stop them.
