I glance down at the swelling, then back at him. “Is that concern? I didn’t think Oblivion dragons did concern.”
“It’s not concern. It’s observation. You’re slower injured. Slower prey is easier to catch.”
“I’m not prey.”
“No.” His expression changes—infinitesimal, but present. “You’re not.”
He moves toward me, and every instinct I possess screams danger. My magic flares without conscious thought, Termination rising to meet potential threat.
He stops.
The void in his eyes deepens slightly, responding to my power. For one stretched moment, we stand at the edge of violence—two creatures made for endings, each capable of unmaking the other.
Then the moment passes.
“I won’t harm you.” His voice carries no inflection, but the words have weight. “You have information about the Choir’s operations. This makes you valuable.”
“Valuable.”
“Alive.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be reassuring. It was meant to be accurate.”
He extends one scarred hand—palm up, an offer rather than a demand.
I stare at it for a long moment. The branching scars on his skin are pale against the dark bronze, marking where his own power has touched him. We carry similar marks, he and I. The physical costs of ending things that should be eternal.
I take his hand.
His grip is cool and steady, lifting me with controlled strength that speaks of centuries of practice. My ankle screams protest. I ignore it.
“How are you doing that?” I demand.
“Doing what?”
“The ash. It’s calmer when you’re close. I’ve never—” I stop myself before I can admit how strange this is. How unprecedented. “It has never responded to my presence this way.”
He looks at me—really looks, for the first time since he emerged from the storm.
“I don’t know.”
The honest answer surprises me more than a lie would have. Dragons don’t admit ignorance. They posture, dominate, and control every narrative. They don’t sayI don’t knowlike it’s a simple statement of fact.
“It hasn’t happened before.”
He releases my hand and steps back, creating professional distance between us.
I notice.
“The Choir will regroup by dawn.” He’s already moving, gathering my dropped pack with efficient motions. “There’s a collapsed structure four miles north that provides defensible shelter. Can you walk?”
“I can walk.”
“Can you walk four miles on that ankle?”
I grit my teeth. “I can do what needs to be done.”
