She absorbs this information with the practical consideration I’ve come to expect. No panic, no distress, only the calm evaluation of facts that will inform her next decisions.
“The core?”
“Collapsed completely. No residue. The Choir’s investment in that location has permanently ended.”
She nods, then attempts to push herself upright. Her arms tremble with the effort. Her face goes pale with the exertion. She manages to achieve a seated position through sheer stubbornness, but the cost is visible in the sweat beading on her forehead and the rapid flutter of her pulse.
“Don’t.”
The word emerges sharper than intended. She freezes mid-motion, her attention snapping to me with sudden intensity.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t push yourself. Your reserves are depleted. Your body requires rest, not activity.”
Her expression shifts—reading me, assessing me the way I’ve assessed her throughout the night. Her gaze drops to my hands, to the newly healed skin across my knuckles, to the faint discoloration that even dragon regeneration hasn’t fully erased.
“What happened to your hands?”
“Irrelevant.”
“Arax.”
When she speaks my name, the familiar effect takes hold—response bypassing defenses I’ve spent lifetimes building. She sees my hands. She sees the evidence of the violence I inflicted on myself. She’s drawing conclusions I can’t afford to confirm.
“The shelter wall required modification for defensive purposes.”
The lie is transparent. We both know it. She studies me for a long moment, her gray eyes searching for truths I’m not prepared to offer.
“How bad is it?”
The question could reference many things. My hands. The military situation. The state of the Reach. But I understand what she’s asking. How bad is the thing between us? How close to the edge? How dangerous has the obsession become?
“Manageable.”
Another lie. Another transparency. She doesn’t call me on it, but I see the knowledge settle into her expression—awareness that the ground has shifted, that the already-unstable equilibrium between us has destabilized further.
“The Cardinal.”
She accepts the change of subject, and I’m grateful for it. “Intelligence suggests the Cardinal will surface soon. The loss of the Feleth Crossing engine requires a leadership response. I’ve requested comprehensive data on the target’s patterns. When they appear, I intend to be positioned for elimination.”
“You’re hunting them.”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“If necessary.”
Her jaw tightens. Not anger—determination. The expression I’ve learned to recognize as the precursor to her most stubborn decisions.
“Not alone.”
“Tanith—”
“Not alone.” She holds my gaze with the same intensity that stopped me in my tracks at the ritual site, the same unwavering steadiness that has defined every interaction since. “You don’t get to run off on a suicide mission while I’m too weak to follow. That was the agreement.”
I can point out that her current state makes her a liability, that protecting her while simultaneously hunting the most dangerous target in the Reach is an impossible tactical burden. That her presence increases the risk exponentially.
