“The interior is stable. The exterior is where threats manifest.”
Her jaw tightens—not quite a clench, more like a gathering of resolve. “I don’t take orders from dragons.”
“This isn’t an order. It’s tactical advice. You may ignore it and die, or you may follow it and survive until morning. The choice is yours.”
I watch her weigh the options. She doesn’t trust me—wise, given that we met hours ago when I erased a dozen of her attackers without explanation or introduction. But she’s practical. Survival has made her practical in ways that transcend pride or independence.
“Thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes.”
She holds my gaze for a count of three, then turns and disappears into the shelter’s interior. I wait until I hear her footsteps stop, until I sense her taking a defensible position with sightlines to the entrance, until I’m certain she’s heeded the advice I offered.
Then I move.
The perimeter ward is real—I wouldn’t lie about defensive necessities—but it requires only fifteen minutes to place.The remaining time I use to sweep the surrounding terrain, eliminating minor threats before they can coalesce into major ones. A nest of ash-touched creatures that have made a burrow near the shelter’s eastern wall. A patch of corrupted ground that shows signs of imminent collapse. The fading traces of Choir activity from weeks or months ago, ritual residue that could attract attention.
I erase all of it.
