It does.
Because I am not merely observing it anymore.
I am using it.
And I am not certain whether that makes her a resource?—
Or something else entirely.
13
LYRIA
By the fourth time he shows up in my section in a single day, I stop pretending it’s coincidence.
The garden has its own rhythm—rotations, irrigation pulses, assigned labor cycles—and he does not belong to any of them, not really, which makes his presence stand out even when he’s doing nothing more than standing still. The air shifts when he’s here, not because something physical changes, but because people change. Conversations die early. Hands move faster or slower, depending on who’s watching. Even the guards tighten in subtle ways, like they’re bracing for something that hasn’t happened yet but probably will.
Except lately?—
It doesn’t.
I’m elbow-deep in a nutrient trench, the soil cool and slick against my skin where the irrigation has just cycled through, when I feel that shift again. Not sharp this time. Not like a blade pressing at the back of my neck.
Softer.
Familiar.
I don’t look up right away.
“Busy?” I mutter under my breath.
“No,” Skot replies from somewhere to my left, not turning his head. “But I would recommend appearing so.”
“Always do.”
“Do it better.”
I huff quietly and lean further into the trench, dragging my fingers through the root lines to separate a cluster that’s started binding too tight. The plants here give off a faint bitter scent when disturbed, something almost medicinal that sticks in the back of my throat.
Footsteps approach.
Unhurried.
He stops behind me.
I feel it before I hear it—the way the space settles around his presence, like everything has been forced to acknowledge him whether it wants to or not.
“Your section,” Verr says.
I don’t turn.
“Still alive,” I reply, working a stubborn root free. “Which, given the conditions, feels like a win.”
A pause.
“You quantify success in survival.”
“In this place?” I glance back over my shoulder at him. “Yeah. Kinda the baseline.”
