Of course he is.
Near the same place as before, like he hasn’t moved far since I left him.
Good.
That makes this easier.
“You didn’t answer me,” I say as I approach.
He doesn’t look surprised.
That annoys me more than it should.
“No,” he says.
I stop a few feet in front of him.
“That’s not how this works.”
His brow lifts slightly.
“Isn’t it?”
“No,” I say. “You don’t get to just…think about it while people die.”
His gaze sharpens.
“And you don’t get to dictate my decisions.”
“I’m not dictating,” I snap. “I’m pointing out what happens if you don’t make one.”
He watches me for a moment, quiet, measuring.
“Then explain it,” he says.
I step closer.
“Fine.”
The words come easier now, faster, because I’ve already worked through them in my head a dozen different ways.
“You lose outer villages first,” I say. “Not a big deal, right? They’re small, scattered, easy to replace.”
I gesture vaguely behind me, toward the world beyond the walls.
“But those villages feed the next layer in,” I continue. “Grain, livestock, labor—everything moves inward. You cut enough of that, and the pressure builds.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
Good.
“Then the inner routes start compensating,” I say. “They stretch thinner. Quotas go up. People break.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“And when that happens?” I press. “You don’t just lose villages. You lose stability.”
“That’s not immediate,” he says.
