“Predators?”
“No fresh sign.”
“That is not no.”
“No is rare.”
“Your people really need better comfort language.”
“My people survived.”
“Still a low bar,” she mutters.
“The only one that matters.”
Her expression shifts. I used those words before, against an old wound, but I hear it too late. Care is a blade to her.
“Sera.”
She looks away. “Don’t.”
The word is quiet, not sharp. I obey. For once, I understand what I am obeying. Not her pride. Her limit.
She steps into the hollow and lowers herself to the dark floor before I can tell her to sit. Her movement is controlled, but the final inch fails. She lands harder than she wants. Pain flashes across her face.
I look toward the passage, not at her. A kindness, perhaps. Or cowardice.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t see that,” she says.
“I saw.”
“Your pretending is bad.”
“I was offering silence.”
“That’s worse. Silence lets me imagine your face.”
I look back. “My face is controlled.”
“Your face is a judgmental wall.”
“It is useful in combat.”
“It’s terrible in conversation.”
“I will remember,” I say.
“You won’t.”
“No.”
A thin breath leaves her. Almost humor. Good.
I crouch near the entrance, not beside her. Far enough to give space. Close enough to cross the hollow in one movement if needed.
She notices that too. Her gaze flicks over my position. Entrance. Her. Rear crack. Sample pouch. Passage beyond.
“You chose the guard point,” she says.
