“No,” Virn says.
“No,” I say.
Kavor doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.
Adran’s eyes cool. “You would all deny the City access to its own salvation?”
“This is not salvation yet,” I say. “It’s a problem dressed up as hope.”
Ila glances at me. She’s heard that before. Good. Let it become a phrase. Let people repeat it until hope stops looking edible.
Rosalind gathers the wrapped samples.
“The proof remains with me, sealed and observed by one City representative, one Zmaj representative, and one Council representative,” Rosalind says.
“I will be the City representative,” Adran says.
“No,” I say.
His gaze slices to me. I am so tired. So tired my bones feel full of sand. My arm burns. My ribs pulse. The room keeps tilting when I blink for too long. Kavor is standing close enough that, if I let myself sway, he’d catch me. I don’t.
“You have too much reason to move quickly,” I say. “Ila should do it.”
Ila’s head snaps toward me.
“What?”
“You see too much, and you trust too little,” I say.
“That is the rudest compliment I’ve ever received,” she says, shaking her head.
“Take it or I’ll say something nice.”
She grimaces. “Fine.”
Adran’s face has gone still. Good. Bad. Everything feels like both now. Kavor’s fault, probably.
Rosalind nods. “Ila for the City. Virn for the Zmaj. Me for Council.”
Syin snarls quietly, but does not object. Adran smiles. That’s bad.
“Then it seems decided for the moment,” he says. “While our route-runner receives medical care.”
Our route-runner. The words crawl under my skin. Kavor hears the wrongness. I know because the air behind me changes. I turn before he can speak.
“I need to talk to you,” I say.
Kavor stills. There. The room hears it. Damn it.
“Outside,” I add.
Worse. No. Better. The room can chew on that while I decide how much of myself to cut away. Rosalind’s face softens by a fraction. I hate that too. Kavor follows me into the corridor. I walk on my own because pride is apparently alive and stupid, and he lets me.
The corridor is cooler than the chamber, but crowded with distant noise. Survivors moving. Children crying. Orders being called. The west stair grinding closed again. The emergency signal has stopped, but the silence it leaves is worse.
My body tilts toward the wall. Kavor’s hand appears near my elbow. Not touching. Waiting. I grip the wall instead. His hand lowers. The hurt on his face is almost invisible, but I see it anyway.
Good. No. Bad. I don’t know anymore.
