“She has assignment,” Adran says.
Marut looks as if he swallowed sand. Ila’s mouth curves slightly, tiny, sharp, then gone. I decide I like her for half a second. Probably a mistake.
“What do you require?” Virn asks, turning to Kavor.
“A guide who has eaten,” Kavor says.
The chamber goes quiet in a different way than before. My skin burns. I hate him. I hate him so suddenly, so cleanly, it almost feels refreshing.
Marut looks at me. Dannel looks at the empty basket still hooked over my arm. Ila closes her eyes. Adran’s face hardens. Rosalind’s expression softens, which is worse.
Only Kavor keeps looking at Virn, as if he didn’t just strip a private survival habit bare in front of half the City’s leadership.
“I require a guide who has eaten,” he says. “Watered. Rested. With gear light enough to move and enough food to think.”
“To think?” Marut says.
“Yes.” Kavor finally looks at me. “Hunger makes poor rhythm,” he says.
My throat closes, not because of the words, but because I know they’re true. Because he knows they’re true. Because everyone in this room has been willing to pretend hunger is discipline, as long as the hungry keep moving.
“I’m fine,” I say.
It’s the oldest lie in the City. Kavor’s eyes don’t change.
“No.”
One word. Not loud. Not cruel. Not even an accusation. Just final.
My anger wavers under something worse. Embarrassment. I hate that most.
“Find her a ration,” Adran tells Marut.
“No,” I say.
Everyone looks at me again. I should start charging them for the privilege.
“That ration comes from someone.”
“Yes,” Adran says.
“Who?”
His mouth tightens. There. The part no one ever wants to say out loud. I lift my chin.
“Give me the same ration as any route-runner on heat duty. No more.”
Kavor’s jaw shifts.
“More,” he says.
“No.”
“You will be traversing the desert. Toward a zemlja tunnel,” Kavor says.
“And I’ll need to move light.”
“You’ll need to remain alive.”
