“Kavor,” Sera says.
The warning in her voice is not for him. It is for me. That matters too much. I look at her. Her eyes are bright with fury and humiliation. Not at him now. At me. I have defended her and she feels exposed.
I have misstepped. The realization strikes harder than it should. Protection without consent becomes another pressure on the wound. I hate the truth of that. Slowly, I set the water skin down.
“You are right,” I say.
Sera blinks. Marut does too. I do not care about his surprise, only hers.
“I overstepped,” I say to her. The words feel rough. Necessary. “Your ration and water should not have become an argument over your will.”
Her lips part, but no sound emerges. Good. I have finally found silence she cannot turn into a blade. For a moment. Then she finds one anyway.
“No,” she says. “But we still need three skins.”
Marut mutters something. Sera turns on him before I can.
“Not because I’m pale,” she says. “Because the lower east arch gives us no reliable water until the old cistern basin, and we’re going around the quiet place, which adds time. Because if the ground shifts, dust goes into the air and doubles thirst. Because he’s bigger than I am, and because if one skin breaks, we both die.”
Marut’s mouth closes. I look at her. She does not look at me. A small satisfaction moves through my chest anyway. Not pride. No. Pride is too simple. This is sharper. Warmer. More dangerous. She took the thing I said poorly and made it useful.
“There’s no third skin prepared,” Marut says.
“Then prepare one,” Sera says.
“I don’t answer to you.”
“No. You answer to Adran, who gave me the eastern archive and assignment. Do you want to explain why you sent us toward a zemlja trail short on water after the tracker requested more?”
Marut’s jaw tightens. There is a predator in this female. Small, hungry, clever. Not built for tearing flesh. Built for finding the seam in stone and splitting it. Marut snatches up the empty carry wrap.
“Fine.”
“Full,” she says.
He stops and I almost bare my teeth in delight.
“Excuse me?” Marut asks.
“The third skin,” Sera says. “Full. Not bottom-barrel sediment. Not fever ward overflow. Not a skin patched badly enough to split before first heat.”
Marut stares. Sera stares back. At last, he leaves. His steps are heavier than before. Wasteful.
When the corridor is empty, Sera sags one breath against the table. Only one. Then she straightens.
“You should not have said that,” she says, turning her anger on me.
“No,” I say, agreeing with her.
“You embarrassed me.”
“Yes.”
“Do not do it again,” she says, her anger fading with my lack of disagreement.
“I will try.” Her eyes narrow. “I will not do it again without your permission.”
She looks away. The pulse at her throat beats fast.
