I step beside her. Not in front. Beside. Her eyes flick to the movement. She notices that too.
I point with one claw, drawing nothing in the dust, only hovering above it.
“East. Then south. Then back east again.”
“That makes no sense.”
“No.”
“Zemlja follow pressure.”
“Yes.”
“And weakness.”
“Yes.”
“And heat.”
“Yes.”
“So either something strong pushed it away from the direct path, or something weaker pulled it sideways.”
I go very still. Sera sees.
“What?” she asks.
I look at the dust. At the depression. At the ruin ribs casting thin, shrinking shadows over land that has begun lying to both of us.She did not use the word called, but she found the shape of it anyway.
“Both may be true,” I say.
Her lips press together. She looks toward the old cistern basin. The first red edge of the larger sun breaks the horizon. Heat spills across the flats like a warning poured out.
“We need shade,” she says.
“Yes.”
“And distance.”
“Yes.”
“And answers.”
“Not before first heat.”
Her jaw tightens, but she nods. That small, practical nod strikes me harder than fear would have. She wants answers, but she chooses survival first. I should admire that only as part of the mission. But it is more. So much more.
“We move to the basin’s western rim. Soft steps. No talking unless needed,” I say, adjusting the third waterskin on my shoulder.
“No talking?” she asks, lifting her eyebrows.
“Sound travels oddly here.”
“Convenient.”
“It is not meant to be.”
“That is becoming your personal motto.”
