My breath stays measured. In through nose. Out through mouth. No wasted sound. Sweat gathers between my shoulder blades and vanishes almost as soon as the wind finds it. The ration I ate earlier sits strangely but usefully in my blood. My legs have more steadiness than yesterday.
I resent it, but I also use it.
Kavor keeps pace. Shortened stride. Soft feet. Careful tail. His claws do not scrape stone unless he means them to. When the rim narrows, he waits for me to choose the path. When I angle away from a patch of red glass, he follows. When I pause in a sliver of shadow, he pauses too.
No questions. No complaints. The third time it happens, I stop watching the ground and look at him.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re not arguing.”
“You said no talking unless needed.”
“That was your rule.”
“It remains good.”
“Don’t use your own rule against me.”
“That seems wasteful.”
I stare and he looks back, still as a carved thing, except carved things do not have eyes that hold dawn like banked fire. I turn away first. Tactical retreat. Nothing more.
“We drink in ninety breaths,” I say.
“Why not now?”
There. A question. A good one. I hate when they are good.
“Because now my mouth knows it’s thirsty, but my body still has enough to move. If we drink every time our mouths complain, the skins empty before the heat peaks. If we wait until thought slows, we have waited too long. Ninety breaths puts water ahead of mistake, not ahead of discomfort.”
He’s silent. I brace for correction, but it doesn’t come.
“Ninety breaths,” he says.
I almost miss a step, and he notices. His hand moves, then stops before reaching for me. My heart skips a beat. He rememberedI told him not to do it again without permission. I shouldn’t feel that in my chest.
“Careful,” he says.
“I am.”
“Yes.”
This yes is different from the others. Quieter. It doesn’t disagree. It only stands nearby. I hate that too.
The basin wind changes as we reach the first high shelf. It comes up from the bowl with old sourness in it. Dry mineral. Bitter crust. Something faint underneath. Not rot. Not water. Something that reminds me of the archive slates, of words worn thin by too many fingers.
“Smell that?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Old zemlja leavings. Faint.”
My stomach tightens in expectation.
Epis grows where zemlja pass and leave the ground fertile. If the council is right, if Rosalind is right, if every secret spoken in that room didn’t just crack the City open for nothing, then somewhere near fresh or old sign, there should be glow.
