This is a natural thing. Dangerous, but natural. The difference matters.
Sera watches me. “Zemlja?”
“Yes.”
“Close?”
“No.”
“Real no or Kavor no?”
“Real.”
“Good. I’m too tired to interpret shades of doom.”
The passage glows brighter.
Blue now, with purple threading the edges. A thin strand hangs beyond the broken lip, clinging to the underside of stone like a vein of captured twilight. It trembles in the cool draft.
Sera forgets her tiredness. Her whole body leans toward it. Not moving. Wanting. There she is. Not the route-runner. Not the ration math. Not the woman who makes hunger into virtue because the City taught her wanting costs too much.
A woman looking at a miracle. My throat tightens. I want to give the miracle to her.
Not harvest it. Not use it. Not carry it back as proof for leaders who will argue while bodies weaken. Give it.
The dangerous part is not wanting her. It is that I want more for her, and some part of me believes my claws can make the world obey. That part of me must be watched.
“We go carefully,” I say.
Her eyes do not leave the strand. “I thought we were waiting.”
“The heat outside will kill her. The passage may offer a safer way under the shelf.”
“Or a worse way.”
“True.”
She looks at me then. “You are afraid.”
“Yes.”
The word comes easier this time. Still heavy, but easier. Her expression shifts. Not soft. Sera resists soft as if it is another kind of heatstroke. Understanding, perhaps.
“Me too,” she says.
The words come quickly. Given before she can take them back. I hold very still. Some gifts must not be grabbed.
“Good,” I say.
Her brow creases. “Good?”
“Certain people are careless.”
Her eyes narrow. “You stole that from yourself.”
“I did.”
“That is allowed?”
