Her gaze lifts. The word sits strangely in the blue air. I do not use the word often. It seems too small, but sometimes small things are the only ones that fit through narrow places.
“You can say why,” she says.
“The growth may be unstable.”
She looks back at the strands. “Unstable how?”
“If touched wrong, it can tear from the seam. If harvested too much, the source dies. If the zemlja passage beneath shifts, the chamber can crack.”
“So everything wants us dead.”
“Not the epis.”
Her face changes. I do not know why I said that. No. I know.
The epis does not want anything. It grows. It endures. It takes what a monster leaves behind and becomes something that helps others live longer. Sera stares at the glow.
“Not the epis,” she repeats, very quietly.
Her voice has no blade in it. The chamber holds the words.
I kneel beneath the lowest cluster. “We take a sample only.”
Her posture stiffens. Practical again. “Enough to prove?”
“Yes.”
“Enough to help?”
“No.”
The answer hurts her and I see it, but I do not soften it. Soft lies are still lies.
“How much would help?” she asks.
“More than this chamber can give without damage.” Her jaw works once. I add, “But this proves living growth remains. It means the empty sites were not the end. It means we can find more.”
“Maybe.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe,” she insists.
I look at her. She needs the smaller word, so I give it.
“Maybe.”
She nods once, then swallows.
“We need to mark conditions,” she says.
“Yes.”
“Old leavings. Mineral veins. Fused shelf. Side fracture above deeper zemlja tunnel. Cooler air. No black residue.”
“Yes.”
“No wrong rhythm.”
