Aeryn says nothing, but her fingers tap once against the table. Amusement, perhaps. Irritation. With her, the difference is often a matter of timing.
“We send the eastern signal early,” I continue, folding her vision into the structure before anyone can isolate it as uncertainty. “Make Velkiron think the lower pass is blocked. They’ll redirect west, toward ground your third division already holds.”
The commander looks to Aeryn. “And Xalith?”
“He hears the signal and assumes Zethon has committed too far south,” she says. “He moves faster.”
“Into the ridge,” I finish.
The commander’s attention moves between us. This time, he does not ask which version to trust. “Send it.”
Orders leave the table in three directions at once.
That is the first visible sign that the arrangement has begun to work.
The second comes an hour later, when the first strike reports return. Velkiron abandons the southern cache exactly as Aeryn predicted, but not before attempting to destroy its contents. Zethon reaches it in time to secure enough records to matter. Not all. Enough. Xalith accelerates toward the ridge, proving again that pride can masquerade as courage when viewed from a distance.
By midday, the war table has expanded. More officers arrive, along with sealed reports from divisions that had been held out of the first council. They are no longer waiting to decide whether Aeryn is useful. They are deciding how to use her without admitting dependence.
That becomes a problem.
It comes from a senior official named Vhalor, older than most at the table, smooth in manner, careful in insult. He waits until the commander leaves briefly to review intercepted Velkiron codes, then places a thin silver marker over the central map and speaks as if the conclusion has already been accepted.
“The seer’s input should be routed through verification before reaching command level.”
Aeryn’s eyes remain on the map.
Mine move to him.
He continues, encouraged by his own mistake. “Raw visions create instability in planning. They are valuable, but unfiltered assets often distort priority.”
“Unfiltered assets,” Aeryn repeats, softly.
Vhalor gives her the courtesy of a glance. “A practical term.”
“No,” I say. “A cowardly one.”
The room stills with interest.
Vhalor turns his head toward me. “You object?”
“Yes.”
“To verification?”
“To pretext.”
His expression remains composed. “You are new to our structure.”
“And you are slow to understand why it still exists today.”
That reaches him.
Aeryn’s gaze flicks toward me, warning or invitation. I do not ask which.
Vhalor’s hand tightens slightly over the marker. “A military council cannot be led by visions no one else can examine.”
“No one is asking you to worship them,” I reply. “Only to stop pretending your delay is discipline.”
