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I say. They do. Mostly. I scan behind the group without turning fully. Farther up the slope, a smaller juvenile dragon is struggling with a loose training tether. Ah. I point without extending my arm quickly.

"Juvenile." I say. Professor Kaelis follows the direction. The older dragon's attention locks there.

"Relationship?" He asks.

"I don't know."

"Then don't invent one."

Right. "Concerned with the juvenile."

"Better."

The Rider stationed beyond the fence receives a signal. He approaches the young dragon. Fixes the tether. The moment it settles, the older female relaxes. Breathing slows. Tail softens. Head lowers. There. Professor Kaelis looks toward the group. "What did Vaelith do correctly?" Silence.

Then someone says: "She checked where the dragon was looking."

"Yes."

"She didn't assume the behavior was about us."

Kaelis nods. "Yes."

Then Rhyven speaks. "You saw it before the Rider."

I look toward him. Was that— No. Surely not.

"Eventually." I say.

His gaze stays on mine. "Before the Rider."

I narrow my eyes. "Are you complimenting me?"

"Don't ruin it." I grin. There it is. We move on. But the warmth from that stupid sentence stays far longer than it deserves.

By seventeen hundred, my day should be over. It isn't. Evening response briefing starts at eighteen.

I have forty minutes. Coffee. Necessary.

The small café station beside North Residence is nearly empty. I order mine. Then stop. Rhyven's empty chair at lunch. Last night's untouched dinner.

The reports in operations. His schedule. Chief meetings. Dragon rotations. Training assessments.

Council briefings. Everything. I look at the woman behind the counter. "Two."

She looks up. "Two?"

"Yes." I tell her the second order. Strong. No sugar. Barely any milk. Then freeze. How do I know that? I have never asked. I've seen him drink it. Enough times, apparently. Wonderful. She hands me both cups. I stare at the second one. This is practical. Rhyven is operationally important. If Chief Corvell collapses from exhaustion, Varethia loses approximately sixty percent of its ability to organize anything. Public service. Good.

Operations is open. I walk in. Rhyven is alone at the main table. Again. Maps. Reports. Three separate schedules. One half-eaten apple. Progress. Technically. He looks up. "What." I set the coffee beside his hand. He looks down. Then at me. "What's that."

"Coffee."

"I know what coffee is."

"Excellent. I was worried the exhaustion had progressed."

His eyes return to the cup. Then me. "Why."