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Technically. He doesn't need to.

"Again." I tell the formation. Thirty soldiers reset. They hate me already. Good.

The exercise is simple. Hold a secondary corridor. Do not pursue the simulated enemy. Sounds easy. Apparently impossible. The first time, six soldiers break formation to chase. Dead. Second time, three. Dead. Third— one. Improvement.

A young fae soldier lowers his practice weapon. "If they're retreating, why wouldn't we follow?"

"Because you don't know they're retreating."

"We can see them."

"You see them moving away."

"That's retreating."

I stare. "No." He looks frustrated. Good. Maybe he'll remember. "The Hollowborn have spent months making us believe we understand what they're doing." I point toward the marked corridor. "You leave this line because something wants you to follow, you aren't brave." I step closer. "You're useful to them." That quiets everyone. "Again."

At noon, the settlement is almost functional. Almost.

Rhyven walks through a casualty drill, corrects three separate positions, moves one medical station and tells an officer that his defensive line is "impressively easy to kill." The officer looks furious. Rhyven keeps walking. I catch up. "You make friends everywhere."

"Useful."

"That wasn't praise."

"I know." He looks north. Seven. I don't mention it.

At fourteen hundred, Elarion's rulers finally arrive at field command. Late. Naturally. They want reports.

Numbers. Predictions. Certainty. We have none. They dislike this. Everyone dislikes this.

"How soon until your protocols stop the disappearances?" One asks Rhyven.

I actually turn toward him because I want to hear how he answers without insulting royalty. Rhyven's expression remains completely neutral. "They may not."

The ruler stares. "What?"

"They improve response. They reduce exposure. They may give warning. They do not guarantee anything."

Not comforting. Accurate.

"We were told Varethia had contained the threat."

"No." Rhyven says. "We adapted to it." There. That shuts the room up.

By sixteen hundred, I haven't sat down in nearly eleven hours. Rhyven has probably sat less. I don't know where he keeps finding energy. Spite, perhaps.

At seventeen fifteen, I catch him reading a Varethian relay summary. Not Elarion. Varethia. Of course.

I walk up behind him. "Anything?"

"No."

"Nothing?"

"No disappearances."

"Wards?"