Her eyes open slowly—confusion first, then recognition, then awareness of how close I am. Close enough that my body heat has been keeping her alive through the coldest hours.
“You didn’t sleep.”
She says it without inflection. Certain.
“I don’t sleep when there’s threat potential.”
“There’s always threat potential.”
“Then I don’t sleep much.”
She studies my face. I keep my expression neutral. Controlled.
“The poison?—”
“Fading.” True enough. My healing has finally begun winning the war, wounds closing in increments small enough to ignore. “Another day and it’ll be gone.”
“You need rest to heal properly.”
“I need to keep watch.”
“I can take a shift.”
“No.”
The refusal lands like a blade. She blinks.
“That’s not sustainable.”
“It doesn’t need to be sustainable. It needs to work until we’re clear of the pass.”
Her expression shifts. I watch her weigh my words, my tone, the absolute refusal to share a burden that should logically be shared.
“You’re not going to sleep at all, are you.”
I don’t answer.
I don’t have to.
We move at midday.
The path ahead is clear—no Executors visible, no movement on the ridgelines, no sound except wind and grinding stone. The bodies of the creatures I killed are gone.
We reach the end of the pass by late afternoon. The path widens into a shallow valley—dead grass, scattered boulders, the remains of what might have been a waystation before violence reduced it to rubble.
I should feel relief. The worst of the ambush terrain is behind us.
I feel the distance between us—four feet, maybe five—like an itch under my skin.
Too far. If we’re hit?—
I close the gap without deciding to.
Soreia glances up as I fall into step beside her. Close. Closer than the situation warrants.
“Problem?”
“Open terrain ahead. Better to stay tight.” True enough. The rest of it stays behind my teeth.
