Hrask’s claws pause against his gauntlet, the faint tapping sound cutting off mid-rhythm before resuming slower, more deliberate than before. He tilts his head slightly, studying me like he’s trying to decide which version of this conversation he wants.
“That how you greet everyone?” he asks, his voice low, edged with something that almost sounds like amusement.
“Where is Tury?” I repeat, my tone tightening as I take a half step closer to the fence, ignoring the subtle increase in the current’s hum.
His gaze sharpens at the name, just for a fraction of a second, and then smooths over like it never happened.
“Rotation,” he says, rolling one broad shoulder as if the answer is too simple to deserve attention. “Happens all the time.”
“That’s not how this works,” I fire back immediately, my fingers settling more firmly against the grip of my weapon. “Not mid-cycle. Not without notice to both sides.”
He exhales slowly through his nose, watching me more closely now.
“Maybe your side doesn’t get notified,” he says.
“My side gets notified when it affects border consistency,” I reply, holding his gaze. “Which it does.”
The wind kicks up between us, dragging a thin veil of dust along the fence. It stings where it hits my face, but I don’t blink.
He studies me longer this time, like he’s recalibrating something he thought he understood.
“Maybe your command didn’t think it mattered,” he says finally.
“Don’t play dumb.”
“I’m not playing anything.”
I take another step forward, close enough now that the hissing fence vibrates through the soles of my boots.
“You replaced him,” I say, my voice quieter but sharper. “That means you were briefed. So either you know where he is, or your command is hiding something.”
“Or,” he says, his voice lowering to match mine, “it means I don’t ask questions I don’t need answers to.”
“That’s convenient.”
“It’s efficient.”
“It’s suspicious.”
That earns me a faint smirk, slow and deliberate.
“You’re suspicious,” he counters. “I just got here.”
“Exactly,” I say, the word cutting through the space between us. “And he’s gone.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks, but the silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels loaded, stretched tight with everything neither of us is willing to say outright.
“You always get this worked up over Coalition soldiers?” he asks, his tone shifting slightly, less mocking and more focused.
“Only when they disappear without explanation.”
“Maybe he screwed up,” he says. “Maybe he got reassigned somewhere less sensitive.”
“Tury didn’t screw up,” I snap before I can stop myself.
The second the words leave my mouth, I feel it.
The shift.
