“You chose risk,” he says after a beat. “Without support. Without backup. Without informing anyone who could intervene.”
“Because I don’t need supervision,” I shoot back, snappier this time. “What I need is supplies. Which I got.”
His gaze locks on mine. “This is not about supervision.”
“Sounds like it.”
“It is about survival,” he says, and there’s an edge to it now. “Yours.”
Something in my chest shifts at that. It’s annoying and unwelcome.
I push off the table, grabbing the spoon again just to have something to do with my hands. “Relax,” I mutter. “It was a good crate. Enough firebloom in there to keep this place baking for a month.”
“And that was worth the risk?”
“Yes.”
Varek studies me for a long moment. “You did not tell me about this.”
“That was intentional.”
His jaw firms. “You should not face patrols alone.”
I fold my arms. “You don’t get to start issuing safety lectures now.”
“I was not lecturing.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was observing.”
I roll my eyes.
Letha looks between us like she’s watching a strange play she doesn’t understand.
Varek glances at her empty bowl. “You should take more.”
She hesitates, looks at me again, and I nod. “Take it.”
She refills the bowl. “Thank you,” she says quietly.
Varek’s gaze lingers on her for a moment. Not assessing, just listening, watching.
That’s the other thing about him.
His talent.
The truth siphon.
I’ve seen it in action exactly twice, and that was enough.
It isn’t flashy. He doesn’t glow or chant or do anything dramatic. He just… listens, and somehow the truth comes loose around him.
It’s not mind-reading but something subtler. Like lies can’t quite hold their shape.
It makes interrogations very short. It also means conversations with him can feel uncomfortably honest, which is probably why I prefer sarcasm.
Letha finishes eating and slides off the stool again. “I must go.”
