I hate how much I want to earn a real one.
Varek moves behind me. Not looming this time. Just… there. Close enough that the air shifts with his heat.
I busy myself with the grain sack, pouring a measure into one of the storage jars because apparently dried grain requiresmy full emotional commitment right now. “You should be in Dathanor,” I mutter.
The words come out casual. They’re not.
Behind me, leather creaks softly as he folds his arms. “Yes.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Yes?”
“Yes,” he repeats. Calm. “I should.”
“And yet?”
“And yet.”
I twist the lid onto the jar harder than necessary. “You’re the commander of a rebellion, Varek. Pretty sure that’s a job that requires you actually being there.”
“I have capable leaders.”
“Shanae will stab you if she hears you say that like it’s a reason.”
His mouth twitches faintly. “Possible,” he says.
That’s the closest he gets to humour most days.
I scoop more grain. “You’ve been gone weeks.”
“Three.”
I pause. “You’re counting?”
“I count many things.”
Right. Of course he does. That’s very on-brand for the terrifying purple war commander.
I glance at him again. “Three weeks… and you haven’t gone back once.”
“No.”
“Why?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Because leaving is not simple.”
“That’s a load of shit and you know it.”
“Perhaps.”
The calm in that answer makes me grit my teeth. I slam the scoop back into the sack. “You can cross half this bloody world in a day if you want to. I’ve seen you do it.”
“Yes.”
“And Dathanor’s warded up to the eyeballs.”
“Yes.”
I drag the scoop through the grain sack again, watching the pale kernels settle there. “Right. So explain it to me like I’m stupid.”
