“And you don’t decide for me either.”
“I know.”
I don’t move, I am close enough to feel the warmth of him, to let the silence exist without needing to fill it. Then I draw back slightly, not far, just enough to breathe without losing the connection entirely.
“We should go,” I say, though I don’t move immediately.
“Soon,” he agrees, his hand still at my waist.
I smile at that.
When we finally step apart, it isn’t distance that returns between us, just space enough to move. He rises with me, slower because of the injury, and I don’t miss the shift in his balance this time. My hand finds his arm without thinking, steadying him the way he did for me.
He doesn’t comment on it. He just lets me.
When we start back toward the encampment, the question of position never comes up. I don’t move ahead to lead, and he doesn’t fall back to follow. We walk side by side, close enough that our shoulders brush once before we adjust, neither of us bothering to create more space than necessary.
Whatever this is now, it isn’t uncertain. And it isn’t temporary.
38
VAEDROS
By the time the second war table is assembled, Zethon has stopped treating my presence as temporary.
The change is not announced. It happens through placement, through the map space left open for me near the commander’s right side, through the way runners now bring reports to the table without first deciding whether I am permitted to hear them. Authority can be granted through title, but usefulness earns faster obedience, and Zethon has always respected what can be proven under pressure.
Aeryn stands across from me, one hand braced near the edge of the map, her face pale from overuse of visions she refuses to admit are taking too much from her. She has cleaned the blood from beneath her nose, but I see the faint red mark near her sleeve where she missed a drop. She notices me noticing and gives me a look that says clearly enough she will not be managed in front of strangers.
Fine. Later.
The latest reports arrive in fragments. Velkiron holds three southern caches tied to artifact research, two minor relic stores, and a relay post built too close to the old trade road. Xalithmoves north-east with speed that would be reckless in another commander and typical in him, pressing forward as though momentum alone can replace understanding.
“He’ll turn here,” I say, placing two fingers on the ridge line east of the relay. “Not because it is safest. Because it lets him strike both Velkiron and the closest Zethon line if either advances too slowly.”
One of the Zethon officers frowns. “That exposes his rear.”
“He won’t care until it costs him,” I reply. “So make it cost him before he notices.”
Aeryn’s gaze lifts to mine for half a second, and I read approval there before she looks back to the map.
The commander studies the ridge, then gestures to a runner. “Redirect second division through the lower pass. No full engagement until the eastern signal.”
“Too late,” Aeryn says.
The runner stops.
Every eye turns to her. She doesn’t straighten, doesn’t try to make herself larger for the room, which makes the room lean toward her instead. “If they wait for the eastern signal, Velkiron burns the cache and retreats through the marsh road. They leave nothing worth taking.”
The officer beside the commander exhales through his nose. “You’ve seen that?”
“I’ve seen enough of it.”
His mouth tightens. “Enough is vague.”
I shift my gaze from him to the table cools around the edges. “Enough is the reason your forces are moving before Velkiron finishes evacuating.”
He meets my gaze, briefly. Then looks away first.
