“That is not what I asked.”
“It is what I am answering.”
Her eyes narrow. “Rhazek.”
The use of my name shifts through the tether with a force I do not expect. It is not the first time she has said it, but in this moment, with mist around her ankles and demon ash staining the road, it lands differently. It makes concealment feel less like strategy and more like betrayal, which is a categorization I reject even as I recognize its shape.
“There may be additional observers,” I say.
“May be?”
“Yes.”
She steps closer. “You know something.”
“I know many things.”
“That was slippery.”
“Intentionally.”
Corin looks between us. “If you two are finished flirting through evasion, should we maybe reinforce the house?”
Sable rounds on him. “We are not flirting.”
“You keep saying that.”
I move toward the yard, allowing the subject to shift because Corin’s practical suggestion is useful, and because I have no intention of naming Maltherion until I understand why his attention has turned here. Fear would alter Sable’s pulse, destabilize the bond, and perhaps drive her into another reckless attempt at control. More importantly, knowledge without actionable defense would only burden her.
That is the official rationale.
It is not the only one.
I begin reinforcing the ward sigils around the house.
The existing protections are crude but not useless. Human warding relies heavily on material memory, thresholds, iron, salt, and repetition. Infernal warding uses authority, intent, and consequence. Combining the two requires careful calibration. Too much infernal force will burn through the human structure. Too little will leave gaps.
Sable stands near the porch, arms crossed, watching every motion. “Explain what you’re doing.”
“I am strengthening the perimeter.”
“With what?”
“Layered deterrence sigils bound to iron anchors.”
“Again, but like I’m not a demon.”
“I am making it difficult for hostile entities to cross the yard without being burned, trapped, or rendered into something decorative.”
Corin appears with a hammer over one shoulder and a sack of iron spikes in his other hand. “See? That explanation had charm.”
“It had imprecision.”
“It had personality.”
Sable points toward the foundation stones. “Where do the anchors go?”
I mark the first placement with a line of red heat along the stone. “Here. Drive it until the head sits flush.”
