“No.”
“That word worries me.”
“It should.”
He rolls his shoulders, loosening tension that does not fully leave his frame. “Do we wake Sable?”
“No.”
His head snaps toward me. “No?”
“She requires rest.”
“She requires information.”
“She requires stability more than immediate awareness.”
“That sounds like a decision you don’t get to make alone.”
“It is a decision I am making based on threat assessment.”
“And if she finds out you kept it from her?”
“She will be displeased.”
“That is one way to describe it.”
I meet his gaze. “Can you maintain composure under pressure?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Then remain alert and do not escalate unnecessarily.”
“That sounds like a job description.”
“It is a directive.”
He considers that, then nods once. “Fine. I stay sharp. I don’t poke the nightmare at the edge of the street.”
“Correct.”
“Still feels like we should tell her.”
“We will.”
“When?”
“When action is required.”
He exhales through his nose. “She’s going to hate that answer.”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he mutters. “At least I won’t be the only one on her list.”
The pressure at the edge of the lattice recedes slightly, then returns, brushing the boundary again with deliberate patience. Maltherion is not probing for weakness. He is measuring.
Learning.
