But all agreed on one thing—the world had begun to tilt, and the Resh’Agar was no longer at its center.
6
Too Small for Shape
Zarrek found her again without meaning to. As Resh’s Second, he had plenty to do without tracking a silver-haired waif through the camp.
Weeks had passed since the Resh’Agar returned with the silver-haired creature in tow, and Zarrek’s teeth still itched when he caught sight of her. Same as that cursed rock Resh liked to keep in his satchel. The one he’d used to break the ice in the temple. Only that thing was harmless when sealed, and this girl was anything but.
Notsealed.
And definitelynotharmless.
All around, the Kelvasari sprawled across the Moores like a metal-backed beast, all tents and pikes and cookfires, a living thing made of men and steel and discipline. A colossal footprint of war and efficiency. It breathed routine. It survived on order.
And there she was, barefoot in the mud, cutting through the ribs of it like a loose thread. Once he caught sight of her—once he saw her interrupting the Arcane Mages in casting wards to mumble something that had them raising their brows in confusion—he had to follow her to make sure she didn’t cause more problems.
He kept his distance as she drifted, the silver-haired creature moving with that infuriating lack of purpose that gave him a stomachache worse than bad wine. She wound her way through the lines of Reskala warriors,past the weapon racks and the tethered mounts. Men stepped aside for her without realizing it. Some stared. Some bowed their heads. One idiot actually smiled at her like she’d climbed down out of the clouds.
Blasted fools.
She didn’t even notice them. Her attention snagged and lingered on everything else. A torn banner here, a cook pot there, the way the smoke curled and caught on the wind. She paused to watch embers drift up into the bruise-colored sky, head tilted, eyes half-lidded as if she heard something in their crackle.
Had she been born to the Lifegivers in Krystopolis, she would have been Repurposed at birth, Zarrek thought, not for the first time. Too small. Too fragile. Too damn strange. Bird-boned and pale, a thing carved from too much starlight and not enough substance. The Breeders would have thrown her into the cleansing fires before she ever took her first full breath.
Instead, she walked through his war camp like she owned the place.
He followed becausesomeonehad to. Because Resh was too busy to keep a proper eye on her. Because the Rift Wardens circled like carrion wailers looking for easy pickings, the men were staring, and the last thing they needed, this close to the Dark, was some slip of a girl driving his men to distraction.
Definitely not because of the ache twisting behind his ribs when she sat down to pick firethorns out of her bare foot because she forgot her damn shoes again.
Wouldshehave been wild like this, had she—
He stopped the thought cold. Stamped it out like a kitchen fire.
He kept following. From the kitchens to the Arcane tents, and then beyond. She drifted across the trampled earth, mud rising around her calves. The scars of earlier confrontations still hung in the air. The Rift Wardens’black-clad shadows had peeled away some time ago, their narrowed eyes and tight mouths promising trouble later.
They’d cornered her by the wardline just before dusk, frost snapping in the air where their runes touched her starlight. Demanding answers. Demanding names. Justification of her magic. A bloodline. A source.
The girl had stood there and looked them in the eye. No fear. No deference. Just that infuriating, steady curiosity, like she was examining odd insects.
He’d watched from the edge, hands fisted behind his back, every instinct screaming to intervene, to shut it down before someone said the wrong thing and Resh had to execute Wardens for insubordination.
But she’d handled it. Not with diplomacy—she didn’t know the meaning of the word—but with some strange, sideways logic that left the Rift Wardens muttering and unsettled; their questions unanswered, and their authority somehow diminished.
And then she’d wandered on, as if nothing had happened.
Now she slipped between two supply carts, following some invisible path only she could see. Zarrek ground his teeth and followed, boots crunching on gravel, ignoring the look one of his lieutenants shot him. Let them wonder. Let them think he was shadowing her on Resh’s orders. It was better than admitting he didn’t know why he couldn’t leave well enough alone.
She stopped in front of the healers’ tent.
The canvas flap hung half-open, the stink of blood and herbs and rot curling out into the evening air. The menders from Krystopolis had been worth their weight in gleams so far—efficient, quiet, obedient. They kept men alive long enough to die properly in battle rather than in their beds. He appreciated that kind of order.
The girl ducked inside withouthesitation.
Zarrek swore under his breath and followed.
The air inside was thick and warm, crammed with cots and bandages and glass bottles hanging from twine. A single rune lantern burned low at the center, casting sickly yellow light over everything. Men groaned in their pallets, the smell of infection and sweat thick as a blanket.
