I stop myself before I can say "since she arrived." Before I can give Damiros that piece of information that will only confirm whatever suspicions he's clearly harboring.
"Since when?" Damiros presses.
"Recently." I keep it vague, deliberate. "It's probably just stress. The estate expansion, the new acquisitions, managing increased volatile behavior across multiple enclosures simultaneously."
It's a reasonable explanation. Logical. The kind of thing that happens when someone works too many hours without adequate rest.
But Damiros's face has gone carefully blank in a way that makes my instincts flare with warning. I know that expression. I've seen it before when he's processing information he finds threatening or concerning. When he's recalibrating his understanding of a situation that's developed beyond his control.
"You should rest more," he says finally. "Adequate sleep is crucial for maintaining the kind of focus your work requires."
"I'm aware." The response comes out more clipped than I intend.
"And perhaps limit your direct contact with the beasts for a few days. Let the other handlers manage the routine maintenance while you focus on administrative oversight."
"Azhrael won't cooperate with other handlers."
"Then use the human." Damiros says it like he's suggesting the most obvious solution in the world. "You said she has a rapport with him. Let her handle the direct contact while you observe from a safer distance."
Safer. As if distance could protect me from the way my chest constricts every time she's near. As if observation could shield me from the overwhelming pull that makes me want to touch her, hold her, ask her if she feels this too—this impossible recognition that shouldn't exist.
"I'll consider it," I lie.
Damiros watches me for another beat, his green-gold eyes searching my face for something I'm careful not to show. Then he straightens from the pillar, adjusting his sleeves in that particular way he has when he's preparing to leave.
"Take care of yourself, Mal," he says quietly. "And if the dreams continue, or if anything else unusual happens, you'll tell me. Yes?"
It's phrased as a question, but the weight beneath it feels more like an instruction. A request I'm expected to honor without question.
I nod once, noncommittal.
Damiros holds my gaze for another moment, and I see it again—that flash of something that looks almost like fear. Or guilt. Something deeper than brotherly concern, something that makes my skin prickle with unease.
Then it's gone, masked behind his usual composed expression. "I'll leave you to your work. Try to get some actual rest tonight instead of communing with the beasts at all hours."
He leaves without waiting for a response, his footsteps echoing through the stone corridors until they fade completely.
I turn back to Azhrael, who's been watching the exchange with uncharacteristic alertness. His luminous eyes track my movement as I approach the barrier again, pressing my palm against the warm surface of the containment ward.
"What do you see that I don't?" I ask him quietly.
Azhrael tilts his massive head, a gesture that in any other creature might seem almost curious. Almost understanding. Hemoves closer to the barrier, bringing his face near mine with the kind of careful approach he only uses with Lenna.
The recognition in his eyes is unmistakable. Ancient and certain, like he knows something fundamental that I'm still struggling to understand.
I think about telling Damiros everything. About describing the dreams in detail—how I remember Lenna in my study, in my private quarters, in my arms with the kind of intimacy that comes from years rather than weeks. How I remember loving her with a certainty that makes my current confusion feel like insanity.
But something stops me. Some instinct I can't name but trust anyway.
The look in Damiros's eyes when he first saw her. The panic underneath his carefully controlled questions just now. The way he keeps watching us both like he's waiting for something specific to happen—or trying to prevent it.
My brother is hiding something. Something about Lenna, about my dreams, about the gaps in memory that feel less like stress and more like absence.
And until I understand what he's hiding, I'm not giving him any more information than I already have.
Azhrael rumbles again, softer this time. Not contentment, but something close to it. Like approval for a decision I've only half-consciously made.
"She's just a laborer," I tell him, testing the words. "Nothing more."
