I see the moment he nearly agrees. The instant when sentiment threatens to override calculation, when emotional bonds almost triumph over practical assessment of impossible circumstances.
"No." Elira's voice cuts through hesitation with surgical precision.
She emerges from concealment with expression that holds no uncertainty, no internal conflict, no traces of the healer who once valued preservation of life above tactical advantage. Just cold assessment that reduces rescue attempt to unacceptable risk.
"Absolutely not," she continues with authority that expects immediate compliance.
Her gaze finds Kaerith with communication that excludes me completely—understanding between them that transcends words while making my exclusion absolute.
"She's right," he says quietly, and I watch the last traces of old loyalty die in his eyes. "Lyssa is gone. Attempting rescue serves no purpose except providing another chance for them to kill us all."
"This is why, Thorrin," he says with voice carrying discovery rather than lecture. "This is exactly why."
"Why what?"
"Why the Shameborn is winning." He replies.
His hand gestures toward empty clearing, but not with clinical detachment—with appreciation for lesson taught through brutal efficiency.
"She's family?—"
“She is your family Thorrin, you need to understand that. My mate stands here proud and free because my first thoughts are for her; not for yours.’
“You are infected.” I state.
“Really? Is that what you think? No. I am more than that. We have mates, Thorrin, ones we stick our cocks in," he says, “ones who do what they are told, ones that we protect at all costs. We are monsters made from bone.”
“Nothing more?” I ask.
"You need to realize why you lost your mate and not blame others for your failures," he tells me.
I turn to Elira, “She sees you as a sister.”
“A sister cannot be a protector, only a master can,” Elira replies.
"This is why love dies," Kaerith says. "Not because it's wrong, but because we lose the nature of its meaning."
