17
THORRIN
The question comes as we share the morning meal—dried meat and bread taken from the tavern, eaten in comfortable silence beneath the pine canopy. Lyssa sits cross-legged beside me, the borrowed dress fitting her well enough, though I can still see the shadow of trauma in her eyes. She's stronger this morning, more herself, but the horrors of the bone cathedral have left their mark.
"Why didn't Kaerith come with you?" The words are quiet, almost casual, but I hear the weight behind them. "When you rescued me. Why was it just you?"
My jaw tightens involuntarily. The truth sits like poison on my tongue—that Kaerith would have calculated the odds and deemed her expendable. That his cold efficiency would have written her off as acceptable loss. That the friend I've known for centuries has become something that values tactical advantage over loyalty, strategy over love.
But I can't tell her that. Won't destroy her faith in the bonds that define our small family. She's been through enough without learning that half of it has already abandoned her.
"Territorial considerations," I say carefully, keeping my voice steady. "Too many Waira in close proximity during high-stress operations. The Echo becomes unstable. Overlapping heart-lights interfere with stealth."
It's plausible enough. Ancient Waira wisdom about avoiding psychic feedback during dangerous missions. The kind of tactical thinking that sounds reasonable to someone who understands our nature but hasn't lived through centuries of actual implementation.
She nods slowly, accepting the explanation. "So he sent you instead?"
"It was my role." The lie flows easier now, building on itself. "I'm better suited for extraction missions. Smaller target, more experience with infiltration. He stayed back to coordinate potential escape routes and secondary objectives."
The relief that floods her features makes my chest ache. She wants to believe this version of events—that her rescue was planned, coordinated, that she wasn't abandoned by half her family. That Kaerith's absence was tactical necessity rather than cold calculation.
"He must have been going crazy, waiting," she says softly. "Wanting to come but knowing he couldn't."
I make a noncommittal sound that she interprets as agreement. Let her keep that illusion. Let her believe in the version of Kaerith who would pace and rage and suffer over her captivity instead of the reality—the creature who would dismiss her loss with surgical detachment.
"I want to see them," she says suddenly, setting down her portion of bread with decisive finality. "Kaerith and Elira. I need to know they're safe, that they know I'm safe. After everything that's happened..."
The request hits me like a physical blow. Every instinct screams against it—against exposing her to what they'vebecome, against witnessing firsthand how far they've fallen. But I can see the determination in her eyes, the need for reunion that goes beyond mere want into necessity.
"Lyssa," I begin carefully, "they may not be... themselves. The hunt for your captors, the stress of believing you were lost—it changes people. Hardens them."
"I understand that. But they're still our family. Still our bond-mates." Her voice carries absolute conviction. "Whatever they've had to do, whatever they've become to survive this, I need to see them. Need them to see me."
I study her face—the stubborn set of her jaw, the fierce loyalty burning in her eyes. She won't be dissuaded. And perhaps... perhaps seeing the truth will be kinder than learning it gradually. Perhaps witnessing their corruption directly will hurt less than discovering it piece by piece.
"There are protocols," I say finally. "Territorial boundaries that have become... sensitive. The hunt has pushed everyone to their limits. I'll need to maintain distance when we approach their territory."
"Because of the Echo interference?"
"Exactly." The lie builds on itself, becoming more elaborate. "Extended contact between mature Waira under stress can cause psychic feedback. Dangerous for everyone involved. I can bring you to them, but I'll need to keep back once we're close."
She accepts this with the trust that makes my deception feel like acid in my throat. But it's necessary. This distance will let me observe without participating, witness without being complicit. And if things go as badly as I expect... I'll be positioned to extract her again if needed.
"When can we leave?" she asks.
"After you've eaten. Rested a bit longer. The journey will be hard enough without starting it weakened." I pause, meeting her eyes. "And Lyssa—whatever we find there, whatever they'vebecome... remember that survival changes people. Don't judge them too harshly for what the hunt has made necessary."
She nods solemnly, not understanding that I'm trying to prepare her for the magnitude of their transformation. How could she? How could anyone anticipate the depth of corruption that love can achieve when it turns inward and begins feeding on itself?
We travel through the afternoon, following game trails and old paths that lead back toward the territory Kaerith and Elira have claimed. The journey gives me time to refine the story, to build the framework of lies that will explain what she's about to witness.
"They've become more... focused," I tell her as we climb a ridge overlooking the valley where their cave lies hidden. "The hunt for Malakor's forces has required adaptations. Methods that might seem harsh to outsiders."
"What kind of methods?"
The question I've been dreading. How do I prepare her for the feeding rituals? For Elira's transformation into something that drains life force for pleasure? For Kaerith's cold calculation that treats former friends as expendable resources?
"Enhanced interrogation techniques. Strategic use of captured intelligence. The kind of approaches that blur traditional lines but produce results." Each euphemism feels like betrayal, but it's better than the raw truth. "They've learned to think like the enemy in order to defeat them."
