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“Within the limit I set.”

She folds her arms. “One pack equus.”

“One.”

“Then I accept.”

“You were not negotiating a contract.”

“Everything between us is a contract.”

The answer carries no softness. Good. Softness would complicate a practical decision.

“You leave at dawn in two days,” I say. “Briar remains here.”

“She is recovering.”

“Then you agree.”

“I agree that mountain travel would be foolish while she is healing.”

“Inform her today.”

Fiona turns toward the door, then pauses.

“Lord Morwen’thir.”

“What?”

“Thank you.”

“I am permitting you to perform a useful function. Gratitude is unnecessary.”

“Of course.”

Her tone makes the words suspicious.

She leaves for the solarium, already planning how to fill the single pack equus beyond reason.

I uncover the neptherium table again. The mining post rises beneath my hand. Black routes intersect crimson territory. The journey carries political danger, physical risk, and one human wife who treats restrictions as puzzles requiring clever solutions.

None of that alters the decision.

At dawn in two days, Fiona travels north under my command.

The mining-post inspection is authorized.

13

FIONA

The kitchens smell of roasting dripir, hot iron, and bread beginning to scorch.

I follow the smell beneath Morwen’thir Stronghold, down a broad stair polished by generations of servants. Heat meets me before I reach the final step. The cavernous room beyond is brighter than the servants’ passages, its ovens glowing orange beneath black stone arches.

Three Zagfer cooks command the central tables. Their fitted coats are clean despite the flour and grease surrounding them. One carves a roasted dripir while another inspects pastry shells arranged in perfect rows. They speak in low voices and taste sauces from silver spoons.

Human scullions crowd the edges.