29. Aeryn
AERYN
The cave holds heat better now. Not much, but enough that the cold no longer settles into my bones the way it did when we first arrived.
Night has fully settled outside by now, the same brutal night we escaped the ruins and lost the artifact.
The fire has burned lower, steady and controlled, fed just enough to last without drawing attention, and I sit close enough to it to feel the warmth along my hands while keeping my focus fixed on him.
Vaedros hasn’t moved much since I came back. He didn't talk, nor tried to pick a fight with me.
That, more than anything, tells me how bad the injury is.
He’s too proud to show weakness where it can be avoided, too precise in everything he does to waste energy on anything unnecessary, and yet he remains where I left him, his posture adjusted only enough to manage the pain rather than overcome it.
Good. That means he understands his limits.
I glance toward the cave entrance, letting my vision stretch outward, not fully, not enough to lose myself in it, but just enough to confirm what I already checked twice on the way back. The paths remain clear. No movement close enough. No patrols shifting toward us yet.
Still, I don’t trust it. I never trust it. The future doesn’t stay still long enough for that.
I look back at him and reach for the small bundle I brought in with me, unwrapping it carefully to reveal what little I managed to gather, dried meat, a handful of bitter roots, water that tastes faintly of stone but is clean enough to serve its purpose.
It isn’t much. It will have to be enough.
“You need to eat,” I say, keeping my voice even as I move closer.
His gaze lifts to me, sharp despite everything, measuring as always. “I’ll survive without it.”
“That’s not the goal.”
I kneel beside him, placing the food within reach but not yet letting go of it. “Staying alive is the minimum. I need you functional.”
There’s a flicker of something in his expression at that. Irritation, maybe. Or interest. Hard to tell with him.
“You’re giving orders now,” he says.
“Only the useful ones.”
He takes the food without further argument, which is answer enough.
I let out a quiet breath and shift slightly, reaching for the bandage at his side. “This will hurt.”
“It already does.”
“That wasn’t a warning,” I say, and then I press.
He doesn’t react the way most people would. No sharp movement, no sound, just a tightening through his shoulders and a slight shift in his breathing that tells me exactly how much it costs him to stay still.
I unwrap the outer layer carefully, checking the wound beneath, the blood that has slowed but not fully stopped, the edges that need to be cleaned before they become something worse.
“I need to reset this,” I say.
“Do it.”
No hesitation. Of course not.
I work quickly, using what little I have, cleaning the wound as best I can, rewrapping it tighter this time, securing it, hoping it will hold even if he insists on moving sooner than he should.
“You’ll reopen it if you push too soon,” I say, finishing the knot.
“I’m aware.”
“I don’t think you are,” I reply, meeting his gaze. “Not today.”
Something shifts there. Small. Controlled. But real.
“This is where you tell me to remain still,” he says.
“This is where I tell you not to ask questions.”
He goes quiet, watching me more carefully now.
“Just for today,” I add, before he can respond. “You don’t ask. You don’t argue. You don’t try to take control of something you can’t move through. You don't ask why I sabotaged the mission.”
His gaze sharpens slightly. “And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” I say, sitting back just enough to give him space, “you can be as angry as you want.”
Silence settles between us, thinner now, stretched over something that hasn’t fully formed yet.
Then, finally?—
“Fine,” he says. “Tomorrow.”
It’s not agreement. But it’s enough. I nod once and look away first, breaking the moment before it turns into something else.
“Eat,” I say.
He does.
We sit in silence for a while after that, the kind that isn’t empty but isn’t comfortable either, shaped by everything we’re not saying more than what we are.
I let it hold for as long as it needs to. Then I break it.
“The artifact would have destroyed your house,” I say.
No lead-in. No softening. Just the truth. Or enough of it.
He doesn’t react immediately, but I feel it in him anyway, subtle and contained, the way tension moves through someone who refuses to let it show fully.
“Explain,” he says.
“It doesn’t give power the way you think it does,” I reply. “It connects. It binds itself to whoever takes it, and through that connection, it opens one of the Deceiver’s gates. Not a doorway through space. A doorway through outcome.”
I don’t say the name. Not yet.
“That connection spreads,” I continue, choosing each word carefully. “Through blood. Through lineage. Through anything tied closely enough to hold it.”
His gaze doesn’t leave mine.
“And you’re certain of this.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I’ve seen it.”
That’s enough for now. It has to be. Silence follows again, heavier this time, filled with implication instead of absence.
I let it sit. Then I shift forward slightly, drawing a line before he can push deeper.
“We don’t have the artifact,” I say. “Which means the situation has changed.”
“That’s one way to describe it.”
“We’re not chasing it,” I continue, ignoring the edge in his tone. “Not like this. Not immediately.”
His expression tightens, just slightly.
“We don’t have the position for it,” I add. “And if Xalith uses it the way I think he will, we won’t need to chase him.”
That gets his attention.
“He’ll create conflict,” I say. “Fast. Visible. He won’t wait.”
“Agreed.”
“Velkiron will respond,” I continue. “Which means the next phase isn’t retrieval. It’s intersection.”
I see the shift as he follows the thought, aligning it with his own. Now we’re speaking the same language again.
“We position ahead of that,” I say. “Not behind it.”
“With what resources?” he asks.
“That’s the part you don’t know yet.”
I let that sit. Let him feel it. Not as leverage. As reality. His gaze sharpens again, more focused now, less restrained.
“You’re holding information.”
“Yes.”
“And you expect me to accept that.”
“For today,” I say, meeting his gaze evenly, “yes.”
The tension stretches again, thinner this time, sharper. Then he exhales slowly.
“Tomorrow,” he repeats.
“Tomorrow,” I agree.
This time, it sounds closer to a promise than a delay.
The fire shifts between us, its light steady against the stone, since the ruin collapsed, the direction of what comes next isn’t his to define alone.
I’ve already chosen the path. He just doesn’t see all of it yet.
The silence lingers, but no longer sharp, and I let it settle instead of breaking it again too quickly. He’s thinking. His gaze unfocuses slightly, not from weakness, but from distance, from calculation continuing even when his body refuses to follow.
I don’t want him there. Not right now.
“Tell me something,” I say, before I can second-guess it.
His gaze returns to me, slower this time. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It isn’t,” I reply. “Not everything is strategy.”
“That depends on the question.”
I shift slightly closer to the fire, pulling one knee in, grounding myself before I answer. “What did you want to be,” I ask, “before all of this?”
He watches me for a moment like he’s trying to decide if I’ve lost control of the conversation or if this is something else entirely.
“Before what?” he asks.
“Before the house. Before expectations. Before you had to be… this. Like when you were little.”
He almost smiled, faint and brief. “You assume there was a version of me that didn’t align with expectation.”
“I assume there was a version of you that didn’t care.”
That holds him longer. For a moment, I think he won’t answer.
“I wanted command,” he says. “Not the kind I have now. Not built on inheritance or obligation.” His gaze drifts, not away from me, but past me, somewhere quieter. “Something earned. Something that didn’t come with… conditions. Like a knight or something.”
There’s something in the way he says it that feels too honest to be calculated.
“And you?” he asks.
I huff out a quiet breath. “I didn’t think that far ahead.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is,” I say, then pause. “I just didn’t think I’d live long enough for it to matter.”
His gaze sharpens slightly at that, something unreadable passing through it.
“That seems inefficient,” he says.
I almost smile. “I was younger.”
“You still are,” he replies, and this time there’s something different in it. Softer. Less deliberate.
He leans his head back slightly against the stone, his breathing evening out just enough that I know the pain has dulled, even if only for now.
“Come here,” he says quietly.
I hesitate. Not long. Just enough to feel it.
Then I move.
I sit closer this time, within reach, close enough that the warmth from the fire isn’t the only thing I feel. My hand rests lightly against his side again, checking the bandage without asking, adjusting it just enough to keep it from pulling when he shifts.
His gaze drops to the movement, then back to my face.
“You’re careful,” he says.
“I’m trying not to let you die,” I reply.
“That’s not what I meant.”
I pause, then continue adjusting the fabric, more slowly now.
“I know,” I say.
His hand moves before I expect it, not fast, not forceful, just enough to catch my wrist lightly where it rests against him, stopping the motion for a second.
“Careful, little seer,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, closer. “You’re starting to sound like you intend to keep me.”
The words should feel like a threat. I meet his gaze, holding it for a second longer than I should.
“Only until tomorrow,” I say quietly.
Something changes in his expression again. Subtle. Real. Then he lets go. And the moment passes.