“He doesn’t report movement.”
“He leaves patterns.”
A pause.
Then, “North-east.”
“Toward what?”
“He hasn’t said.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
The messenger hesitates.
Then, “Velkiron forces have shifted to intercept. Two fronts. They expect convergence within days.”
That aligns. I process it quickly, mapping the implications, adjusting for timing, terrain, probability of engagement.
“And Zethon?”
“They haven’t moved.”
“Yet.”
“No confirmed activity.”
Of course not.
“They’re watching.”
“Yes.”
That’s enough. I step back. The tension in the unit doesn’t ease.
“You’ll return,” I say. “You’ll report that you found nothing.”
“That’s not?—”
“It is.”
He nods. Because he understands the alternative.
“Go,” I say.
They move quickly, retrieving their fallen without question, their formation reforming as they withdraw, disappearing back into the forest with controlled urgency.
Silence returns.
I stand there, letting the information settle into structure, aligning it with what I already know, what Aeryn has shown, what remains uncertain.
Then I turn. She’s watching me, she has returned.
“You didn’t kill him,” she says.
“I didn’t need to.”
Her gaze sharpens slightly. “They sent you terms.”