“Then why you didn’t even tell me?”
“You didn’t tell me what the artifact really does.”
That stops me.
“Don’t,” I say, but he doesn’t step back from it.
“No. You won’t make this one-sided.” His voice stays even, but there’s weight behind it now, something that doesn’t leave room for deflection. “That thing you’re trying to stop doesn’t come back through nothing. It needs a way in.”
I already know where he’s going with this.
“It comes through blood,” he continues, holding my gaze. “And mine is exactly what it needs.”
Silence settles between us, heavier now, grounded in something neither of us can ignore.
“That’s why you didn’t tell me,” he says.
“Yes.”
There’s no point pretending otherwise.
“In every version you saw,” he adds, quieter now, “what happens to me?”
“That depends on whether you take it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
No hesitation. No retreat.
“You don’t survive it, at least your soul don't," I answer.
The truth sits between us, solid and unavoidable. He exhales once, slow, as if that confirms something rather than changing it.
“Then we’re aligned.”
I stare at him. “That’s your answer?”
“You think I didn’t see the same thing from the other side?” His voice lowers, steadier now. “This isn’t strategy.”
“No,” I say. “It isn’t.”
He steps closer.
“And I still chose not to take it.”
“You don’t get to hesitate,” I demand, my voice quieter now but sharper for it. “Not with this. Not with me.”
“I’m not.”
“You won’t decide later that I’m expendable?”
“I already decided you’re not.”
There’s no calculation in it. No angle to read past.
“Then prove it,” I say.
He closes the distance without hesitation.