Again, way too much.
I wrench away harder than necessary and stagger upright. The movement sends a wave of dizziness through me. Trees lean inward, then correct themselves.
“Something useful, I hope,” he adds.
“There are futures where I let you walk into a ravine.”
“There are present moments where you answer directly.”
I wipe blood from my mouth with my hand. “You appear in too many versions.”
He rises slowly, gaze fixed on me with a concentration that feels almost tactile. “A flattering complaint.”
“It wasn’t one.”
“No,” he says softly. “You reserve those for when you mean them.”
The ease with which he speaks while I am unraveling should anger me. Instead I register the line of his throat where his collar sits open from travel, the elegant severity of his features sharpened by green light, the way beauty becomes dangerous when paired with intelligence. His brothers wear violence openly. Vaedros carries it under silk and wit, polished until people mistake fascination for safety.
That may be worse.
We continue because standing still in this part of the forest feels like volunteering for an experiment. I walk half a pace ahead to avoid looking at him more than necessary and fail repeatedly whenever the trail narrows enough to bring his shoulder near mine. He moves through the undergrowth with predatory grace, every step chosen, every glance collecting information. There is no waste in him. Even his silence seems curated.
Trusting any version of such a man would require madness. The problem is that distrusting him entirely now feels equally foolish.
An hour later the path divides around a cluster of standing stones veined with pale quartz. Water runs somewhere nearby, unseen but loud enough to suggest depth. Ferns tremble though no wind reaches them.
I know what I should do. Give the clearest guidance available. Preserve our progress. Preserve myself. Instead I decide to test him. My turn now.
“Left,” I say, studying the stones.
He does not move.
After three breaths I add, “Unless the stream has shifted. Then right.”
Still he waits.
“The center opens later,” I continue. “Or it used to.”
He turns his head slightly toward me. “Are you finished composing possibilities, or should I sit down?”
I fold my arms. “You asked for direction.”
“I asked for yours.”
“You assume I possess one.”
“I assume you possess several and are enjoying the distribution.”
Annoyingly accurate.
He walks to the left path, kneels, touches the soil, then stands and crosses to the right without comment. There he studies bent reeds, a patch of scraped bark, the angle of stones under moss. Finally he takes neither route and steps directly between the standing stones where thorn branches appear too dense to permit passage.
I blink.
“There is no trail there.”
“There wasn’t,” he says, parting the branches to reveal narrow ground hidden behind them. “Someone made one recently.”