“You carry remedies now,” he says.
“I carry solutions. You should try it.”
He watches while I bind the hand. Rain beads on his lashes. It should make him look less severe. Instead it gives him the dangerous beauty of a carved idol left outdoors long enough for weather to deepen every line.
“You keep looking at me,” he says.
I tighten the wrap hard enough to earn a hiss from him.
“Correction,” I reply. “I keep checking whether the venom improved you.”
He laughs then, low and genuine, and the sound slips through me more easily than it should.
We continue at a slower pace. The forest after the grove seems louder than before, birds returning in startled bursts, insects buzzing from wet bark, branches shedding water in sudden showers whenever wind passes through. My headache rides each heartbeat like a hammer blow. Vaedros notices before I speak.
“Sit.”
“A command rarely improves when repeated, but you should try again.”
“Then consider it selfishness. If you collapse, I carry you or lose time. Neither appeals.”
I lower myself onto a fallen log because pride is less persuasive when the world tilts sideways. He kneels before meand uncorks a vial that smells of mint, camphor, and some sharp resin I cannot place.
“Close your eyes,” he says.
“That invitation has failed me before.”
“You wound me.”
“Sadly, only in theory.”
His fingers touch my temples, spreading cool oil in slow circles that draw the pain outward by increments I almost distrust. The relief is immediate enough to feel suspicious. So is the way I stop breathing for half a second when his thumbs pass near the corners of my eyes.
“You learned this where?” I ask, voice lower than intended.
“In a house where weakness was punished, usefulness expanded, and headaches often followed council meetings.”
I open my eyes. He is close enough that the dark blue in his gaze shows darker rings around the edges.
“That sounded almost honest.”
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”
I catch his wrist before he can pull away. The gesture surprises both of us. My fingers rest over his pulse..
“I told you before,” I say. “I won’t be predictable.”
His attention drops briefly to where I hold him, then returns to my face.
“Neither will I.”
He is no longer trying to make me obey. I am no longer trying only to escape. We are testing, learning, adjusting, each move answered by another.
Mutual tension is more dangerous than open war because it invites closeness while sharpening every edge. I release him first.
By evening we reach a ridge where the trees thin enough to reveal layers of forest rolling dark to the horizon, endless and breathing beneath a sky bruised purple with coming night.Vaedros builds the fire while I watch his hands move through practiced motions, steel, tinder, dry bark, spark, flame. Beautiful things should be safer than this.
He glances up without lifting his head.