Her steps falter.
Not exactly proof, but contour.
She recovers instantly. “You overestimate your importance in my internal life.”
“I estimate very little. I measure.”
“Then measure this.” She lifts our joined rope hand slightly. “I dislike being managed.”
I step nearer until there is nowhere for the line to tighten further.
“I’d prefer trust.”
The words leave before strategy approves them. She searches my face with open suspicion, as though sincerity is the least believable thing I could offer.
“You don’t know what to do with trust,” she says quietly.
The answer should irritate me. Instead it wounds in a place I did not realize remained exposed.
We stop beside a fallen trunk to eat dried fruit and hard cheese. While she drinks, I study the path ahead where a cluster of vine-laced stones creates a narrow choke point ideal forsimple mechanisms. The forest builds traps of its own, yet old mortal habits appear here too, snare loops, weighted branches, sharpened stakes hidden under leaf cover. Someone else has crossed this region within the last season.
I decide to test timing.
While repacking the gear, I palm a small iron hook and thin cord from my kit. When Aeryn turns to rinse the cup at a nearby seep, I move ahead ten paces and rig the cord low across the narrowest part of the path, attached to a dead branch poised to swing down harmlessly if tripped. Loud enough to startle. Light enough to bruise pride more than flesh.
Controlled scenario.
I resume my place beside her as though nothing has changed. We set off.
She grows quieter approaching the choke point. Her thumb presses once to the inside of her wrist. Vision incoming, perhaps. Or memory. Or simple intuition sharpened by survival.
Five paces.
Four.
Three.
Her breathing changes.
Two.
“Vaedros—”
I step through. The cord snaps taut. Branches whip downward with a crack of leaves and bark. I catch the main limb on my forearm before it strikes, then let it bounce harmlessly aside.
She had time to warn earlier. She chose the final instant again. Her eyes flash with anger when she realizes I expected it.
“You did that.”
“I suspected someone had.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Frequently.”
She jerks the rope from my hand and starts past me. I catch the line before she gains distance, drawing her back one sharp step. She collides against my chest, palms landing on my coat for balance.
Everything stills. The white grove, the filtered light, the branch settling behind us.