It also places us in a position Vaedros would control easily.
I close my eyes. Let the third path dissolve. When I open them, I turn slightly so he can see my face.
“Two options,” I say. “Ridge or cedar corridor.”
His gaze sharpens, though he does not question the framing. “Advantages.”
“Ridge gives visibility and space. Corridor gives cover and concealment.”
“Disadvantages.”
“Ridge exposes us to whatever hunts openly. Corridor hides too much.”
He studies me, searching for the part I have not said. There is always a part I have not said.
“Your preference,” he asks.
“I don’t have one.”
A lie shaped carefully enough to pass as uncertainty. He shifts his weight slightly, attention moving between both paths, measuring terrain, wind, distance, risk. I am worried that he might hesitate long enough to find the third option on his own.
He does not.
“Ridge,” he decides.
Of course he does. Open ground. Information. Fewer unknowns. He steps forward without waiting for confirmation.
I follow.
The choice settles around us like something decided too easily.
The climb begins immediately, roots slick with moss, stones shifting underfoot, the incline steep enough to slow the pack beasts into careful, reluctant movement. Wind presses harder here, pulling at hair and fabric, carrying the scent of something distant and sharp I cannot yet place.
Vaedros moves ahead now, testing footing, choosing lines through the terrain, his body adjusting to the climb with fluid precision. I watch him without meaning to. He is not built like his brothers.
There is no excess weight to him, no reliance on brute strength or visible intimidation. Everything about him is controlled, deliberate, designed for efficiency rather than force. His movements are clean, economical, each step placed with intention. Even here, even in unstable terrain, he wastes nothing.
Handsome. The thought arrives uninvited. I push it aside.
Halfway up the ridge, the vision strikes. There is no warning this time, no gradual pressure building behind my eyes. It comes sharp and immediate, slicing through the present with surgical precision.
We are on this same ridge. The same climb. The same wind.
Something breaks the surface of the ground ahead, fast enough that I do not fully see it before it reaches me. A strike aimed low, precise, lethal.
I do not move in time. Vaedros does. He steps between us without hesitation. The impact drives into him instead.
I feel it. Not see it. Feel it. The force of the blow, the sudden jolt through his body as it connects, the way his breath leaves him in a harsh, involuntary sound, the heat of blood where there should not be blood. His hand catches my arm, not to restrain, but to steady, to keep me from falling as he absorbs the damage meant for me.
The vision ends there. No aftermath. No resolution. Just that moment. I stop walking.
Vaedros turns immediately. “What?”
The question is sharp, focused, already moving toward action.
I stare at him.
The image refuses to settle into the patterns I understand. It does not fracture. It does not offer alternatives. It does not carry that subtle wrongness the previous manipulated vision held.