His expression shifts, confusion cutting through the anger for a brief moment. “Of course I did.”
“You didn’t hesitate.”
“No.”
“Why?”
The question slips out.
He stares at me, as though the answer should be obvious.
“Because you were in the way,” he says.
I shake my head. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” he replies.
But he does not elaborate. And that absence feels heavier than any answer he could have given.
I stand there, caught between what I saw and what just happened, between the certainty of the visions and the reality of his actions, and the two refuse to align in any way I can reconcile.
My fear tells me one thing. The truth in front of me tells me another. And I no longer know which one is more dangerous to believe. If we assume that the fear is leading me and not the presence I felt.
“You know what?” he says, voice dangerously calm. “I am done with this. You are coming with me. We need to talk.”
Before I can answer, before I can even decide whether to fight him or flee, he bends, lifts me from the ground, and starts carrying me away.
20
VAEDROS
Distance becomes the first necessity, and I take it without discussion, without permission, carrying her farther than required until the sounds of the earlier encounter dissolve completely into the layered quiet of the forest, until even the memory of movement behind us loses immediacy and becomes calculation instead of threat. She thrashes against me at first, cursing under her breath, demanding I release her, but I do not, because her judgment has become unreliable and mine is currently the only thing standing between us and another beautifully executed disaster.
By the time she stops fighting, her silence is not surrender. It is fury waiting for better footing.
The ground here rises into a shallow incline scattered with dark stone and sparse undergrowth, open enough to prevent concealment, enclosed enough to contain what needs to be said, and I choose it deliberately because control of space precedes control of anything else.
I set her down. Carefully, but not gently. I am still angry with her.
Her balance fails immediately, and she reaches for me without intending to, fingers catching briefly at my coat before she steadies herself, the motion small but impossible to ignore. The moment lingers longer than it should, then breaks as she pulls her hand away like the contact itself offends her.
I do not step back. Neither does she. Good.
“Explain,” I say.
No preamble. No softening. No patience.
Her breathing remains uneven, though she forces it into something resembling control, lifting her chin slightly in that familiar gesture that attempts to reclaim ground she has already lost.
“There’s nothing to explain.”
The lie is immediate. I almost admire the consistency.
“There is,” I reply, voice low, controlled, carrying far more weight than volume requires, “and you are going to give it to me in detail.”
Her eyes narrow. “You are not allowed to demand?—”
“I do,” I cut in, stepping forward, closing the distance just enough to force her attention fully onto me, “when your decisions nearly get us killed.”