Page 27 of Raven’s Fight

I give them the reunion. This matters. You give the nest its reunions before you give the flight its reports.

The war council that follows runs an hour. I listen to Raven brief on Giselle, on Cassius, on the eastern intelligence. I watch her take in Finlay's Amadeus update and Solaris's confirmation, and she absorbs all of it the way she does — not flinching, not reacting, just filing, building the picture. Her face goes still and her eyes become the most active thing about her, moving through the information like she's reading a map.

When it comes to me, I give it clean. Eight signatures. Fire drake musk confirmed by Finlay. Trail-covering. Six weeks to the Purge.

She's very still for a moment. "How many?"

"At least eight on the rotation. Could be more sitting further back from the line."

She nods once. "Don't engage. Keep watching. I want the position maps updated every forty-eight hours."

"Already set up."

Another nod, and the council moves on.

I watch her for the rest of the meeting. The way she holds six separate threads at once and keeps them straight. The way she asks the question that cuts to what matters. The way she eats exactly one piece of bread the entire hour because she keeps forgetting about it. The way she never once lets the weight of any of it show.

That last one worries me.

Not the competence. The competence is extraordinary, and I know it, and I trust it completely. What worries me is the not-showing — the thing that doesn't quite have a name, that I've felt through the bond at the edges when she thinks everyone is asleep. The particular frequency of someone carrying something very heavy and making certain no one can tell.

✦ ✦ ✦

After the council clears, I find her in the kitchen.

She's making tea with the focused attention of someone doing one simple thing and grateful for it. The kettle is loud on the stove. The light is warm. Nova is already asleep in the next room. Raven stands in front of the stove in her bare feet, wings slightly spread for balance, hair still damp from the flight.

I sit at the kitchen table. She looks at me over her shoulder.

"Tea?"

"Yeah."

She makes two cups, sets one in front of me, and sits across from me with both hands wrapped around hers, looking at the steam coming off it.

We don't talk for a while, and that's fine. Blink hounds are comfortable with silence. We're a species that navigates partly by sound, and we know better than most the difference between the silence that needs filling and the silence that's doing something.

This one is doing something. Specifically, it's letting her be a person instead of the dominant dragoness and the heir apparent and the chair of a war council and the target, and every other thing she spent the last hour being.

"The fire drakes," she says eventually. Not a question. Just naming it.

"Yeah."

"Amadeus sent them."

"That's what the pattern says."

She nods slowly and drinks her tea. "I need them to stay where they are for six more weeks. If they move before the Purge, the whole thing changes."

"I know. That's what the forty-eight-hour updates are for. If the pattern breaks, you'll know inside two days."

"Good." She looks up at me. Her eyes in the kitchen light are very blue and very tired — the particular tired that comes from holding a lot of things at once for a long stretch. "Thank you, Keir. For the tracking, for the samples, for giving it to me straight."

"Always," I say.

She almost smiles. Almost.

"You came here to check on me."