Page 87 of The Last Rose of Ashwood

A controlled breath sounded behind her, slow enough to advertise irritation of its own.

“You say my name,” Elira replied, “as though every syllable is an accusation.”

Seren turned towards her. The scholar stood beside the hearth with her arms loosely folded, expression composed, though there was a new tension beneath it now, slight enough that Seren might have missed it two days ago. She did not miss it anymore.

“Perhaps,” Seren said, “that is because every time something impossible happens, you look like someone hoping I won’t ask about it.”

Elira’s chin lifted. “Perhaps I simply dislike your questions.”

“You dislike answering them.”

“I dislike the assumption that wanting an answer entitles you to one.”

Seren felt her patience pull tighter. "And I dislike standing in a cabin connected to children walking into forests while the one person who seems to understand any of it treats useful information like a private collection.”

The amusement left Elira’s face. For the first time, her annoyance answered Seren’s without disguise. “Understanding pieces of something,” Elira said, her voice cooling, “is not the same as understanding the whole.”

“Then give me the pieces.”

“And watch you assemble them incorrectly?”

“Better than watching you hide them.”

Elira stepped closer, only one pace, it was enough to change the air between them. “You have an extraordinary amount of faith in your own conclusions, General.”

Seren remained where she was. “And you have an extraordinary amount of faith in your right to decide what everyone else gets to know.”

Something flashed through Elira’s expression—anger this time. It vanished almost immediately beneath the familiar polish, but Seren had seen it. The discovery should have satisfied her. Instead, it sharpened the tension already gathering between them.

For several breaths, neither spoke. The fire crackled beside them.

Mara resumed cleaning her knife with deliberate concentration.

Coren had become very interested in the storm.

Seren kept her gaze on Elira—Elira kept hers on Seren.

Beneath the argument, beneath suspicion and irritation and every unanswered question, something else had begun winding itself through the space between them—something Seren could not yet name and therefore trusted even less.

She glanced back toward the glowing mark. “Start with this.”

Elira’s eyes followed hers to the carving.

Her expression tightened, and Seren recognized that this may be the first question the scholar did not seem eager to turn into a joke.

“This cabin is connected to the hill," Seren prompted.

“Yes.” The answer came so quickly that Seren nearly missed the victory.

Elira appeared to realize what she had surrendered a moment too late, her gaze shifting toward the storm-dark window.

“That was an answer,” Seren said.

“Try not to become emotional about it.”

“What is this place?” Seren asked.

Outside, the wind moved around the walls with a low moan, the sound passing through the structure rather than around it. Firelight sharpened Elira’s face, revealing the fatigue beneath her eyes and the cold composure polished smooth enough to become armor. “A shelter for those who traveled to Listener’s Rise.”