Page 34 of Orc’s Hex

“Brynna.”

“Already sent for.”

Garrok looks at Drazhul. Drazhul looks at the sky.

“I take it back,” Garrok says. Low. “Tell her I take it back.”

“You’ve been saying that since the first assembly.”

“I was right yesterday.” He crosses to the nearest fallen warrior and crouches—checking breathing, checking eyes, the care of a man who has done this before and hates that he has. Moves to the second. “They’re going to be raw when they come back.”

“They weren’t themselves.”

“I know. Tell them that.” Garrok checks the third warrior. Stands. Looks at Drazhul with the expression he uses when he’s been sitting on something for a while. “Those three will blame themselves when they wake up. Get to them before Varek does.”

“I know.”

“There are more who are close. I’ve been watching. If the sigil’s pushing this hard into the garrison⁠—“

“I know, Garrok.”

A long look. He goes to wait for Brynna.

Drazhul crosses to Ziva.

She’s standing in the center of the courtyard, looking at the three unconscious men. Her kit is back at her hip. She’s breathing carefully—he can read careful from normal in her breathing now, and what she’s doing right now is careful.

“From inside the walls,” he says. “Someone was running the possession from inside the walls.”

“They had a sightline to the courtyard or access to the foundation channels below it. Close enough to anchor three threads simultaneously and hold them.” Her voice has an edge to it. “This wasn’t done from a corridor. They were here.”

“The maintenance practitioner.”

“Has to be.”

The courtyard is quiet. The healthy warriors are gone, the forge quarter is starting its morning work in the distance, and the wind off the peaks is the only sound in the courtyard.

“Your ribs.”

“Intact.”

“Brynna first.”

He doesn’t argue. She’s right.

“Fine.”

She nods. He watches her exhale.

And then she doesn’t exhale. She stops mid-breath—both hands drop to her sides and then press flat against her abdomen—and she goes still with a quality that has nothing to do with her working stillness.

Her face goes blank.

Involuntary. She’s looking down at her own hands with the look of someone the floor has moved under without warning.

“Ziva.”

“Don’t—“ One hand up. Doesn’t look at him. The other stays flat against her abdomen, pressing. “I’m reading it. Give me a second.”