“You know this isn't normal, right?" Carlos whispered as he dried dishes in the staff kitchen. “You've played nursemaid for ten days. You've slept less than four."
Erin stacked a crate of vials. “I've survived worse."
“Sure. But did 'worse' involve nightly chess games and philosophical debates with the Empire's deadliest general?"
Erin paused. “He's recovering. Talking helps."
Carlos snorted. “Talking, sure. But quoting war manifestos? Debating the ethics of human testing over tea?"
She didn't answer.
“You're slipping," Carlos said softly. “You care."
“I calculate," she corrected.
He gave her a long look. “Just don't forget—he's the sword. You're the one who made blades."
---
That night, the east wing was quiet. Ashton sat by the fireplace, one leg propped up, coat draped over hi
