The map table was a flat slab of grey granite on two low trestles. Between them, it carried weight of frontier.
Caelum stood on southern edge, fingers braced against rough stone. Didn’t look up as Morgaine approached, though shift in air — that crispness — told him exact second she stopped opposite.
For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Shadow of midnight — heat of dark and silence that followed — hovered over stone like static. Exigency of terrain cleared it away as quickly as it came.
Morgaine set leather map-case down with firm, deliberate thud, leaning over parchment weights. Voice back in commander register.
“Twelve points. Not natural decay — prepared working space. Maintained twenty years. Harvest rotation, per Iolan.”
Caelum leaned in, dark eyes tracking her hand. Tension in jaw vanished, replaced by cold focus of officer evaluating breach.
“Same conclusion from Fenrath. Not failing — being drained. Blight isn’t weapon. It’s slag.”
“Manufactured deterioration,” she continued, sliding reports across. “Leave nodes intact, Mira goes in five.”
She’d told him this last night, between kisses. He’d told her same between kisses. Now, in daylight, it sounded different — less theoretical, more like clock.
Caelum rested palms flat against granite, leaning weight forward. Knuckles brushed hers — brief.
He didn’t pull away. Neither did she.
“Which means posture changes,” he said quietly. “We don’t need defensive line. Need coordinated dismantling.”
Her gaze flicked from map to his face. Proposal required unprecedented integration — pooling resources not to wage war, but to combine scholars.
“Absolute synchronization,” she noted, subtext carrying beyond parchment. “Your scholars alongside my wardens. One heartbeat hesitation—”
“Then we break together,” he finished, voice dropping to low register that brooked no argument, eyes burning away pretense of detachment. “Illusion of separate lines is dead, Morgaine. We saw to that in the dark.”
Heavy silence, charged with reality of what he proposed. Not just military alliance; total dismantling of borders guarded for centuries.
She held his gaze, measuring, feeling stubborn resistance give way to something sharper, truer, absolute. Straightened, fingers resting lightly on granite edge.
“Then we bring scholars together by dawn,” she said, chin lifting with quiet, dangerous resolve. “Get your teams to first site. We meet at boundary.”
“Greywood. Contested. Neutral enough neither has to admit trusting.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow.”
He pushed off granite. She didn’t move.
“Morgaine.”
She looked up.
“Last night —”
“Was midnight,” she cut in, voice flat steel again, betraying nothing — except she was still not moving away from his hand near hers. “Tomorrow we have twelve ancient weapons to dismantle before someone who has been harvesting a continent for forty years notices we’re unplugging his furnace.”
Corner of his mouth moved. Not quite smile.
“Operational parameters clear,” he said.
“Crystal,” she said.
Neither moved for one second too long.
Then both stepped back at same time, like choreographed, and reached for their separate map cases.
Outside, two armies who’d been trying to kill each other for eleven years started packing to work together.
Inside, the granite slab still held heat from two pairs of hands.