"This won't be the only place, will it?"
Her eyes widened a fraction. Surprise, not fear. A yes came to her mouth the way a breath does when a window opens. Then the real smile—rare, unarmored—appeared and stayed. "Okay."
He didn't squeeze; he let her decide the pressure. She squeezed once, exactly enough.
The march felt like gliding through a throat that didn't quite want them there but was willing to be polite if they were. Skeleton couriers took the forward crates, each pair moving like a joined machine, wooden rails squeakless under marsh cloth. Their spearheads were tied down with soft knots that said "we are not hunting," and even the knot tails looked modest. A Hypnoveil led with its mantle low, spreading boredom like a calm teacher. Ribbon Scout lined behind: Scurabon nose; six white-outlined soldiers; workers in paired drift; one nurse riding the cadence like a metronome wearing a shawl.
