"Left!" she snapped, grabbing his sleeve and yanking him hard.
Something pale and low burst from the exact spot where his next step would have landed. It had too many legs, too little sound, and a mouth made for catching ankles and turning falls into meals.
He stumbled, recovered, and stared at the patch it had leapt from.
Rhaen did not let go until the thing vanished under the sand again, cheated of its first strike.
Mikhailis looked at her and breathed out. "You are alarmingly useful."
"You're welcome."
Good. Not always me. Not always her. Better.
They slowed only when the next line of ruined stones broke the horizon enough to give them a momentary windbreak. There, Mikhailis forced both of them to drink a measured amount and not a drop more.
Rhaen disliked how little it was.
"So this is what romance with a strategist looks like," she muttered, swallowing the last of it.
"It would be if I liked you less professionally."
"That sounds worse."
"It should."
