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He had not agreed.

He had simply chosen not to act.

Kesta found the distinction unexpectedly satisfying.

The Ash warrior with the broken horn had already begun turning two spears and a cloak into a litter for Mira. Kesta went to him.

“I’m carrying her.”

Dreven looked toward Mira’s wrapped body, then at Kesta’s bruised face and bloodied hands. His expression suggested he was measuring several objections and deciding which one might actually be useful.

“You will help carry her.”

“I said—”

“I heard you.”

The echo of his earlier words made Kesta narrow her eyes.

He continued before she could argue. “You have been struck, dragged through two ravines, and supporting an injured woman. Keth can carry the weight without taking the choice from you.”

The one-horned warrior glanced between them. “I would prefer not to become evidence in this dispute.”

Kesta looked at him.

His mouth twitched.

So did Dreven’s.

Apparently Ash Camp had a sense of humor. That was unfortunate. It made them more difficult to categorize.

Kesta crouched beside Mira and adjusted the thermal covering around her shoulders. “I take the head.”

Dreven nodded once. “Keth takes the lower weight.”

No triumph. No lecture.

Just agreement.

That made it easier to accept.

When the litter was ready, Lina was helped upright by another Ash warrior. Dreven moved toward the front of the column, but before starting he looked back at the injured women.

“At their pace.”

One of his men glanced toward the rift stalkers. “Commander—”

Dreven’s face hardened.

“At their pace.”

The warrior inclined his head and said nothing more.

The group moved out of the basin.

Kesta walked beside Mira’s litter, one hand resting near the dead woman’s shoulder. Lina limped behind them with support. Dreven remained several paces ahead, broad shoulders outlined against the red moon.

He did not look back often.