Page 110 of Dead Drop

The areas where the vines are weak, where the towers are unstable, where the wind cuts dangerous—I know them all. I can move through this territory at full speed now, or slow, or with a pregnant belly full of a daughter who isn't born yet but already shapes how I move.

By the time I reach the aerie, the light is failing. The canopy is darkening from gold to gray to blue. The first stars are visible above the tree line.

The night birds are beginning their calls. The world is transitioning, the way it does at the edge of darkness.

Corvin is waiting at the nest entrance. His wings are folded, his tail is still, his eyes are fixed on the canopy path where I emerge. The amber eyes catching the last of the day's light and throwing it back like a mirror.

He's been waiting long enough to settle into stillness, the way he does. Not pacing. Just waiting. The male who can hold patience the way I hold a blade.

I cross the final distance between us.

He catches me. My face against his chest. The heartbeat steady and strong and real under my palm.

His tail wraps my hip. His wings unfold slightly, creating a space where I can stand against him without the world pressing in.

"South is clean," I say. "The boundary markers are solid."

"Ridge is solid. No sign of Stained for eight days."

"Good."

We stand there. The aerie around us. The furs beyond.

The room with the pale pelts visible across the nest in the dimming light. The world outside is moving toward night, but inside the aerie, his body blocks the wind. His wing blocks the worst of the cold. His warmth is enough.

"She moved today," I say.

"Yes." His hand moves to my belly, covers mine. "I felt it this morning. Strong."

"Strong," I confirm. Our daughter is strong. She's going to have to be.

The night settles. The canopy sounds shift to the night pattern. The bugs start their songs.

The wind picks up—the cool night wind that brings the smell of the forest, the distant smell of the stream, the salt-sweet smell of the green growing things. Above us, the stars are bright. The universe doesn't care about the Ordained or the Cages or the system that breaks women into currency. The stars just burn. The forest just grows. The world just turns.

We stand there until the light is gone completely, until the aerie is just the shape of him and the shape of the nest and the pale glow of the furs across the space. Until the boundary between day and night is complete.

"Come," he says finally. "The furs are warm."

We move into the nest. The main furs first, the layers we've learned by heart. His body curves around mine with the ease of something that's become routine but still carries intention.

His hand on my belly. His mouth against my hair.

The room he built is across the aerie. The pale furs glow faintly in the darkness. The threshold visible as a shape.

A promise. A beginning.

"Tell me about the boundary," he says.

I do. The details of the markers, the sight lines, the wind patterns. The places where the vines are climbing fastest.

The places where the old towers are most stable. The route that's fastest when I'm carrying something, and the route that's safest when I'm not. The knowledge I've built into my body, into my instincts, into the geography of our territory.

He listens. His hand doesn't move from my belly. His heartbeat remains steady against my back.

This is what we do now. The tactical conversation. The intelligence sharing. The building of a shared map. The creation of a world that's ours to defend.

"Good work," he says when I'm done.