"Let me?" The words come out sharper than intended. "I don't need your permission to risk my life."
"Maybe not. But I'm not staying here while you charge into danger alone."
"Even if staying here is the smart tactical choice?"
"Especially then."
He's not trying to control me or diminish my capabilities. He's trying to protect someone he cares about, even if that protection comes at the cost of tactical efficiency.
Someone he cares about.
The realization settles like molten metal, heavy and burning. Somewhere between the battlefield cooperation and the quiet moments by the fire, between the strategic discussions and the shared meals, something real has developed between us. Something that makes tactical decisions personal and personal decisions life-or-death.
But caring about someone doesn't change the mathematics of survival.
"The chemical compounds react to friction and heat," I explain, keeping my voice level. "Your weapons, your armor, even your body temperature could trigger a reaction. I can move lighter, quieter, with better awareness of the danger signs."
"And if you're wrong about the compounds? If it's just regular explosives or conventional weapons?"
"Then I'm still better equipped to handle infiltration and reconnaissance."
"And if there are hostiles waiting in ambush?"
"Then I'm fucked either way, but at least you won't be fucked with me."
Crude honesty seems to penetrate his objections better than tactical arguments. He recognizes the truth when he hears it. Sometimes the mission requires one person to take risks so others can survive to complete the objective.
But recognition doesn't mean acceptance.
"There has to be another way," he insists.
"If there is, we don't have time to find it." The voices are getting closer, and now I can hear other sounds of tools scraping, heavy objects being moved. "Every minute we wait gives them more time to set charges or seal exits."
"Ressa..."
"Trust me." I reach out, touching his arm lightly. "Not because I'm asking you to forgive the lies or forget the betrayal. Trust me because you know I'm right about this."
His jaw works silently, internal conflict playing out across his features. Trust and fear warring with tactical necessity and emotional attachment. The hand not holding his weapon clenches and unclenches, a tell I've learned to recognize when he's fighting the urge to act against his better judgment.
Finally, he nods.
"Five minutes," he says. "If you're not back in five minutes, I'm coming after you."
"Give me ten. If it's a complex setup, five won't be enough time to assess and withdraw safely."
"Seven."
"Deal."
I check my weapons, smaller blades designed for precision rather than power, less likely to create sparks against stone. Myleather armor is quiet, flexible, broken in enough that it won't creak or bind at crucial moments. Everything I need for a stealth reconnaissance.
Everything except backup.
"Ressa." Kaelgor's voice stops me at the tunnel entrance. "Be careful."
"Always am."
"No, you're not. You're brave and skilled and tactically sound, but you're not careful. Careful would be staying here and waiting for rescue."
