Nyssa found him where he kept his maps, where the smell of smoke and leather lived in the corners. Gonzalo had been awake, poring over lines, tracing rivers like a man who tried to possess the land with his fingers. He looked up when she came in, tall, squared, the kind of man who had no trouble making the world small by squeezing it between his hands.
She closed the door quietly and stood for a breath, hands clenched at her side. The healer's face was pale in the lamplight. She had not come for strategy. She had come with a single thing heavy and sharp: a plea.
"Alpha," she said, and the word trembled against the lintel. "If you will only hear me—"
Gonzalo did not rise. His eyes moved to her with the patience of a man who listens because he allows it, not because he is moved by it. "Nyssa," he said. "This is not the hour for women's petitions. Vanya manages the women. We have the rogues to close on. Speak quickly."
