They walked another stretch in quiet.
Sir. Wilkinson's mind, however, was anything but quiet.
He had confirmed her presence. Confirmed her precision. Confirmed her responsiveness.
Now he needed to confirm something else.
He slowed.
Roald glanced up. "Are we resting?"
"No," Sir. Wilkinson replied quietly. "We are performing."
Roald blinked. "Performing what?"
"A hypothesis."
Roald's face lit immediately. "Oh."
Sir. Wilkinson stopped in the center of the road and turned slightly away from the trees, lowering his voice.
"You must trust me."
Roald straightened. "I do."
"I am going to appear furious."
Roald's eyebrows rose in admiration. "You don't have to pretend very hard."
Sir. Wilkinson ignored that.
"You will protest. Loudly. But not fearfully. Do you understand?"
Roald's smile faltered just a fraction. "She'll hear."
"That is the intention."
The boy's eyes widened slowly.
Realization dawned.
"You think she'd come down."
"I am certain of it."
"And if she doesn't?"
Sir. Wilkinson's expression remained level. "Then we continue walking."
Roald considered that only a second.
Then he nodded.
"All right."
Sir. Wilkinson stepped back, drawing in a slow breath.
When he exhaled, something in him shifted.
His shoulders hardened. His jaw tightened. The calm engineer disappeared.
"What possessed you?" he snapped suddenly.
Roald startled — convincingly.
"I—I don't know what you mean!"
"You have been interfering since morning."
Roald stepped back as instructed.
"I only picked up the pieces!"
"You presume too much."
Sir. Wilkinson seized the front of Roald's tunic.
Hard.
Roald gasped — not entirely acting.
From the trees, something moved.
Sir. Wilkinson saw it in his periphery.
Good.
"You think this is a game?" he barked.
The dagger flashed.
Steel caught light.
The forest inhaled.
Roald struggled convincingly. "I didn't mean—!"
Sir. Wilkinson tightened his grip and let his voice sharpen into something harsh and cutting.
"You will learn restraint."
The blade hovered beneath the boy's jaw.
The trees exploded.
She dropped from the canopy without sound.
Impact.
Sir. Wilkinson hit the ground hard enough to rattle breath from his lungs. His dagger spun away into the dirt.
A knee drove into his chest.
Cold steel pressed to his throat.
She was above him — eyes blazing, jaw tight, breath fierce and fast.
No words.
None needed.
The blade bit just enough to draw a thin red line.
Roald scrambled back — wide-eyed, startled now for real.
She leaned closer.
Her expression was not wild chaos.
It was focused violence.
Protective.
She would have done it.
Sir. Wilkinson lay still beneath her.
Completely still.
Not frozen in fear.
Not struggling.
Watching.
Studying her as she studied him.
That was the first crack.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
His breathing was controlled.
Measured.
Infuriatingly steady.
No panic.
No fury in return.
Only—
Calculation.
Her gaze flicked to Roald.
The boy was no longer protesting.
He was not crying.
He was staring at her with open admiration.
And— impossibly—
A small, grateful smile.
She looked back at Sir. Wilkinson.
The corner of his mouth curved.
Barely.
But unmistakably.
Understanding dawned slowly across her features.
Not shock.
Not humiliation.
Recognition.
She had been drawn out.
On purpose.
Her jaw tightened.
The snarl faded.
The blade remained at his throat one heartbeat longer — as if considering whether pride alone justified finishing it.
Then she withdrew it sharply and stood.
Not retreating.
Standing.
Her annoyance was clear.
Palpable.
Sir. Wilkinson rose without haste, brushing dirt from his coat as though this had been a minor inconvenience.
He did not reach for his fallen dagger.
He did not step toward her.
He simply stood upright and met her gaze.
For the first time, they faced one another without trees between them.
No shadows.
No guessing.
Her eyes burned with accusation.
He inclined his head slightly.
A silent acknowledgment:
You came.
Roald stepped closer, bright as ever.
"Thank you," he said sincerely. "Again."
Her gaze shifted to him.
The boy's gratitude was real.
Uncomplicated.
She exhaled sharply through her nose.
When she looked back at Sir. Wilkinson, something new flickered beneath the irritation.
Not defeat.
Assessment.
He had risked himself.
He had predicted her.
He had trusted her to choose protection over concealment.
That was bold.
Perhaps foolish.
Perhaps brilliant.
She sheathed her blade in one fluid motion.
Then she stepped backward — once, twice — eyes never leaving his.
A warning lived there.
Not in words.
In promise.
Do not try that again.
Sir. Wilkinson's expression did not change.
But there was no smirk now.
Only quiet satisfaction.
She turned.
And in three silent strides, the forest swallowed her again.
Roald let out a breath he had clearly been holding.
"Well," he said brightly, "she moves faster than you."
Sir. Wilkinson touched the thin line at his throat where the blade had rested.
"Yes," he said calmly.
"She does."
And though she was hidden once more,
the balance between them had shifted.
Not because she spoke.
But because she chose not to kill him.
Sir. Wilkinson retrieved his fallen dagger and wiped the blade carefully against his sleeve before sheathing it.
Roald adjusted the pouch at his side, still glowing faintly with triumph.
They stood in the road a moment longer than necessary.
"She was angry," Roald said.
"Yes."
"But she didn't hurt you."
"No."
Roald smiled at that.
Sir. Wilkinson did not.
He glanced once toward the trees — not searching now, not provoking.
Simply aware.
"She will not forgive that easily," he said.
Roald tilted his head. "Do you want her to?"
Sir. Wilkinson considered the thin sting at his throat.
"No," he replied at last.
And they continued toward Dillaclor, the road stretching ahead as though nothing had changed at all.
But the forest behind them was no longer a mystery.
It was a challenge.
And somewhere above, unseen once more, Isobel watched them go —
not hidden now,
but waiting.