The woman's eyes opened.
She looked up at his face.
She did not speak.
Vess found her voice.
She moved forward. Her sword was out. It was not lowered. Thirty-five years of dungeon work and six years of command had built in her the reflex to point sharp things at unknown quantities regardless of how they looked.
"Who are you," she said.
Her voice was steady. Good. She was proud of it.
He looked at her.
The eyes met hers directly. Dark. Warm. Absolutely without evasion. She felt the look go through her — not like a weapon, not like a threat, like a hand pressing flat against glass from the other side. She felt seen. Completely. Instantaneously. Every layer of the commander's posture and the sword raised and the thirty-five years of competence she wore like armor — she felt all of it become transparent.
She felt naked.
She did not lower the sword.
