The study was older than the Sanctum. Orin didn't light the lamps. The glow from his armor was enough, gold on stone maps spread across a table. Troop positions. Supply lines.
He set the greatsword against the wall. A deliberate gesture.
Eloy stayed by the door. The ankle was a wall of heat from foot to knee. The suppression field's cold still clung to his bones.
"You're not what Caldwell described." Orin's back was still turned. "The reports said disposable asset. Unstable exposure. Recommended termination within forty-eight hours of Sphere contact. That was twelve days ago. You should be dead."
"I get that a lot."
Orin turned. Older in the dimness. The weight of four centuries settled into the lines around his eyes.
