Owen took a breath, forcing his mind back to logistics, to structure. “We should use the original plan for Isolde.”

“The one your da gave you?”

“Yes. It’s high risk, high reward—either a trap or the best option for infiltrating Isolde.”

“I don’t expect it’s a trap,” Eirian muttered. “Not… physically.”

“We have to take the Stone,” Owen insisted.

“Alright.”

“I considered alternatives. Each one has more unknowns and potential points of failure.” He finally met Eirian’s gaze. “Conleigh’s plan is still the most direct with the highest probability of success.”

Eirian watched him for a moment, expression unreadable. “Alright,” he said again.

“It minimizes exposure. It uses knowledge specific to us.” He sounded like his father now, reinforcing his position, shutting down potential dissent before it was raised, trying to show his logic was airtight. “It’s our only advantage.”

“Alright.”

“Any other approach introduces unnecessary risk.”

“Alright, Owen.”

Eirian seemed about to say something else, his lips parting slightly, the intensity of his gaze locked on Owen’s for a moment before falling again. He swallowed, the movement visible in his throat.

Owen waited, but Eirian’s thoughts remained unvocalized.

What is he swallowing down? Owen wondered.  Was it doubt? Fear?

Finally, Eirian looked up, meeting Owen’s eyes again. “I’ll take first watch. Best get some rest now.”

Owen reached out and put his hand to the side of Eirian’s face. He ran his thumb over Eirian’s mouth, which was, like the rest of him, strange and elegant. Eirian shivered, and Owen sat forward to wrap Eirian in his arms. The underside of Eirian’s jaw pressed into Owen’s coat.

“It’s good we’re near the place, like,” Eirian said quietly. “Reckon it’ll be snowing soon.”