The supply pack was Breck's, originally — a wide canvas satchel with a reinforced base that he used for tool storage and which had been passed between hands twice in the reorganisation after the bridge demolition. This was the difficulty with communal packing under urgency: things migrated. By the time we made camp in a shallow rock depression three miles east of the gorge, nobody was entirely certain which bag contained the spare lamp oil, and Cassian wanted it found before dark.
He said so with his characteristic economy. "Lamp oil. Before we lose the light. Dara."
It was not a request, but Dara never needed it to be. She moved through the stacked packs with the methodical efficiency of someone who had searched barracks rooms and supply wagons and worse, working from left to right, lifting each bag just enough to feel its weight before setting it down. I sat with my back against a low rock shelf and watched her without appearing to.
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