The Arymh camp buzzed with tension, the air heavy with an unease that clung to every corner. Marinov crouched by a wounded soldier, carefully cleaning a gash under the dim flicker of torchlight. The prickle of something deeper-a storm brewing in the background-crawled along his skin. Across the tent, Yocha paced relentlessly, her usual composure unravelled. The steady grace she normally carried had given way to agitation, her movements sharp and punctuated by frustrated muttering.

"This is intolerable!" Yocha snapped, her voice slicing through the quiet. "This... anomaly is unravelling everything."

Marinov paused mid-motion, the vial of disinfectant still in his hand. "Anomaly?" he asked, feigning curiosity, though his tone carried a sharp edge. "I thought your visions were infallible. Could it be even Yocha makes mistakes?"

Her pacing stopped abruptly, and she turned, her eyes narrowing into sharp slits. "Do not test me, healer," she hissed, her voice low but venomous. "Your life is still mine to command. Never forget that."

He didn't flinch, meeting her gaze with a steady calm that betrayed none of what he felt. "As is everyone else's here," he said coolly, the subtext clear. "Perhaps their faith in your power deserves more of your attention than I do."

Yocha's jaw tightened, her glare sharp enough to cut through stone. For a moment, her shoulders sagged ever so slightly, and the fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced by something Marinov hadn't seen before-hesitation. "I spared you, Marinov," she said, almost too quietly. "Not for strategy, not for any advantage... but because..." Her voice faltered, the words hanging like unfinished thoughts.

Marinov felt his grip tighten on the vial, his pulse quickening. There it was-a crack in the armour, a sign that even Yocha, for all her power, was human after all. He pressed, his voice soft and coaxing. "Because what? Why would the all-powerful Yocha keep a traitor alive?"

The vulnerability in her expression disappeared as quickly as it had come. Her eyes hardened, her voice clipped. "Sentimentality is a weakness I do not indulge. Your death, at the time, served no purpose. That is all."

A dry laugh escaped Marinov before he could stop it. "How generous of you," he said, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Truly, I am humbled."

Yocha's temper flared. "Do not mistake my actions for weakness," she warned. "Your existence here is precarious at best. Push me further, and you will find just how expendable you are."

Marinov inclined his head in an exaggerated bow, his tone as mocking as ever. "As you wish, my lady. My loyalty is, of course, unwavering."

The tension between them thickened, the air in the tent almost suffocating. Yocha's gaze bore into him, searching for any sign of rebellion beneath his carefully crafted mask of compliance. But Marinov's face remained impassive, betraying none of the defiance that simmered just beneath the surface.

"Your loyalty is the only thing keeping you alive," Yocha said finally, her tone a sharp reminder of the power she held. "Do not make me regret my choice."

Marinov gave her a small, insincere smile. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Yocha turned away, her focus shifting to the flickering shadows cast by the oil lamp. Her hand trembled faintly-a betrayal of the turmoil inside her. Marinov watched her, and for the first time in weeks, a grim sense of satisfaction bloomed in his chest. He had found a chink in her armour, and it was growing.

"You seem unsettled," he said, his voice smooth, almost conversational. "Could it be that your precious visions are no longer as clear as you'd like them to be?"

Yocha froze, then turned, suspicion flashing in her eyes. "What are you insinuating?"

"Nothing," he said with a shrug. "Just an observation. You're not your usual composed self. Perhaps the threads of fate are more tangled than you care to admit?"

Her fury sparked like a live wire, but her words were controlled. "You forget yourself, Marinov," she said coldly. "You live because I allow it. Questioning me is not only foolish-it's dangerous."

"Is it, though?" Marinov asked, stepping closer. "Because it looks to me like the mighty Yocha is struggling. Nahil's dead. Hidayat is loose. Your carefully laid plans are falling apart." He gestured towards the chaos outside. "What's next? How much further will it all crumble before you admit even you can't control everything?"

Yocha's hand twitched as if she might strike him, her knuckles whitening at her sides. "You are playing a dangerous game, Marinov," she said, her voice trembling with tightly held rage. "You think you know more than you do. You think you've seen through me, but you haven't."

He tilted his head, a mockery of deference. "Perhaps. Or perhaps the cracks in your plans are clearer than you realise."

Her composure broke briefly, her eyes darkening with something between fury and fear. "You dare mock me?" she said, taking a step closer. "You dare question the only reason you're still breathing?"

Marinov smiled faintly. "I question what needs questioning. Maybe you should, too."

The silence that followed was thick and brittle, like ice about to shatter. Yocha opened her mouth to respond but hesitated. For a brief, charged moment, her anger seemed to waver, as though she were unsure of her next move.

Marinov turned on his heel, heading for the tent's entrance. "If you'll excuse me," he said without looking back, "I have patients to tend to. Try not to destroy what's left of your composure while I'm gone."

He left Yocha standing in the glow of the lamp, her shadow flickering uncertainly on the canvas walls. Marinov knew he was playing with fire, but for the first time, it felt like the flames weren't entirely under Yocha's control.