Nava refused the corridor escort before Iven reached the departure yard.
She stood beside two cases of replacement couplings, wearing a patched work coat with the shared return station’s plain mark on its sleeve. Six workers waited around her, tools packed and no enthusiasm for discovering which army would decide their work belonged to it today.
“No flag on the cases,” she told the quartermaster. “No soldier riding among the fitters. You can watch the public road from your own post. The station isn’t a forward camp.”
The quartermaster looked past her at Iven.
“And him?”
“He asked me. I said yes.”
Iven set his tool roll beside the cases.
“Still yes?”
