Chapter 30 Leena
LEENA
We move. No one says it. There’s no command or signal, it just happens.
The others fall into formation around us, like they’ve already decided what this is now. What Kael is. No weapons are trained on Kael anymore, but no one is relaxed either. Trust will build with time.
Kael’s weight shifts against me as we walk. He’s hurt, but he’s holding himself more than he was before. I adjust, taking more of it, bracing him where his steps falter, and he lets me.
“You’re pushing too hard,” I murmur, keeping my voice low enough that it’s just for him.
His breath is warm against my ear.
“If I slow…” he starts.
He doesn’t finish it. Doesn’t need to.
“If you slow, we adjust. That’s how this works now.” A beat. Then, quieter. “You don’t do this alone.”
His arm tightens around my shoulders, not enough to hurt. Just enough that I feel the choice in it.
“I know,” he says.
The words aren’t clipped or broken like he’s spoken before. They’re… real. Another shift in him. A welcome one.
We walk like that for a while.
The desert stretches around us in every direction, twin suns dropping low, the light shifting from harsh white to something deeper, more dangerous. Long shadows stretch across the sand, turning the terrain uneven, harder to read.
Better for ambush.
The others know it too. Their formation tightens, movements more deliberate. No one speaks or wastes energy. Behind us, the place where the hunter fell disappears. Swallowed by drifting sand like it never happened.
I feel the echo of it. The way it looked at us. Tracked us. Marked us. I push the thought down. Now is not the time.
Ahead, Drazan moves at the front of the group. He doesn’t look back. But I sense that he’s aware, especially of Kael and of me. Of everything that just happened. You don’t carry something like that for years and just walk away from it.
The space between them hasn’t closed, but it hasn’t widened. It’s just… there. Waiting to be addressed. Like one of those sand snakes—hidden, but ready to explode without warning.
Kael’s steps falter, barely, but I don’t miss it. I stop with him, turning enough to face him. One hand comes up to steady his chest before he can push through it.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Stop.”
His jaw tightens automatically.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” I answer, just as quietly. His wings twitch, a faint rustle of irritation and instinct.
For a second, I think he’s going to argue. Then he exhales. He lets himself lean into the rock outcrop beside us.
The group slows, not stopping completely, but adjusting around us. No one complains or calls it out. They’re watching and assessing, but they’re adapting.
I move my hands over him without hesitation. I check the binding at his side. The fabric is soaked again.
“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath.
“You are injured as well,” he says.
I blink, caught off guard.
“What?”
“Your hand.”
I look down and see blood. It takes a second to realize it’s mine, not his. The skin is torn where I grabbed the filament earlier. I hadn’t even felt it.
“It’s nothing,” I say automatically, and he narrows his eyes.
“It is not nothing,” he says, low, in more of a commanding tone than he’s used with me. I recognize it as concern, and that warms my heart.
“I’ve had worse,” I say, softer now. “Right now you’re the priority.”
He studies me for a long second, like he’s trying to understand.
“No,” he says softly, but with absolute certainty.
“No?” I repeat, my breath catching.
“You are not less because I am injured,” he says. “We are not… ranked.”
The last word comes slower, like he’s reaching for it. Like it doesn’t quite fit what he means, but he’s not sure what word does. Something in my chest tightens.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say gently.
“I know,” he answers.
I shake my head, then go back to the task, tightening the binding, pressing enough to slow the bleeding again. He doesn’t flinch, but he does grunt in pain. The world narrows for a second.
Just us. Just this. The heat. The sand. The danger still out there. This—this quiet moment in the middle of it all.
“I wasn’t going anywhere,” I tell him.
His gaze holds mine, searching, and he finds something because his shoulders ease, just slightly. A fraction.
“I am glad,” he says.
Simple. Uncomplicated. And somehow that means more than if he’d given a long speech. Behind us, Drazan’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“Move.”
Not sharp or harsh, but the moment breaks.
I step back and Kael pushes off the rock. He steadies, breath uneven, but stronger than before. This time, when he shifts his weight against me, it doesn’t feel like he’s barely holding on. It feels like he’s choosing to.
We move. Together.
We don’t speak again right away. Not because there’s nothing to say. There’s too much of it sitting just under the surface, waiting for the wrong moment to break everything open.
The desert shifts as we move. The ground dips into a shallow basin of broken stone and wind-carved ridges. It gives us cover from the open horizon, but it also traps the heat, making the air heavier and harder to breathe.
Drazan stops the group with a raised hand. The others spread out, forming a loose perimeter. One kneels near a ridge, scanning the distance. Another checks the sand, reading it like a story I can’t quite see. Safe, for now.
I guide Kael down before he can pretend he doesn’t need it. He lowers himself without argument, back braced against the rock, one wing shifting to keep his balance.
His breath is uneven, but steadier. I drop in front of him, close enough that my knees brush his.
“Don’t move,” I say.
He doesn’t argue, which surprises me. I reach for the binding. The bleeding has slowed, but not stopped. It won’t—not without time, rest, and things we don’t have out here.
“You should have let me handle the filament,” he says.
I don’t look up.
“And let it take you?” I tighten the wrap slightly. “Not happening.”
His jaw shifts.
“You are not expendable.”
The words are sharp. I glance up at him.
“I never said I was.”
“You acted as if you were.”
“I acted like I wasn’t going to let it drag you back into that hole.”
His gaze locks on mine, and for a second, the world narrows again.
“You would have been taken,” he says.
“So would you.” A beat. Neither of us looks away, but something shifts. He exhales slowly, like he’s letting something go. “That outcome is unacceptable,” he says.
A corner of my mouth lifts before I can stop it.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “We can agree on that.”
Silence settles between us, but it’s different. Easier, not empty, just quiet.
I finish securing the binding and sit back enough to assess the work. His color is pale, and he’s holding himself too tightly, like if he relaxes even a little everything might fall apart.
“You need rest,” I say.
“I need to keep moving.”
“You need both,” I counter. “And right now, you’re getting the first one.”
He looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Which tells me more than anything how bad it is.
A shadow falls across us, and I don’t have to look up to know it’s Drazan. He stops just outside arm’s reach. Close enough to speak. Far enough not to crowd. Drazan’s gaze drops briefly to the wound, then lifts again.
“He won’t make it to the city at this pace,” he says.
Direct. Clinical. Like he’s assessing terrain instead of his brother. My spine stiffens.
“He will,” I answer before Kael can.
Drazan’s eyes flick to me, not dismissive, but not impressed either.
“There’s a faster route,” he says. “Less cover. More exposure.”
Of course there is.
“There’s always a cost,” I mutter.
“Yes.”
Kael shifts.
“We take it,” he says.
I turn sharply to look at him.
“No, we—”
His hand closes lightly around my wrist, interrupting.
“I can make it,” he says, eyes on mine.
There’s no bravado, no false strength, just pure intention and will. I search his face, looking for cracks. Any sign he’s pushing past what his body can actually handle. They’re there, but so is something else.
Determination. Choice.
Damn it.
I exhale slowly.
“If you collapse, I’m carrying you,” I say.
“You cannot carry me.”
“Watch me try.”
For a second, something almost like amusement flickers in his eyes, but it’s gone just as fast. Drazan watches the exchange. He says nothing, but something in his expression shifts into something that looks like understanding.
“Then we move now,” he says.
The others gather, tightening formation. I push to my feet and offer Kael a hand. He takes it, not because he needs it, but because he chooses to.
When he stands, he doesn’t lean into me right away. He steadies. Finds his balance. Then shifts closer. As we fall into motion with the group, I feel it again. That thread between us growing stronger and more certain.
Something real. Something chosen.
Whatever waits for us ahead, we’re going to face it together.