Chapter 3
TALIA
My heart is pounding and my head spinning as I leave the Council tent. I pause outside to take a deep breath, leaning my head back to stare at the broad open red sky. The walls of the valley cast shadows across the camp, keeping the temperature bearable.
A deep ache in my bones tells me I’ll need a does of epis soon.
The almost magical plant adjusts my human physique to tolerate the incredible heat.
I know, fundamentally, that it is doing things to my genetic structure, but what I don’t know.
My skills in the sciences are for teaching grade school.
A broad understanding but no in depth knowledge.
That should bother me, but it doesn’t. What’s the alternative? We all saw what happened to those who refused to take epis. It seems like a lifetime ago since the Human First movement took a stand on their principles. If only we’d known then that all we had to do was wait them out.
Personally the children make everything worth it. The crash to the planet and all. No, not the loss of so much life, but we are here and I refuse to dwell on the past. These kids, they’re the future and I will lay my life down for them.
Even if it means going into the desert. My heartrate has settled into something resembling normal and it’s easier to breathe. The next thing is to find out more about this one who is going to escort Rverre and me. I shake the malaise off my limbs and begin looking.
It takes some time but I find him where the camp thins. Not quite on the perimeter, but not fully inside it either. He’s at a narrow point of the canyon watching in what looks like a combination of watchfulness and withdrawal. Close enough to respond if something goes wrong. Far enough to breathe.
Korr sits on a low rock, one knee bent, forearms resting loosely against his thigh. The open desert stretches behind him in rippling gold and shadow, but he keeps his body angled toward the stone, back half-shielded, as if the land itself is something that might strike if he turns the wrong way.
He isn’t patrolling which seems strange. I assumed he would be, though I don’t know why.
For a moment, I consider turning back. I don’t need this. The council meeting left my nerves raw and my thoughts tangled enough. I should be organizing supplies. Laying out the lessons for the children and making lists that feel like control even when they aren’t.
I should do those things, but instead I step closer. As I approach I hear a sound. It takes a moment to recognize the soft scrape of a blade against wood. Measured and deliberate. He’s carving.
The stick in his hands is dark and smooth, polished by years of handling. Not a weapon. Not decorative either. It fits his grip like something meant to be held often, turned over and over. He works carefully, blade angling shallow as he cuts a single line, then pauses to study it before continuing.
I clear my throat. He doesn’t look up.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he says, speaking softly.
“I’m not,” I say. “You’re here.”
That earns me a brief, assessing glance. His gaze flicks over me before settling back on the stick.
“You’re not armed,” he says.
“I’ve noticed.”
“Then don’t wander.”
“I didn’t wander,” I reply. “I walked.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not a smile, but something close to acknowledgment.
Silence settles between us again, thicker but not uncomfortable. A warm breeze blows in from the desert, carrying bits of sand. The camp murmurs behind us, distant enough to feel unreal.
“What are you carving?” I ask.
His blade stills and for a long moment, he doesn’t answer. I start to think I’ve crossed some invisible line when he finally speaks.
“My Mudrosti.”
I don’t have any idea what that Urr’ki word means so I wait.
“It’s a record,” he continues after a pause. “Of what matters.”
“That’s… concise,” I say.
“It’s not meant to be understood by others.”
I nod, absorbing that.
“Then I won’t ask what it means.” He glances up quickly as if he hadn’t expected restraint. I gesture toward the stick anyway. “I am wondering when you carve on it.”
His fingers tighten around it slightly. “At turning points.”
That makes sense. The council. The children. The city that may or may not exist. The direction everything has shifted without asking our permission.
“And this is one of those?” I ask quietly.
His jaw flexes and he doesn’t answer for a long, pregnant moment.
“No,” he says.
I don’t push. Instead, I sit on a nearby stone, careful to leave space between us. Close enough to speak without raising my voice. Hopefully far enough to not intrude.
“You don’t have to like this,” I say after a moment. “But it’s happening.”
“I’m aware.”
“You objected.”
“I objected to you going unguarded.”
“That’s not what you said.”
His blade resumes its slow path through the wood. “It’s what I meant.”
I watch his hands as he works. Strong. Scarred. Steady in a way that speaks of long discipline rather than ease.
“You don’t trust me,” I say.
He looks up then, fully this time. “I trust you with the children.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Another pause. This one heavier. He stares at the stick in his hand as if weighing the words he wants to say. I can’t tell if it’s because he’s unsure what to say or if he’s trying to be nice. He looks up, meeting my eyes and I could almost swear there is a fire burning in his.
“I don’t trust what draws attention,” he says at last. “And you do.”
I swallow, unsure why that stings more than it should.
“We all draw attention,” I reply. “You included.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
His eyes flick past me, out toward the open valley. His shoulders tense, just a fraction.
“Because I know what to do with it.”
I follow his gaze, though I don’t see what he does. Just space. Wind. Possibility sharpened into threat.
“And you think I don’t?” I ask.
His attention snaps back to me, something unreadable passing through his expression.
“I think,” he says carefully, “that you stand too close to the center of this.”
I let out a slow breath. “I’m not trying to.”
Silence settles again, but it’s changed now. Less neutral. More charged. As if something unspoken has taken shape between us and neither of us knows what to do with it.
“I should let you work,” I say, rising.
He inclines his head slightly, blade still in his hand. As I turn to leave, his voice stops me.
“Talia.”
The way he says my name—low, deliberate—sends an unexpected ripple through me.
“Yes?”
“You should not be alone tonight.”
I glance back at him, searching his face for meaning I don’t want to assume.
“That sounds like an order.”
“It’s advice,” he replies. “You may choose whether to ignore it.”
I hesitate, then nod once. “Goodnight, Korr.”
He doesn’t answer. The scrape of blade against wood resumes as I walk away. I don’t look back, but I feel him watching until the camp lights swallow me.
I don’t go far.
I tell myself it’s because there’s too much to do before we leave. Supplies to inventory, schedules to adjust, children to reassure, but the truth is simpler and harder to admit.
I’m thinking about him. About the way he said my name.
About the warning that felt like concern wrapped in restraint. About the stick in his hands and the way he shielded it without anger. It unsettles me more than open hostility would have.
By the time I reach my tent, I’ve convinced myself that I should clear the air.
Not for comfort, or so I tell myself, but for function.
We’re about to travel together, and uncertainty is dangerous in the desert.
I stare into my shared shelter for a long moment before turning around and heading back.
He’s still there when I return, though the light has shifted. The desert has softened into amber and shadow, the heat easing just enough to be deceptive. He’s standing now, Mudrosti tucked away, posture alert in that constant, coiled way of his.
“You followed my advice poorly,” he says without turning.
“I didn’t follow it at all,” I reply. “I came back.”
That gets his attention. He turns, fully this time.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“No,” I agree. “But you implied I needed watching.”
“I implied you needed protection.”
“Those aren’t the same thing?”
“They are when the result is the same.”
I cross my arms, irritation sparking despite my intention to stay calm.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
He studies me, gaze steady and unflinching. “The council already did.”
“That was about logistics,” I snap. “Not about whether I’m capable.”
His brow furrows slightly. “This is not about your capability.”
“Then what is it about?” I demand.
He exhales through his nose, a controlled release that tells me I’ve stepped on something sharp.
“You are too valuable,” he says.
I frown, unsure how to take that. The words aren’t what I expected and they’re too open to interpretation. They make me feel… less and I don’t like that at all.
“I am not a resource,” I say tightly.
“That is not what I meant.”
“It’s what you said.”
Silence stretches, taut and brittle.
“You stand where lines intersect,” he says at last. “Children. Leadership. The land itself. If something happens to you—”
“—then what?” I cut in. “Everything falls apart?”
His jaw tightens. “Yes.”
The certainty in his voice hits harder than fear would have. I stare at him, pulse pounding. I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.”
“That’s not reassuring,” I say. “That’s reckless.”
His eyes flash. “You think I don’t know reckless?”
“I think,” I say slowly, choosing my words with care, “that you’re projecting danger because it’s easier than admitting uncertainty.”
The silence that follows is heavy and not just between us.
“You mistake caution for fear,” he says coldly.
“And you mistake control for protection,” I shoot back.
That hits him. He steps closer—not invading my space, not threatening—but close enough that I feel the heat of him, the restrained energy humming beneath his stillness.
“You do not understand what you are stepping into,” he says, voice low. “And I will not pretend otherwise to spare your pride.”
My breath catches. Anger flares, sharp and immediate.
“My pride?” I repeat. “You think that’s what this is about?”
“I think,” he says, “that you are used to standing in the center and calling it responsibility.”
The words slice deep. I feel it immediately—the old ache, the quiet certainty I’ve lived with for years.
“I didn’t ask to be there,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I stepped in because someone had to.”
He hesitates. Just a fraction, but enough that I see it.
“That may be true,” he says carefully. “But it does not make you untouchable.”
“I don’t want to be untouchable,” I snap. “I want you to stop treating me like I’m one wrong step away from breaking.”
His gaze drops—just briefly—to my hands. My stance. My breathing. Then it lifts again, unreadable.
“You are not fragile,” he says. “You are exposed.”
The distinction shouldn’t matter as it doesn’t change the way he’s acting, but it does.
We stand there, the argument spent but unresolved, something fractured between us that wasn’t there before. Not trust and definitely not respect, more of an illusion.
“This isn’t finished,” I say quietly.
“No,” he agrees. “It isn’t.”
I turn away before he can say anything else—before I can say something I can’t take back.
Behind me, the desert breathes. Ahead of me, the camp waits. And somewhere between the two, I’ve just learned that whatever binds Korr to this mission has nothing to do with orders. I take pride in not huffing as I walk away, angry, but resigned.
I don’t go back to my tent.
Instead, I walk toward the children’s area, following the familiar pull of quiet order.
I drift through the soft murmur of voices settling, the rustle of blankets, the low cadence of bedtime routines.
Someone has hung lanterns along the support poles, their light warm and steady, chasing the worst of the dark away.
Zoe sits cross-legged near the edge of the circle, helping Malcolm fold a blanket that’s far too big for him. She hums under her breath, tuneless but calm. When she looks up and sees me, her expression brightens.
“Did they decide?” she asks.
“Some of it,” I say, easing down beside her. “Enough for now.”
She nods as if that’s exactly what she expected.
“It’s loud tonight,” she adds.
“Is it?” I ask, glancing toward the valley, where the stars are beginning to prick through the red haze of the sky.
She tilts her head, listening to something I can’t hear.
“Not bad-loud. Just… awake.”
I don’t ask her to explain. I’ve learned better.
Rverre is half-asleep, curled into herself with her wings tucked tight, breath slow and even. I brush my fingers lightly over her hair, careful not to wake her. The tension in my chest eases a fraction when she doesn’t stir.
This—this—is why I do it. Not the councils. Not the arguments. The quiet moments where the world holds still long enough for a child to rest.
“Will he be there?” Zoe asks suddenly.
I still.
“Who?”
“The watcher,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “The one who stands like the ground might move.”
My pulse stutters realizing she means Korr.
“Yes,” I say after a moment. “He will.”
She considers that, then smiles. “Good. The path is narrower without him.”
Before I can ask what she means, she lies back and pulls the blanket up to her chin, eyes already drifting closed.
I sit there longer than I need to, listening to the soft rhythm of breathing around me, letting the camp settle into something like peace. Somewhere beyond the lantern light, footsteps move along the perimeter—measured and steady.
I don’t look for him because I don’t need to.
The argument still burns under my skin, unresolved and sharp, but it no longer feels like a wall. More like a fault line—something that will shape what comes next whether we acknowledge it or not.
Soon, we leave. And whether Korr likes it or not, we are already walking the same ground.