Chapter 5 Talia
TALIA
Iwake before the camp does.
It’s the kind of waking that doesn’t feel like sleep ending so much as vigilance loosening its grip just enough to let me breathe.
The valley is still dim, the red sky muted into bruised violet and rust as the suns climb toward the rim.
Cool air presses against my skin, fragile and temporary, and I draw it in deeply before the heat remembers us.
The camp is oddly quiet.
Lanterns burn low along the support poles, their light soft and deliberate, shadows stretching long across packed earth. Somewhere, someone moves quietly—boots scuffing, fabric whispering—but there’s none of yesterday’s chaos yet. No raised voices. No arguments.
Departure mornings never shout. They hum.
I sit up slowly, listening to my own body.
The ache in my bones is sharper than yesterday, a dull insistence that tells me I’ve waited too long again.
I reach for my epis, pressing the plant’s softened fibers against my tongue and swallowing before the bitterness can linger.
Heat tolerance. Endurance. Survival, distilled into something purple-brown and unassuming.
I don’t trust what it does to us, but I like the alternative less.
Outside, the sky brightens by degrees, the valley walls catching the first hints of light and throwing them back at one another. The stone looks almost gentle like this. Forgiving.
It never is.
I rise and step out into the morning, wrapping my cloak tighter as the chill tries one last time to convince me this place can be kind. The children’s teaching area lies quiet and empty—mats stacked, slates tucked away, yesterday’s lessons erased by the simple act of leaving.
I pause at the edge of it, staring at what feels too fragile to abandon.
This space was never meant to last. We all knew that. Even when we pretended otherwise—when we laid out lessons and routines like mortar between stones, hoping structure alone could become shelter.
The children are still with their parents, where they should be. Curled close, breathing shared, hands tangled in fabric and scales and wings. That knowledge settles something tight in my chest even as it sharpens the ache underneath it.
Today, that changes.
Behind me, the camp begins to stir. Soft voices carry on the air, careful and hushed, as if everyone has agreed—without speaking—that today deserves reverence. Packs are shifted. Straps adjusted. Someone coughs and immediately smothers the sound.
I move through it all, nodding where I’m seen, offering murmured reassurance where it’s needed. My hands know what to do even if my heart doesn’t. Count supplies. Check water. Make sure shade cloth is folded properly and emergency markers are within reach.
Function is a comfort.
It lets me pretend this is just another day. Another lesson plan. Another moment where I guide them forward and trust that the ground beneath us will hold. But this isn’t a classroom. And today, one of my children will walk away from the people who allowed her to sleep without fear.
I spot Jolie first.
She stands near Rverre’s pack, hands hovering as if she can’t quite bring herself to touch it. Her posture is too straight, her expression held together by will alone.
Calista kneels beside another pack—larger, heavier—and for a moment my mind refuses to make sense of what I’m seeing.
“That’s… big,” I say, frowning. “Did you add extra water to Rverre’s—”
Calista looks up. Her face shifts the moment she meets my eyes. I don’t see guilt or fear. No, there is only resolve in hers.
“This isn’t Rverre’s,” she says quietly.
Something cold slides into my stomach. I follow her gaze.
Illadon stands a few paces away. A half-size lochaber resting easy at his side, point angled down in practiced control. He looks calm and ready. Far too ready.
“No,” I say.
The word comes out sharper than I intend, cutting across the morning hum. A few heads turn. Jolie stiffens beside Rverre.
“No,” I repeat, louder now. “What is he doing?”
Illadon meets my gaze without hesitation.
“I’m coming,” he says, straightening, his chest filling and his wings snapping partially open. My chest tightens.
“You are absolutely not.”
Jolie turns, eyes flashing. “Talia—”
“This was not discussed,” I snap, the weight of it hitting me all at once. “This is not part of the plan.”
“It is now,” Illadon says evenly.
I look at Calista, searching her face. “You agreed to this?”
Her jaw tightens. “I’m not stopping him.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
I turn, already scanning the camp. “Where is Korr?”
“I’m here.”
His voice comes from behind me, close and too calm. I spin.
He stands inside the line of departure, posture steady, eyes alert, like this is exactly where he expected to be when this moment landed.
“You approved this,” I say.
“I have accounted for it,” he replies.
The distinction snaps something in me.
“You approved a child going into the desert,” I say, heat rushing into my voice. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”
“I do.”
“No,” I snap. “You don’t. Because if you did, you wouldn’t be standing there so damn calm.”
“He will not be alone,” Korr says. “He is capable.”
“He is a child,” I shoot back. “And you do not get to decide that this is acceptable.”
“I do,” he says evenly. “Because he will go whether escorted or not.”
“That is not your call to make!”
“It was already made.”
Jolie steps between us then, one hand gripping Rverre’s shoulder, the other clenched tight at her side.
“Stop,” she says, voice breaking through the tension like glass. “Both of you.”
I force myself to breathe, to pull back from the edge I hadn’t realized I was standing on.
“This isn’t strategy,” I say, quieter now but no less fierce. “This is a line. And you crossed it.”
Korr’s gaze holds mine. “So did you. When you agreed to take Rverre.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because she’s being called,” I say. “He’s being pulled along.”
Illadon steps forward to stand in front of me.
“No,” he says. “I’m choosing.”
The certainty in his voice steals my breath.
“I choose to protect her,” he continues. “You taught us that.”
The words hit like a fist into my chest.
I look at him—really look at him—and see what I should have seen sooner. Not a boy playing soldier. Not a child chasing danger. But someone who has already accepted that staying behind would cost him more than leaving ever could.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. I turn back to Korr.
“If anything happens to him—”
“It won’t,” he says.
“You don’t get to promise that.”
“No,” he agrees. “I get to stand between him and what tries.”
The anger doesn’t vanish, but it shifts—compressing into something sharper and more dangerous.
“This isn’t over,” I tell him.
“No,” he says quietly. “It isn’t.”
It feels like all of the camp has gone still around us. The packs are ready, lines are drawn, and the children watch with eyes far too aware. The sun crests higher over the valley wall. And suddenly, whether I like it or not, the shape of this journey has changed.
Jolie stands with Rverre, arms wrapped tight around her daughter, forehead pressed to hers. Calista stands very still, hands folded together as if movement might undo her. Korr steps away, deliberately giving space. I don’t thank him for it. Instead, I turn back to Illadon.
“Come with me,” I say, keeping my voice low, but carefully making it not a command, keeping it a request.
He hesitates, then nods once. He follows me a short distance away, just far enough that the others become murmurs instead of witnesses. He plants the lochaber beside him and waits, posture straight, chin lifted. Too much like an adult bracing for judgment.
I crouch in front of him so we’re eye level.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say gently. “Not like this.”
“I know,” he replies.
The calm of it nearly unravels my resolve to get him to stay behind.
“This isn’t a lesson,” I continue. “This isn’t training. This is dangerous in ways you can’t plan for.”
“I can plan for some of them,” he says. “And the ones I can’t—Rverre will feel before I do.”
That makes my throat tighten.
“You can’t be responsible for that,” I say. “You shouldn’t have to be.”
“I already am.”
I shake my head. “No. You’re her… friend. That’s not the same thing.”
“It is to her,” he says quietly.
I look at him, really look this time. The set of his shoulders. The way his wings twitch, restrained, like he’s holding something back on purpose. He’s not afraid of the desert, of Korr, or even of me. He’s afraid of staying.
“Your mother is terrified,” I say softly.
“I know.”
“And you’re still choosing this.”
“Yes.”
I swallow. “Why?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drifts past me, toward where Rverre is still pressed against Jolie, small and fierce and certain all at once.
“Because she won’t stop,” he says finally. “And because if she goes without me, she’ll break something trying to come back.”
The words land with awful clarity.
“You think you’re the only thing holding her together,” I say.
“No,” he replies. “I think I’m the thing that lets her move forward without tearing herself apart.”
I close my eyes for a moment, the weight of it pressing down hard.
“You know I can’t protect you the way I protect her,” I say.
“I know,” he says again. “That’s why I need him.”
I open my eyes. “Korr?”
Illadon nods. “He watches the ground. You watch us. I watch her.”
The simplicity of it steals my breath.
“You planned this,” I whisper.
“Yes.”
“Before the council?”
“Yes.”
“Before I agreed to go?”
He hesitates at that, only a little, but enough.
“No,” he admits. “But once you did, it was done.”
I sit back on my heels, staring at him. At this child who learned inevitability far too young.
“I don’t want this for you,” I say.
“I know.”
“I wanted you safe,” I add, and the words slip before I can stop them.
He smiles then. Not wide and certainly not triumphant, just… understanding.
“So you did,” he says. “That’s why you taught us how to choose.”
I laugh softly, the sound brittle. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
“It still worked.”
I reach out before I can second-guess myself and rest my hand on his shoulder. Solid. Real. Alive.
“If anything happens to you—”
“I won’t forgive you?” he offers gently.
I huff out a breath. “No. I won’t forgive myself.”
He considers that. “Then don’t let it.”
That’s the moment I know. Not that he’s coming—that was never really in question. But that trying to stop him now would cost more than letting him walk beside us. I nod once.
“Stay where I can see you.”
He straightens a little more. “Always.”
I rise, brushing dust from my knees, and gesture back toward the others.
“Go say goodbye,” I tell him. “Properly.”
He hesitates, then nods and turns away. I watch him walk back toward his mother, shoulders squared, steps steady. And somewhere behind me, I feel Korr’s attention settle, not on Illadon, but on me. As if he’s just realized the same thing I have.
This journey isn’t just about where we’re going. It’s about who we’re becoming once there’s no one left to stop us.
Illadon walks over to his mother, back straight, wings tight. The dragging of his tail against the ground the only indicator of reluctance.
Calista doesn’t rush him. She waits just far enough away that the moment belongs to them alone. She cups Illadon’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing the edges of his scales the way she has since he was small enough to sit in her lap and demand stories he already knew by heart.
“You don’t have to be brave for me,” she says softly.
Illadon swallows. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away.
“I know,” he says.
She presses her forehead to his, eyes closed.
“You come back,” she murmurs. “Not because I need you to. Because you promised yourself you would.”
“I will,” he says. No hesitation. No flourish. Just truth.
Her hands slide to his shoulders, gripping once—harder than she probably means to—before she lets go. When she straightens, her eyes are bright, but dry. A distance behind her, Ladon watches.
He doesn’t step forward or intrude on the moment. He stands with his arms folded, posture relaxed in the way of someone who knows when presence is enough. When Illadon looks his way, Ladon inclines his head once. Pride. Clear and unguarded.
Illadon’s chest lifts.
He turns back to Calista, hesitates, then wraps his arms around her. She stiffens in surprise before pulling him close, one hand pressing between his shoulder blades like she can anchor him to the ground if she tries hard enough.
“Go,” she says quietly against his hair. “Before I change my mind.”
He steps back, gives her one last look, and then he’s moving—sure-footed and steady—back toward us.
Rverre waits at the edge of our group, wings tucked tight, eyes bright with a certainty that makes my chest ache. When Illadon reaches her, she reaches back without looking, fingers tangling with his as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Korr takes position without ceremony, taking the lead with the ease of someone who has done this a thousand times. I don’t look at him. I don’t need to. I feel the shift as the line settles, the moment when preparation turns into motion.
The parents watch. No one speaks. No one waves.
We pass the last line of tents, the last markers hammered into familiar ground. The canyon walls fall away behind us, stone giving way to open sky, and the desert stretches out ahead—wide, unbounded, and waiting.
The first step into the sand feels heavier than it should. Then another. And another. The camp does not follow. The valley does not call us back.
Ahead, Tajss opens—vast and awake—and whether we’re ready or not, we walk into it together.