Chapter 6 Talia
TALIA
The sand is finer than it looks.
It shifts underfoot with a subtle resistance that throws my balance just enough to make every step difficult. Not necessarily treacherous, but unfamiliar in a way that reminds me how much the canyon walls had been doing to protect us from life in the open.
Korr doesn’t comment. He moves ahead of us, angled slightly so the stone remains within reach, his stride unhurried but exact. Each step is placed, not taken. I find myself matching his pace without meaning to, adjusting before I realize I’m doing it.
Rverre exhales.
It’s soft, barely audible, but it’s the first time I’ve heard her breathe like that since we left the tunnels. Her shoulders loosen. Her wings shift, settling more comfortably against her back, no longer held so tight they tremble.
Illadon notices too.
He moves closer to her without breaking stride, his presence quiet and intentional. He doesn’t look at me when he does it, but I see the choice all the same.
The desert hums as if in response. It isn’t sound exactly—more a pressure, a low awareness that presses against the senses until it becomes background noise.
The air is warming and the heat climbs faster without the canyon’s shade, already reaching for my skin like it’s testing how long I’ll last. I swallow and keep moving.
Epis dulls the edge, but it doesn’t erase it. It never does. My body adapts, adjusts, survives—but it remembers that this isn’t what it was built for. I push the thought aside and focus on what I can control. My footing. My breathing. Rverre’s pace.
Korr slows by half a step.
It’s subtle enough that it could be coincidence, but I know it isn’t. He does it without looking back, without comment, giving the group time to settle into a rhythm that won’t cost us later. I don’t thank him and he doesn’t seem to expect it.
The sand gives way to stone in places. Exposed rock breaking through the surface like Tajss never fully committed to burying herself. Korr angles us toward them immediately, favoring the solid ground even when it adds distance.
I register the fact and file it away. This isn’t wandering. He’s mapping.
We don’t speak. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because the desert doesn’t need our words yet. It asks different questions. Where will you stand? How close will you walk? What will you protect first when the ground turns against you?
Rverre hums again, barely louder than before.
It isn’t a tune I recognize. It isn’t even consistent. Just sound shaped by breath and movement, rising and falling as she walks. I glance at her, ready to intervene if I see tension building, but she’s calm. Focused. More present than I’ve ever seen her.
Illadon walks taller, not in a puffed up way, or like he’s performing for her. He’s settled, like something in him clicked into place the moment the canyon let go.
I look back and see that nothing follows. No echo of footsteps. No voices calling our names. The valley doesn’t close. The camp doesn’t call. The desert simply accepts us, step by step, as if we’ve been expected all along.
I lift my gaze to the horizon, where heat already shimmers faintly against the sky, and feel the weight of what we’ve done settle fully into my chest.
This is not a test run. This is commitment. And whether I’m ready for it or not, Tajss has taken note.
The desert stops pretending after the first hour.
The heat sharpens, climbing fast enough that I feel it press behind my eyes. Light fractures off the sand in bright sheets, turning distance into illusion. What looks solid wavers. What looks flat hides shallow dips that steal balance and energy with quiet efficiency.
Korr lifts a hand.
Not a stop—just a signal. We slow, closing distance instinctively. He angles us left, away from the open stretch I’d been watching, toward a line of darker stone half-buried beneath sand.
“That adds distance,” I say.
It’s not a challenge. Just a fact.
“Yes,” he replies.
He doesn’t explain immediately. That alone prickles. I wait a few steps, giving him the chance to elaborate, but he keeps moving, steady and deliberate, attention fixed on the terrain ahead. I don’t like that.
“Distance costs water,” I add.
He glances back then, eyes sharp but not irritated. Measuring.
“Speed costs lives,” he says.
Illadon’s head tilts slightly, attention snapping between us. Rverre doesn’t react at all. She keeps walking, humming under her breath, her pace unchanged.
“We’re not under immediate threat,” I say. “The sand is stable here. Visibility’s good.”
“For now,” Korr replies. “And it won’t stay that way.” He gestures with a short movement of his chin, indicating the open stretch ahead. “Heat funnels through there. Wind follows. When it shifts, it will blind you before you know it’s coming.”
I follow his gaze. The air shimmers faintly, the kind of distortion that’s easy to dismiss if you don’t know what you’re looking at. I bite back a retort.
“This isn’t the canyon,” I say instead. “We can’t afford to move like we’re still hemmed in.”
“We can’t afford to forget what stone teaches,” he counters. “Open ground gives you choices. It also gives you nowhere to hide.”
“That assumes hiding is the goal.”
“It often is,” he says evenly.
We walk in silence for several steps, the tension between us taut but contained. He hasn’t dismissed me and I haven’t backed down. The disagreement hangs there, unresolved but not hostile. Illadon breaks it.
“If the wind comes from the west,” he says, eyes narrowed against the glare, “the stone will break it before it reaches us.”
Korr slows, surprised enough that he doesn’t hide it.
“That’s correct,” he says after a beat.
Illadon nods once, satisfied, then looks at me.
“It’s like the tunnels. You don’t fight what you can let pass.”
Something in my chest shifts. Korr studies the boy for a long moment, then adjusts our angle slightly—not as far toward the stone as before, but enough that it remains within reach.
It’s a compromise. I see it. So does Illadon. Rverre hums a little louder.
We reach the stone ridge just as the wind changes.
It’s subtle at first—a shift in pressure, a faint hiss as sand lifts and skims across the surface. Then it strengthens, a hot, abrasive breath that would have scoured our eyes and skin raw if we were still out in the open. Instead, the rock takes it.
The sound deepens, wind scraping along stone instead of flesh. The temperature drops by degrees—not comfort, but relief. I let out a heavy breath. Korr doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t need to.
We pause briefly in the ridge’s partial shade. Illadon adjusts Rverre’s pack strap without being asked, his movements practiced and careful. She leans into him without breaking her rhythm, wings brushing his arm once before settling again.
I kneel, pretending to check my footing while I recalibrate. He was right. That doesn’t mean I was wrong—but the distinction matters less than the outcome.
Korr scans the horizon, posture loose but alert, every line of him tuned to movement. He looks more at ease here, with stone close enough to brace against. I see it. The way his shoulders ease when there’s something solid at his back.
I also see that the desert hasn’t softened. We’ve just learned how to move with it. I straighten and meet his gaze deliberately.
“You should have explained,” I say quietly. “Not assumed.”
His eyes flick to mine, steady and unflinching.
“You should have trusted,” he replies. “Not challenged in motion.”
Fair. I nod once.
“Next time.”
“Next time,” he agrees.
No apology. No victory. Just recalibration. We move on.
The stone ridge tapers off, dissolving back into sand and heat, but something fundamental has shifted. Our spacing feels more intentional now. Our pace steadier. The children walk between us, protected not by proximity but by attention.
Ahead, the desert stretches on—vast, indifferent, and waiting to test whatever assumptions we bring with us next. I square my shoulders and follow. We’re still learning how to lead together.
The heat settles in after that.
Not all at once—no dramatic shift—but in layers, the way exhaustion does when it’s patient enough to wait you out. The suns climb higher, light pressing down until the sand seems to glow from within. Every breath tastes faintly of dust.
We adjust without speaking.
Korr shifts our path again, subtle enough that I might have missed it if I weren’t watching for it now. He keeps the stone close when it’s available, pulls us back into sand when it isn’t. Not rigid. Responsive.
Rverre slows.
It’s slight, almost imperceptible, but I see it. Her steps shorten, wings drawing tighter against her back as the heat begins to weigh on her small frame. I fall back half a pace, matching her stride.
“How are you feeling?” I ask quietly.
She considers the question, brow furrowing in concentration.
“Tired,” she says after a moment. “But not… bad-tired.”
I nod and adjust the strap on her pack, redistributing the weight without stopping. Illadon mirrors me on the other side, his movements quick and careful. Korr glances back, checking spacing, but we don’t stop.
The ground shifts underfoot, sand thinning until stone shows through in broad, flat sheets that radiate heat like a held breath. My boots slip once. I catch myself, pulse spiking more from surprise than fear.
Korr’s hand comes up instinctively. He doesn’t touch me. He just hovers there, close enough that I know he’s ready if I need him. The restraint is almost more unsettling than intervention would have been.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“I saw,” he replies, and moves on.
We take a brief pause beneath a shallow rock overhang barely worthy of the name. Shade here is a technicality—thinner air, slightly less light—but it’s enough to let our bodies reset.
Illadon drinks carefully, counting swallows the way he was taught. Rverre presses her palm to the stone, eyes closed, breathing steady. The hum I’d heard earlier returns, softer now, more felt than heard.
I’m sitting on one side of Rverre and for a moment it feels like the rock beneath her hand vibrates. Almost as if it recognizes or acknowledges her presence. My skin prickles.
“You feel that?” I ask.
She nods without opening her eyes.
“It’s like… the ground knows where we’re going.”
Korr stills.
“Does it know where you are?” he asks.
Rverre tilts her head, considering. “Yes.”
Illadon’s shoulders ease at that, as if the answer was expected.
My own tighten into a hard knot. Korr and I exchange a look over their heads and we don’t linger.
If for no other reason than the desert doesn’t reward stillness for long.
We move on before the heat can build too deep, before fatigue has time to set its hooks.
As we walk, I notice something else. The silence isn’t empty.
It’s layered—wind skimming sand, heat crackling against stone, the faint sound of our breathing braided together. No predators or pursuit. Just the awareness of being very small in a place that doesn’t care whether we succeed or fail.
And yet. Rverre walks with certainty. Illadon matches her step for step. And Korr holds the horizon like a promise and a warning all at once.
I realize, with a quiet jolt, that for the first time since we left the camp, I’m not bracing for disaster. I’m listening. And Tajss is listening back.
We stop before anyone says the word.
It’s the way Korr slows, the way his attention shifts from the horizon to the ground beneath our feet, as if he’s listening for something the rest of us haven’t learned to hear yet. The suns sit high overhead, heat pressing down in a way that promises worse if we keep pushing.
“Here,” he says.
It isn’t a command. Just a decision that fits.
The ground slopes gently toward a low rise of broken stone, shallow enough to offer shade once the light shifts. Not shelter or real safety, but enough to let us breathe.
We drop our packs without ceremony.
Illadon moves first, checking the stone for loose fragments before Rverre settles. She sinks down gratefully, wings folding in with a sigh that sounds almost content. The hum returns—soft, steady—threading through the quiet like a pulse.
I take a long drink, careful not to overdo it. The water is warm, metallic, and precious. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and glance around, cataloging positions out of habit.
Korr has already moved.
He circles the perimeter in a loose arc, not patrolling so much as orienting himself.
Every few steps, he pauses, scanning, listening, grounding himself against the stone when he stops.
He looks more at ease now than he did in the canyon, like the open sky isn’t pressing quite so hard when he has something solid at his back.
I wonder when I started noticing that.
Rverre presses her palm flat against the rock again, eyes closed. After a moment, she opens them and looks straight at me.
“We’re closer,” she says.
My breath catches. “To the city?”
She nods. Illadon glances between us, then out toward the shimmering horizon. He doesn’t ask how she knows. He never does.
“How much closer?” I ask.
Rverre tilts her head, listening. “Not today. But… soon.”
That’s enough to settle something inside me and unsettle something else entirely.
Korr returns and crouches near the edge of our makeshift rest point, his presence a quiet anchor. He doesn’t comment on Rverre’s words, but I see the tension in his shoulders shift.
The desert stretches out around us, vast and indifferent, but the space between us feels… held.
I lean back against the stone, letting my eyes close for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Heat hums through my bones. Exhaustion whispers at the edges of my thoughts. This is what leaving feels like. Not fear and not regret. More commitment.
When I open my eyes again, the light has shifted just enough to paint the sand in deeper gold, shadows stretching longer across the ground. Korr is watching the horizon. Illadon is watching Rverre. Rverre is listening to something only she can hear.
And I’m watching all of them, realizing that whatever waits ahead isn’t just a place. It’s a change. We’ll move again soon, but for now, Tajss holds us in this quiet moment—long enough to breathe, long enough to understand that the desert has accepted us.
And I know this planet well enough to know that means it will expect something in return.