Chapter 7 Korr
KORR
Iwake before the suns crest the horizon.
Micro-napping is a skill all Urr’ki learn. Often our patrols were long and far from home. Grabbing rest in quick spurts was the only way to stay sharp but the caverns below Tajss are not forgiving of those who are not alert.
The desert is quiet in the hour before light fully claims it. Quiet, expansive, too open. The muscles of my shoulders are as tight as the stone against which I’m leaning. I do not like this. At all. Danger is all around us. There is no predicting where it will strike.
I push that down, shoving it as deep as I can. I do not have time to dwell on fears that I cannot do anything about. The tunnels that I spent my life in are gone. The Shaman and the Paluga saw to that. This is my life now. The sooner I adjust the better.
Easier said than done.
Talia shifts in her sleep, snapping my attention to her. She’s sleeping upright, back against the stone. One arm curled around Rverre. Illadon sits cross-legged at Rverre’s side, his chin on his chest. He fell asleep sitting guard over her. His grip on his lochaber is loose but present.
I smile. He is young, but brave. He has the makings a fine warrior.
I force myself to focus. Inventory first.
Water stores are within acceptable margins. Packs intact. No signs of disturbance in the sand beyond what we made ourselves. Wind is low but restless—direction inconsistent, which means it will choose badly later.
Talia awakes. She doesn’t move or even open her eyes but I know it. I feel it, hear the change in her breathing. Her eyes open slowly and she stares toward the horizon, expression thoughtful, eyes tracking the way the light fractures against the sand.
She hasn’t noticed me yet, which gives me a moment I don’t want.
Dragoste stirs.
It isn’t a voice. It isn’t a thought. It’s a pressure—low and insistent—like the ground shifting beneath stone that thought itself settled. I lock it down immediately.
No.
This is not the time. This is not the place. Bonds make you careless. They make you choose wrong when choosing wrong means people die. I did not volunteer to indulge my heart.
I volunteered because someone had to walk into open ground with clear eyes and steadier hands than the council could provide. Because the children would move whether escorted or not. Because survival requires action, not consensus.
Be honest. I volunteered because she would be here.
I grind my teeth and turn away, scanning the terrain instead. There are no immediate threats. Yet. Quietly I rise and move a few steps away, trying to decide on our best route.
The suns climb higher, heat beginning its inevitable advance. We will move before the light fully hardens. Delay costs energy we cannot afford. Behind me, fabric rustles.
“You don’t sleep much,” Talia says.
I don’t turn. “I sleep enough.”
She huffs softly, but there is no hint of amusement, only an acknowledgment.
“I thought you might say that.”
I look at her then, measuring. She doesn’t look away. There is no challenge in her gaze and no fear. That is what makes her dangerous. She doesn’t flinch or back away. She sees.
“We move soon,” I say. “Before the heat settles.”
“I know,” she replies. “I was already planning on it.”
Of course she was.
Illadon stirs as if summoned by our voices, blinking awake and pushing himself upright with quiet efficiency. He checks Rverre first, careful not to wake her, then looks to me for confirmation without asking for it.
I nod once.
He mirrors it and begins readying his pack.
Talia watches the exchange closely. She doesn’t interfere. Doesn’t correct. She allows him his competence even when I can clearly see that it costs her peace of mind. That tells me more about her than any argument ever could.
Illadon moves closer to Rverre, movements careful and unhurried. He doesn’t touch her right away. He waits until her breathing shifts, until her body recognizes the change in the air before he ever intrudes on it.
Smart.
He sets the lochaber aside first, placing it flat on the ground where she can see it when she wakes. No sudden absence. No surprise. Then he reaches out and brushes two fingers lightly against the back of her hand.
“Rverre,” he murmurs.
It’s barely sound. More intention than voice.
She stirs, wings flexing once before settling again. Her tail brushes the sand as her brow furrows, and for a breath I think she’ll resist waking, but then her fingers curl around his without panic. Her eyes open slowly, unfocused at first, then finding him.
“You stayed,” she says sleepily.
“Always,” Illadon replies.
No bravado. Not even a promise. It carries the weight of truth.
She pushes herself upright with his help, leaning briefly into his shoulder before she remembers herself and straightens. Her gaze flicks to the horizon immediately, then to Talia, who watches the exchange with something tight and soft in her eyes.
“The ground’s awake,” Rverre says quietly.
That makes me still. Talia and I exchange a glance before focusing on Rverre.
“How awake?” I ask.
She tilts her head, listening in that way that still unsettles me. “Not loud. Just… waiting.”
That is better than the alternative.
Illadon nods as if that answers something he’d already been weighing. He reaches for her pack and tightens one of the straps that loosened overnight, careful not to jostle her wings.
“You eat first,” he tells her.
She wrinkles her nose. “I’m not hungry.”
“You will be,” he says mildly.
She considers that, then nods and accepts the ration he offers without complaint. Talia turns away for a moment, pretending to adjust her own pack. I recognize the instinct. Give them space. Let the moment belong to them.
It is not as if the desert rushes us, but the suns continue to climb higher, light hardening against the sand, and the window of mercy begins to close. I step forward, appreciating the feel of solid stone under my boots one last time before turning back to the group.
“We move in two minutes,” I say.
No objections or questions. Illadon finishes securing Rverre’s pack. She stands on her own this time, rolling her shoulders once to settle the weight. When she looks up at him, her expression is calm. Ready.
Talia meets my gaze across the small circle we’ve formed. There is understanding if not agreement between us. We’re not at peace, but we are in alignment. For now, it has to be enough.
We shoulder our packs and step away from the stone, leaving behind the brief illusion of stillness. The desert opens again, wide and unguarded, heat rising to meet us. I look carefully around to make sure nothing follows.
It feels like Tajss waits—patient, attentive, and very much awake. I do not like the feeling. But, looking at Rverre as she points the direction we need to travel, I understand something with unsettling clarity. This journey will not be decided by force. It will be decided by who listens best.
We move in a loose group. I keep the lead while Rverre and Illadon walk side-by-side and Talia brings up the rear.
The first stretch is always deceptive—ground firm enough to invite confidence, sand packed just enough to hide how quickly it will steal strength. I set the pace deliberately slower than instinct urges. Endurance is won early or not at all.
The desert opens further as we go, stone thinning into scattered ribs instead of sheltering walls. I angle us toward what cover remains, even when it forces a shallow zig instead of a straight line. My shoulders tighten with every step away from solid ground.
Too open.
I compensate by widening my awareness, scanning for changes in wind, shifts in sand texture, anything that might signal movement before it becomes threat. The land speaks quietly here. You have to know how to listen without letting it overwhelm you.
Talia matches my pace.
I don’t think that it is deliberate. She just… does, adjusting with me when the ground shifts, shortening her stride when the sand deepens, lengthening it when stone breaks through again. She watches Rverre without hovering, intervenes only when the child’s attention drifts inward too far.
Competence without control. It grates more than defiance ever did because I cannot keep my attention from coming back to her, which is dangerous.
After a time—long enough that sweat gathers at my neck and the air tastes sharper—she moves closer, voice low so it doesn’t carry.
“You’re favoring stone,” she says.
“Yes.”
“We’ll lose time.”
“Yes.”
She exhales slowly and shields her eyes to look out. The desert is empty. Nothing but rolling dunes for as far as the eye can see.
“You expect the wind to shift,” she says, lowering her hand. I glance at her, surprised despite myself. Beads of sweat roll down her face. Her skin is tinged red, her hair damp and matted. “From the south,” she continues. “The air feels wrong behind us.”
I study the horizon again, reassessing. The shimmer there is faint, but it’s present—heat bending light just enough to mask distance.
“You feel it,” I say.
“I’ve learned to trust patterns. Children teach you that,” she says, shrugging.
Fair. I adjust our route by degrees—not abandoning stone, but not clinging to it either. The compromise is silent, but she notices. Illadon does too.
“If the wind comes,” he says quietly, “the stone will break it before it reaches us.”
I nod once. “And if it doesn’t?”
“Then we didn’t waste strength running from shadows,” he replies.
I huff a short breath before I can stop myself. Illadon stares at me for a long moment with a deep frown, deciding if I’m making fun of him or not. I give him a sharp nod so he knows that was not my intent. A smile ghosts over his lips.
Rverre hums again, low and steady, the sound threading between our steps. It feels like the ground beneath us warms in response. Impossible, but still it makes my scars itch and my instincts tighten.
We crest a shallow rise, and the land beyond dips unexpectedly, sand giving way to a wide basin of packed earth and scattered rock. We come to a halt as I stare at it. It’s too exposed.
I scan. Nothing moves. There is no sound beyond wind and heat. Talia waits at my side, letting me decide what our next move is.
“Rverre?” I ask, hoping she might point us in a different direction.
She steps between Talia and I, staring off at the horizon, seeing things that none of us can. She tilts her head, emerald eyes sparkling brightly. She flaps her wings and her tail twitches, tossing sand around.
“This is the way,” she says at last, disappointment in her voice.
I frown but nod. This journey is about following her lead, even if it is dangerous.
“We cross,” I say finally. “But we don’t linger.”
“Agreed,” Talia says, no argument or challenge present.
We descend into the basin, spacing tight enough to protect without crowding. My awareness stretches thin across too much open ground, every instinct screaming for stone that isn’t there.
Rverre falters once—just a misstep—but Illadon steadies her instantly, hand light at her elbow, already easing her weight back into balance before panic can take hold. Talia doesn’t rush in. She watches and trusts, letting it happen.
Something in my chest tightens—not fear. Something worse. Respect.
Once we reach the bottom I hurry us across, picking a patch among the scattered rocks and small boulders. Fortunately we make it across without incident. The basin releases us as quietly as it accepted us, stone rising again on the far side like a reprieve we didn’t earn.
On the far side I ground myself by pressing my palm to rock until my breath steadies. Talia glances at me, then deliberately looks away. Does she know? Does she sense my fear?
Suppressing a growl, I straighten, squaring my shoulders and leaning into the climb up the far side.
The mix of sand and stone rises beneath my boots, solid and familiar, and I take comfort in it longer than I should. My palm finds the rock again without conscious thought, grounding myself as the basin falls away behind us. The instinct is automatic. Stone first. Always stone.
We clear the lip and pause just long enough to regroup.
Rverre doesn’t sag with relief, she turns in a slow circle, wings shifting as if she’s orienting herself to something I can’t see. Illadon stays close without crowding, eyes scanning the horizon while his body angles subtly toward her.
Talia stops beside me. She doesn’t speak. She just watches the land the way she’s learned to—head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed against the glare. The wind lifts a strand of her hair and presses it damp against her cheek. She wipes it away absently, attention fixed outward.
“You don’t like this ground,” she says at last.
It isn’t an accusation. It isn’t even a question. Just a carefully placed observation.
“No,” I reply.
She nods once. “I can tell.”
Something tightens in my chest. We stand here longer than we should, heat building, silence stretching.
The desert feels different. It’s not louder or closer, just…
aware. Like we’ve stepped onto a surface that remembers being walked on before.
Rverre looks up at me suddenly. Her eyes are bright, almost reflective.
“You’re listening too hard,” she says.
That stops my thoughts in their tracks and I go utterly still, watching her.
“What does that mean?” Talia asks, turning sharply.
“You’re trying to hear the danger before it decides to speak,” Rverre says, shrugging, her small shoulders lifting beneath her pack.
“That’s how you stay alive,” I say.
She considers that, then shakes her head. “Sometimes.”
Illadon frowns. “Sometimes?”
“Sometimes,” Rverre repeats, patient. “If you listen too hard, you miss what’s already decided.”
I look to Talia before I can stop myself. She’s watching Rverre, but I see the shift in her posture. She absorbs the statement instead of dismissing it. Files it away. Trusts it more than she should. Or maybe exactly as much as she should.
“We rest for three minutes,” I say, needing motion. “Then we move.”
No one argues.
We drink sparingly. Adjust straps. Rebalance weight. When it’s time to go, Rverre points again without hesitation, indicating a path that will take us farther from the stone than I like. I hesitate. Just a fraction, but Talia notices.
She doesn’t speak, simply meets my gaze, steady and unflinching, and waits for me to choose.
The desert hums softly around us, heat rising, wind shifting. Finally I nod and we follow Rverre’s lead.
The stone thins and the open ground stretches wider. The last of my certainty loosens, slipping enough that I have to adjust my footing.
Control is no longer enough.
I don’t say it aloud. I don’t need to. Tajss already knows.