Chapter 12 Talia #2
“That’s not comforting,” I tell her gently.
She glances at me, eyes bright but not afraid. A ghost of a smile plays over her mouth as she shrugs.
“It’s not meant to be,” she says, stating the obvious.
The basin opens wider ahead, the sand smoothed into long, shallow ripples that catch the light in dull silver waves. Scattered stones dot the ground, half-buried, too evenly spaced to feel natural. The air tastes flat, like it’s been waiting too long.
Korr steps forward, then stops, as if the ground itself has pushed back.
“We don’t cross this yet,” he says.
I nod, relief threading through me even as unease tightens my spine. “Agreed.”
He turns to me then, fully, his expression carved into something careful and intent.
“This is where people make mistakes,” he says. “They rush because nothing is happening.”
I hold his gaze. “And you don’t?”
“No,” he says. “I slow.”
For a moment, the space between us hums—not with heat or tension, but with something deeper. Respect, maybe, or at least recognition.
Rverre takes a small step closer to Illadon, her fingers brushing his arm. He doesn’t look down at her, but his stance shifts subtly, putting himself between her and the open ground without blocking her view.
“We should skirt it,” I say. “See if the quiet follows.”
Korr considers, then nods. “Edge only. No deeper.”
We angle left, careful and deliberate, tracing the basin’s perimeter without committing to its center.
The farther we move, the more the desert seems to…
exhale. The air regains texture. The wind returns in faint, uncertain fingers.
Rverre relaxes by degrees, her shoulders lowering, her wings loosening just a little.
“It doesn’t mind this,” Rverre says.
“That makes two of us,” I murmur.
We stop again when Korr lifts his hand—not sharp this time, but slow. Measured.
“Rest here,” he says. “Short. Then we move before the light shifts again.”
I sink down against a low stone, muscles trembling now that they’re allowed to. Illadon helps Rverre settle beside me, offering her water without comment. She drinks, then leans briefly into his shoulder, trusting in a way that both warms and terrifies me.
Korr stays standing, eyes never fully still.
I watch him from the corner of my eye, the set of his shoulders, the way his awareness stretches outward like a shield we can’t see but all feel. He catches my gaze and holds it—not challenging, but not soft either.
He’s grounded. Whatever waits ahead, we won’t stumble into it blind. And I let myself believe that might matter.
The light shifts while we rest.
The color of the sand deepens, the red-white flatness warming into something more deceptive. Heat gathers low, not pressing yet, just waiting for permission to assert itself.
“We move,” Korr says quietly.
No debate or hesitation. We rise with the smooth efficiency of people who’ve learned that stillness is temporary and comfort is conditional. Packs settle back into familiar places. Straps tightened. Water checked and rechecked.
I stand—and the pain hits.
Sharp. Sudden. White-hot enough that my breath stutters before I can stop it.
I clamp down on the reaction immediately, locking my jaw, forcing my weight evenly across both feet. I can handle pain. I’ve been handling it since before the crash, before Tajss ever decided we belonged to her.
But this isn’t new pain. This is the kind that’s been building quietly, ignored too long, now done with patience. Korr’s head turns. He doesn’t ask. He watches. And somehow that’s worse.
“Keep moving,” I say, already stepping forward.
I make it three strides before my ankle protests hard enough that my gait betrays me. Just a hitch. Barely there, but it’s enough.
“Stop,” Korr says.
“I’m fine.”
“Talia.”
The way he says my name—flat, grounded—cuts through my reflex to argue. I hate that it does.
“I said I’m fine,” I repeat, sharper now.
He steps closer, gaze flicking to my foot, then back to my face. “Sit.”
“No.”
His eyes narrow, not in anger, but focus. “This is not a negotiation.”
Illadon has already halted, Rverre hovering beside him, concern written plainly across her face. I hate that too.
I exhale slowly and lower myself onto a low outcrop of stone, every movement measured now that I’m no longer pretending. The relief of taking weight off it is immediate—and damning.
Korr crouches in front of me. Close. Too close.
His hands are large, scarred, steady. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t touch yet. He studies my ankle like it’s terrain—something to be read before acted on.
“How long?” he asks.
I look away. “It began yesterday.”
His jaw tightens. “You didn’t say anything.”
“It was mild and there was no point.”
“There is always a point.”
I don’t answer that.
He reaches for my boot, pauses just long enough for me to register the courtesy, then loosens it carefully. When his fingers brush my skin, heat flares—not pain this time, but something sharper, more disorienting. I inhale sharply before I can stop myself.
His eyes flick up instantly. “Hurts?”
“Yes,” I admit. “But it’s manageable.”
He doesn’t comment on that. He removes the boot completely, fingers firm but gentle as he tests the area above the ankle. The ache deepens, radiating upward, not sharp so much as insistent.
“Stress fracture,” he says after a moment. Not guessing. Knowing. “Small. But angry.”
I huff a humorless breath. “That sounds about right.”
“There is nothing to set,” he continues. “Nothing to fix.” His hands still, then resume with careful precision. “Only to support. And limit strain.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
He pulls a wrap from his pack and winds it around my ankle with practiced ease. His touch is deliberate, controlled, but not impersonal. Each pass is firm, anchoring, his thumb pressing just enough to check stability before moving on.
My thoughts scatter. Ridiculously so.
I’m overly aware of his hands. Of the heat of his skin. Of how close he is—close enough that I can see the fine dust caught in the ridges of his scars, the slow rise and fall of his breath. Close enough that my body reacts before my mind can catch up.
This is stupid.
I force my gaze to the horizon. To the sand. To anything but the quiet competence of him kneeling in front of me… from the idea of him worshipping me…
“You should have said something,” he murmurs, not looking up.
“I didn’t want to slow us down.”
His hands pause and he looks at me.
“This is not slowing us down,” he says. “This is how we keep moving.”
I swallow hard, knowing he’s right, but not wanting to accept I was wrong. He finishes the wrap, secures it, then presses his palm lightly against the outside of my ankle—testing, grounding. The contact is brief, but it sends a jolt straight up my spine.
“All right,” he says, rising smoothly. “We adjust pace. Shorter strides. No sudden turns.”
“I can manage,” I say automatically.
“I know,” he replies. “That does not mean you manage alone.”
I don’t have a response for that.
Illadon relaxes once Korr steps back. Rverre watches me with solemn attention, then nods once, as if filing the information away somewhere important.
We start moving again.
The pain is still there—persistent, unavoidable—but it’s contained now. Supported. And worse than that, I’m acutely aware of every step because I know he’s watching.
Not hovering.
Accounting.
As we walk, heat climbing and shadows stretching longer, one thought keeps circling, unwanted and impossible to ignore.
This wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t heroic. It was just… care.
And I have no idea what to do with it.