Chapter 13 Korr
KORR
We move again.
She does not thank me twice. She does not test the wrap or comment on the pain. She simply adjusts—altering her stride, redistributing weight and accepting the limitation without complaint.
It should reassure me, but instead, it worries me that she is hiding pain. That she is trying to be strong for the children or for me or for some reason I do not comprehend.
I take point, putting distance between us under the excuse of vigilance. The desert stretches ahead in pale waves, broken only by scattered stone ribs that promise cover they will not keep. Wind slides across the sand in thin, needling currents. Nothing moves. Nothing announces itself.
I hate the openness. Danger can come from any danger. My shoulders are tight with tension as I try to look and be aware of everything. It is quiet and that is when the land is most dangerous.
Illadon keeps close to Rverre, his attention split between her footing and the horizon. He does not watch Talia, knowing he does not need to because he trusts that I will. And I do. Every step.
She is quieter than she has been. Not withdrawn, but focused. Her breathing stays even, but there is a tightness to her shoulders that was not there before. Pain, controlled, mixed with pride. I recognize it because I wore it for years.
“You will slow if it worsens,” I say without turning.
“I will,” she replies immediately.
Too quickly. I hear what she does not say: I won’t unless you force me.
I almost stop again. Almost turn back. Almost remind her that fractures worsen invisibly, that pain ignored becomes damage paid later.
Almost, but instead, I keep walking.
Control is survival. I cannot afford to make this about her. Or me. Or the way my hands lingered a fraction longer than necessary when I finished the wrap.
That was a mistake. The desert does not care about intention.
After a time, the heat presses harder. It rises from the sand in shimmering sheets. I adjust our path again, angling toward a low shelf of broken rock. Shade will be thin there, but the ground will hold better.
Talia follows without questioning me, but she is watching me the way I watch terrain — not for authority, but for pattern. When I slow, she slows. When I change angle, she adapts. She does not crowd me nor does she hang back.
She moves like someone who understands systems. That cuts into my thoughts, distracting. She’s able. Very much so.
I stop, raising a hand. Illadon halts instantly. Rverre steps close to him without being asked. Talia stops just behind my shoulder.
She’s close. Too close. I feel her heat through fabric and air. The bond of dragoste stirs, sharp and unwelcome, as if proximity is an invitation. I tighten my jaw and force my attention outward.
“There,” I say, pointing. “We rest briefly. Not long.”
She nods. “Understood.”
No argument which should ease the tension between us, but it does not.
As the others settle, I step away from her, creating space I do not need for any reason more than I cannot be so close to her.
I scan the horizon while pretending not to listen to the soft sounds behind me — the shift of fabric, the quiet murmur of Rverre’s voice, the careful way Talia lowers herself to the stone.
She does not favor the injury when she sits. She hides it. I clench my fist and release it slowly. This is why I should not have touched her. This is why dragoste is a liability.
She does not ask for help. Does not look at me. She gives me nothing to react to yet my awareness keeps circling back, traitorous and persistent.
When I finally turn, she is watching me. Not accusing. Not inviting. Just… seeing.
Her gaze drops before mine can hold hers, but the moment holds anyway. Quiet, unresolved, and heavy with things neither of us is willing to name. We cannot afford this. The desert will not tolerate divided attention.
I turn away again, setting my stance toward the horizon, and make myself a wall between what follows and what waits ahead.
But the truth settles in my chest with unwelcome clarity: I did not just bind her ankle. I bound myself. And Tajss is not finished testing what that will cost us.
We rest just long enough for the heat to ease from punishing to survivable.
I mark the time by the angle of the suns and the way the wind shifts—subtle, inconsistent, trying to decide which direction it wants to betray us from. The stone beneath my boots is warm, holding the day’s memory. I don’t like that either.
Illadon keeps Rverre occupied with quiet conversation, his voice low, but steady. He gives her something to focus on that isn’t the land pulling at her attention. It’s a skill. One I didn’t have at his age. One I don’t have now.
Talia sits apart, weight angled carefully, ankle extended to keep pressure off it without making a display of pain. She thinks I don’t notice the way her fingers flex when she shifts. The controlled inhale she takes before standing again. I do. I notice everything.
“We move,” I say.
She rises without comment.
That should settle it, but it doesn’t. We fall back into formation, but I cannot ignore that something has changed.
The rhythm is off by a fraction. It’s barely perceptible, but it is enough that my instincts keep tripping over it.
She lags half a step behind. Not much. Definitely not enough to justify stopping, but enough to matter.
I slow, matching her pace. She adjusts as annoyance flickers across her expression before she smooths it away.
“You don’t need to do that,” she says quietly.
“I do,” I reply.
“For me?” Her tone is carefully neutral, but there is a minefield in those two words.
“For the group.”
She huffs under her breath, but doesn’t argue. Instead, she watches me from the corner of her eye, measuring. Assessing. As if trying to determine whether this is strategy or stubbornness. If she were to ask I’d tell her, it’s both.
The land changes—sand thinning, rock surfacing in irregular plates that catch the light at sharp angles. The heat reflects differently, bouncing instead of sinking, making distance harder to judge.
Rverre slows. Illadon eases closer without touching.
“Is it louder?” he asks.
She nods, her small wings rustling.
“Not louder. Closer,” she says.
That catches my attention.
“How close?” I ask.
She points—not straight ahead, but off to the left, toward a line of darker stone that rises unevenly from the dunes.
“There,” she says. “But not yet.”
Not yet is not reassurance. It’s a warning.
“We angle,” I decide. “We don’t approach directly.”
Talia shifts closer as we change course, her shoulder nearly brushing mine. I feel it—heat through fabric, the awareness sharp and unwelcome.
“You don’t trust what she’s sensing,” she murmurs.
“I trust it enough to respect distance,” I reply.
“And if the city doesn’t?”
I glance at her, surprised despite myself. She meets my gaze, expression steady.
“Then we listen harder,” I say.
She frowns, brow furrowing, but gives no other reaction. We move another stretch in silence. The suns begin their slow descent, light softening, shadows lengthening. The desert exhales, heat loosening its grip.
Talia stumbles.
It’s small. A misjudged step. The sand gives more than she expects and her ankle twists stealing her balance. I catch her without thought or pause.
I close my hand around her arm, steadying her before she can fall. She freezes, breath hitching, and for a heartbeat the world narrows to the place where we’re connected.
Her skin is warm. Too warm. Alive in a way that has nothing to do with the heat of the suns or the desert.
“I’m fine,” she says quickly, pulling back.
I let her, but the dragoste surges hard enough to make my vision blur for a fraction of a second. I lock it down with brute force, jaw clenched, breath controlled. This is not the time.
She looks at me then—hesitating—and something shifts in her expression. I don’t see fear or anger… but whatever she sees on my face makes her straighten, squaring her shoulders despite the pain.
“Don’t,” she says softly.
It isn’t a command, it’s a boundary. I nod once and step back, reasserting and respecting distance. We continue on, the space between us now carefully measured and fragile as glass.
The city may be drawing closer, but so is something else. And it is becoming harder and harder to pretend they are not connected.
When we stop again it is because I say we do—but this time, I don’t justify it with heat, wind, or terrain. I justify it with her.
“There,” I say, indicating a shallow break in the stone ahead. Not shelter. Just enough curve to blunt the wind and give us ground that won’t shift under our weight. “We make camp.”
Talia opens her mouth then closes it without protesting. That alone tells me how close she is to the edge.
Illadon guides Rverre toward the lee of the stone, already moving with the efficiency of someone who understands what the body needs before the mind admits it. Rverre presses her palm to the rock, eyes unfocused, breathing slow.
“Still okay?” he asks.
She nods. “It’s… waiting.”
I don’t like that word any more now than I did the first time. Talia lowers herself carefully, too carefully, which raises my concern further.
“Your ankle,” I say.
She stiffens. “It’s nothing.”
It never is—until it is. I crouch in front of her before she can stand again, keeping my movements deliberate, unthreatening. I don’t touch her yet. I won’t unless she lets me.
“You didn’t fall,” I say. “But you twisted it. You cannot pretend that the stress fracture isn’t there.”
Her jaw tightens. “We can’t afford to stop.”
“We cannot afford for you not to walk tomorrow more,” I counter.
She exhales sharply and looks away, the fight draining out of her in a way that tells me she’s exhausted beyond pride whatever energy pride gives her.
“Fine,” she says. “But don’t make it a thing.”