Chapter 13 Korr #2
I almost smile, but I stop myself. I want to care for her, to see to her needs, and in that it is a victory for me, but she would see it as gloating, not what I want.
When I take her boot off, I do it gently, careful of the angle, mindful of how human joints fail differently than mine. I remove the wrap to inspect how it is now. Her ankle is already swelling. Not too badly yet, but it’s there. I keep my grip light. Professional. Controlled.
And still—she inhales when my fingers brush her skin. I do not think it is in pain, but from awareness. Which hits me like a blade between the ribs.
I adjust my hold, giving her more space, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, her hands curl into the fabric of her cloak, knuckles pale, breath uneven.
“You don’t have to—” she starts.
“I know,” I say quietly. “But I will.”
I re-wrap the ankle firmly, supporting without restricting.
Every pass of the cloth is measured. Purposeful.
I focus on the task because if I don’t, I will notice the heat of her skin, the way her pulse jumps under my fingers, the way she’s watching me like she doesn’t trust herself not to react. She swallows.
“This is stupid,” she mutters. “It barely hurts.”
“Pain isn’t the problem,” I say. “Damage is.”
Her mouth twists. “You always talk like that?”
“Only when I care about outcomes.”
That shuts her up. I bow my head to the work, letting my hair fall over my face to hide my smile.
When I finish, I test the wrap once, careful not to press too hard. She winces—not sharply, but enough to confirm I wasn’t wrong.
“You’ll need to favor it,” I say. “I’ll adjust pace. Shorter stretches. More stone.”
She laughs softly, breathless and a little bitter. “You were already doing that.”
“Yes,” I agree.
She looks at me then, really looks, and something unguarded flickers across her face. Not gratitude. Something more dangerous.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” she says quietly.
“I do,” I reply.
“That makes one of us.”
I straighten and step back, giving her space again before either of us crosses a line we won’t be able to retreat from.
Illadon watches from a careful distance, eyes sharp, but he says nothing. Rverre hums softly, the sound threading through the air like a held breath finally released. Talia tests her weight, cautiously. It holds.
She nods once. “Okay.”
I think that the word carries more trust than she means it to. I turn away before dragoste can surge again, moving to check perimeter and sightlines, grounding myself in stone and distance and duty. But the imprint of her ankle in my hands lingers—warm, real, impossible to forget.
This isn’t just about the city anymore. And if I don’t find a way to control what’s waking in me, I’m going to become a liability to the people I’ve sworn to protect.
I stop a distance from the others, staring across the darkening desert. Wide-open and empty. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and causes chill bumps to form on my arms. I hate this space. So open. So empty. So… dangerous.
Night settles without ceremony. No dramatic fall or sudden silence.
Just the slow withdrawal of heat and the quiet rearranging of sound as the desert exhales.
Stone cools. Wind thins. The stars sharpen overhead until the sky looks cut open.
My eyes adjust to the darkness as I turn back to the others.
Illadon has begun making a camp and I assist him.
It’s a small camp with no fire or excess movement.
We place the packs against the broken rock, tight shadowy shapes.
Illadon and Rverre settle first, their proximity easy, practiced.
She curls in toward him, wings tucked, tail looped carefully away from the stone.
He adjusts his position without waking her, instinct guiding every shift.
Talia sits apart, closer to the rock face, ankle braced, posture controlled. I don’t comment as I take first watch again. Not because it’s my turn—because it is mine to take.
The desert changes at night. It does not become safer. It becomes honest. Distances flatten. Sounds carry. The ground remembers every step we took during the day and waits to see if we will be careless enough to repeat them.
I pace the perimeter slowly, widening and narrowing my awareness in practiced cycles. Nothing moves that shouldn’t. No shift in sand that signals approach. Wind direction stabilizes, finally committing to a steady drift from the west.
This is good, but still unease clings.
It isn’t the land. It’s her.
Talia shifts once, suppressing a hiss when her ankle reminds her of its presence. She freezes, as if movement itself were a failure. I don’t look at her right away. Giving her the dignity of privacy she clearly needs.
When I do glance over, her gaze is already on me and neither of us looks away.
“You should rest,” she says quietly.
“I am,” I reply.
She almost smiles at that. Almost.
“You don’t believe that.”
“No,” I admit.
Silence stretches again, but it isn’t sharp, it’s weighted. Considered.
“I won’t slow us down,” she says suddenly, too quickly. Defensive. Clearly an old habit.
“I know,” I say. “That isn’t what concerns me.”
Her fingers curl into the fabric at her knee. “Then what does?”
I choose my words carefully. Too much truth here would fracture something that hasn’t fully formed yet.
“You push past warning signs,” I say. “Including your own.”
She exhales slowly, staring out into the dark.
“If I stop every time something hurts, nothing gets done.”
“That’s how people break,” I reply.
“That’s how people survive,” she counters.
We are both right and I know it. Which is the problem.
A quiet sound drifts from Rverre. Illadon shifts, protective even in unconsciousness. The sight grounds me more than stone ever could.
“You don’t trust me,” Talia says, not accusation, an observation.
I turn and look at her.
“That is not true.”
She arches a brow. “You don’t trust yourself either.”
The words land cleanly, without anger or judgment. Nothing but clear and cutting insight. Dragoste stirs again, restless and unwelcome. I clamp down hard.
“You stand in places that change people,” I say instead. “That carries risk.”
“So does guarding the edges alone,” she replies softly.
I don’t have an answer so I grunt, the only response I can come up with. Anything else would summon the dragoste. Set it free and that I cannot allow. I shrug, nod, and turn back to my watch, letting my feet put what distance I can between us.
Silence reigns as the night deepens and the stars shift. Time passes without announcement. Eventually, her posture loosens. Not sleep—just rest. She leans her head back against the stone, eyes closed, breath evening out. I reposition slightly so I can see her and the horizon without moving again.
This is dangerous. Not because of the desert. Because I am beginning to measure my decisions around her presence instead of terrain alone. It’s truth and I accept it without flinching.
Tomorrow, the land will test us harder. The path will narrow. The listening will demand more than instinct. And I will have to decide whether guarding her means holding the line—or stepping closer to it than I ever intended.
For now, I stand watch. The desert waits. And so do I.