Chapter 16 Korr
KORR
Ishould not be watching her sleep.
That is the first line. I crossed it hours ago.
The camp is quiet in the way that comes after a hard day.
No restless shifting or whispered voices, just the soft sighing of breath and fabric as bodies settle into what rest they can steal.
Illadon sleeps curled protectively around Rverre, one arm loose but ready, instinct already written into his bones.
She hums faintly in her sleep, a sound so low it feels more like vibration than noise.
Talia lies a short distance away, back against stone, ankle braced, posture controlled even in rest. As if sleep itself is something she doesn’t quite trust.
I tell myself I’m checking the perimeter, but it is a lie.
I crouch beside her slowly, careful not to disturb the sand or let stone scrape under my boots. She doesn’t stir. Her breathing is shallow but even. Exhaustion has claimed her deeper than she intended.
I look at her ankle. The swelling is worse.
Not catastrophic, yet, but the skin is tight and the joint is slightly misshapen in a way that speaks of stress layered on stress.
A fracture that is being asked to behave like it isn’t one.
She re-wrapped it well enough. She always does things well enough and never better than that, as if excellence might invite intervention.
I press my fingers lightly along the edge of the wrap, testing heat and resistance. She inhales sharply but doesn’t wake. Even in sleep, her body refuses to fully surrender. She will destroy herself before she asks for help.
Not out of pride alone—though there is plenty of that—but out of habit. Out of belief. Out of a quiet certainty that stopping is more dangerous than breaking. I recognize it because I lived it. Because it almost killed me.
Dragoste surges hard.
Not gentle or romantic, dominating. It hits like a warning bell driven straight into my bones—protect, now, before this becomes irreversible. I clamp down on it with force, jaw tightening, breath controlled.
No.
Control matters. Control is survival.
But the truth presses in anyway, relentless as the desert. Guarding the group means guarding her, not just the children. Her.
Even if she resents it. Even if she fights me. Even if it costs me the illusion that I can stand at a distance and call that safety.
I rewrap the ankle more carefully than before, adjusting tension, reinforcing support without waking her. My movements are precise, restrained, professional. I give her no excuse to feel handled or claimed.
Still, my hands linger a fraction longer than necessary. And I hate that compromise that I cannot resist.
I straighten and step back, putting space between us before instinct overrides discipline. The stars wheel overhead, indifferent and sharp. The desert stretches out beyond our small pocket of stillness, vast and waiting.
Control is not enough. I see that with unsettling clarity.
Tomorrow, I will have to choose whether I keep pretending this is about routes and pace and terrain—or admit that the fracture isn’t just in her ankle.
And that if I don’t act soon, something far more dangerous than bone is going to give way.
In the morning we resume the journey. Quiet reigns over the group. Talia struggles, but I do not intervene. As much for myself as for her. If I do… I will not be able to stop. Or control myself. I aid as I can without pushing boundaries and then we are moving.
The desert does not announce itself.
There is no roar. No warning cry. No moment where instinct has time to sharpen into action. One breath the ground holds. The next, it doesn’t.
I feel it through my boots first—a subtle shift. Sand loosens its grip in a way that is wrong, sliding instead of settling. The sound follows half a heartbeat later: a low, rushing whisper that raises the hair along my spine.
“Don’t move,” I snap, already stepping forward.
The basin betrays us.
The sand ahead of Illadon sloughs away in a wide, shallow spill, collapsing inward as if something beneath it has decided it’s done pretending to be solid. Not a sinkhole. Worse. A flow. The kind that steals footing without violence, dragging weight downward by degrees until panic finishes the job.
Rverre freezes.
Her wings flare once, useless, her breath hitches as the ground pulls at her boots. Her eyes go unfocused, too full of sensation to sort signal from threat.
Illadon is already there.
He doesn’t yank or shout, stepping in close he plants his feet wide, and locks one arm around her middle, grounding her with his body before her mind can scatter.
“Look at me,” he says, voice low and steady. “Just me.”
She clutches his arm, fingers digging in, and nods once. The hum slips from her lips again—shaky, off rhythm—but it keeps her present.
Talia moves. Not toward me or safety. Toward Rverre.
It isn’t bravery. It isn’t calculation. It’s reflex, pure and unfiltered, the same instinct that made her step between frightened children and chaos a thousand times before this desert ever knew her name.
“Talia—!” I shout.
Too late.
Her weight hits unstable ground and the ankle gives out completely. There’s no dramatic fall, no cry of pain—just a sharp, involuntary sound as her leg buckles and she drops hard to one knee, hand slamming into the sand to keep from toppling.
Pain flashes across her face before she can hide it.
The sand shifts again, responding to the added weight, flowing faster. I move, crossing the distance in three long strides and anchoring myself between her and the slide, boots digging deep, stance wide.
“Stay still,” I order, one hand braced against stone, the other hovering inches from her shoulder.
She looks up at me, jaw clenched, eyes bright with frustration and something dangerously close to apology.
“I’m fine,” she says automatically.
A lie. A useless one.
Illadon has Rverre clear, pulling her back onto firmer ground. The sand continues to move for another breath, then settles, the desert pretending innocence again.
Silence crashes down around us, broken only by the rush of blood in my ears.
Talia tries to stand. Her ankle folds instantly.
I catch her—not carefully this time, and not politely. My grip is firm, decisive, arms locking around her before she can argue or fall again. She stiffens, breath hitching, but doesn’t fight me.
“This is not heroics,” I say, voice low and tight. “This is damage.”
Her eyes flick past me to Rverre, already safe in Illadon’s arms. Relief loosens something in her chest enough for the pain to rush in fully. She exhales sharply, forehead dropping for a moment against my shoulder before she can stop herself.
That—that—is the moment everything shifts.
Because she didn’t choose me. She chose the child. And it cost her more than she can afford to keep paying. I hold her upright, unyielding now, and feel the truth settle hard and undeniable in my bones.
Tajss has spoken. And it has made the decision for us.
I do not hesitate.
Hesitation is how people die out here.
I shift my grip and lift her cleanly off the ground, one arm braced under her knees, the other locked around her back. Her weight settles against me like it belongs there, like my body already knows how to hold her without asking my mind for permission.
She inhales sharply. “Korr—”
“No,” I cut in, already turning. “Do not.”
Her hands clutch instinctively at my shoulder, then still. I feel the tension in her frame, the reflexive fight to reclaim control, but the ankle has stolen that from her. I don’t soften my hold and don’t give her space to argue.
“Illadon,” I say, voice carrying without effort. “You take point with Rverre. Five body-lengths ahead. Watch the ground, not the horizon.”
He nods once, instantly compliant, shifting Rverre so her feet are steady before moving.
“Rverre,” I say next, lowering my tone without weakening it. “Listen forward, not down. Tell us if the land changes again.”
Her eyes flick to Talia—guilt, worry, connection—then back to me.
“Okay,” she says, small but clear.
“Talia,” I say her name last.
She looks at me, jaw set, eyes sharp with a dozen objections she’s already lining up.
“You are done walking,” I tell her. Not unkind, but definitely not negotiable.
“I can—”
“No,” I repeat. “You cannot.”
Anger flashes. Pride. The instinct to be useful even when it hurts. I’ve seen it too many times to mistake it now.
“This is temporary,” she says tightly. “We can’t afford—”
“We can’t afford you breaking completely,” I interrupt. “That is the only calculation.”
I adjust my grip, redistributing her weight so the strain leaves her ankle entirely. Her breath stutters despite herself. I feel how much effort she’s been spending pretending this isn’t happening.
The desert watches. Illadon watches. Rverre watches. Everyone sees it. I don’t lower my voice.
“We are changing formation,” I announce. “I carry her until the ground stabilizes or the pain does. We move slower. We choose stone. We stop when I say.”
Talia goes very still in my arms.
“You don’t get to—” she starts.
I meet her gaze and hold it.
“I do,” I say. “Because you are no longer a variable.”
That hits her. I feel it and see it on her face.
“You’re making this worse,” she mutters.
“No,” I reply evenly. “I’m making it survivable.”
Silence follows, thick and unmistakable. No one argues further. Illadon turns and begins walking. Rverre follows, casting one last glance back before focusing forward again. Talia exhales slowly, resignation threading through her anger.
“This isn’t fair,” she says quietly.
“No,” I agree. “It isn’t.”
I step forward, boots sinking into sand that no longer matters because I am carrying what does. This is the moment the line moves. Not because Tajss forced it. Because I did.
We don’t speak again until we’re safe.
That is the rule I live by. Words are useless when the ground is deciding whether it wants to kill you.