Chapter 23 Talia
TALIA
As we draw closer, the shapes sharpen from suggestion into mass.
Broken towers rise out of the sand like ribs, jagged and uneven, their silhouettes cutting into the lowering sky.
Whatever once lived here was not small. It sprawls outward in layers—dense stone and steel at the core, thinning into fractured neighborhoods that disappear beneath dunes and time.
The suns are hanging low, their light slanting sideways, catching on edges that shouldn’t still be standing. Windows gape dark and hollow. Roads surface in fragments, then vanish again under drifted sand. This place wasn’t erased. It was buried.
Korr slows. He’s already thinking past arrival. The coming night means we’ll need shelter. He’s thinking of what changes when light fails.
Rverre’s attention sharpens the closer we get. She stops humming. Her wings tuck tighter to her back, posture drawing inward even as her gaze stretches outward.
“It’s quiet,” she says.
Illadon glances at her. “That’s good, right?”
She hesitates. “It’s… waiting.”
That sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cooling air.
Korr stops at the edge of a wide break in the ground where a street that once stretched into and across the desert has collapsed inward, asphalt split and slanted into a shallow bowl.
He doesn’t step onto it. He studies it. The angles.
The shadows. The way the wind curls and disappears between gaps in the stone.
“We don’t cross open,” he says. “Not this close or this late.”
Illadon nods, shifting his grip on Rverre’s hand. I don’t miss the way his eyes track the buildings too, more alert than curious.
Korr turns left, angling us toward a structure set back from what might once have been a main thoroughfare. The building leans slightly, one corner collapsed, but most of it still stands. Thick stone at its base. Fewer windows. A roofline that hasn’t entirely given up.
“Shelter,” he decides. “For the night.”
He doesn’t ask if I agree. I should bristle. The old reflex stirs, sharp and ready, but instead something loosens in my chest.
The entrance is half-buried, a wide opening where doors once stood. Korr pauses and sets me down, but doesn’t release me until my weight settles fully and my ankle holds. His hands remain steady, supportive without lingering.
The outer wall that faces into the desert is darker than the others as if it took the brunt of a blast. We duck inside. It smells like dust, sand, and old metal. No tinges of rot, only abandonment.
The light inside is dim, but Korr walks confidently. He leads us to a wide set of stairs. They seem to be made of metal or some similar material, rising up to the next floor without railing. Korr stares up into the shadows.
I stare at the stairs, debating my ability to make it. Korr hesitates, looking at me with a deep frown.
“I can make it,” I say, defiant.
“I know…” he says, trailing off. “Wait. Let me scout first.”
“I can go,” Illadon offers, stepping forward.
“I need you to protect the females, young warrior,” Korr says, his voice not taking on any hints of the gentleness most do with a child. He’s speaking to a warrior, giving Illadon the respect that he would otherwise demand.
Illadon looks at Rverre, then at me, and nods sharply, crossing his arms over his chest as he squares his shoulders.
“Right. Good idea.”
Korr nods sharply, then climbs the stairs.
I lean against the wall to take the pressure off my ankle. Rverre moves to my side, mimicking my stance. Illadon marches a half-circle in front of us, eyes roving out for any possible threat.
We listen to Korr explore the upstairs. The sound of his heavy, booted steps thumping here and there. The suns are almost fully set when he reappears on the stairs.
“It is safe,” he says.
Illadon moves to Rverre, taking her hand, then leading the way up. Korr comes to my side, leaning in close.
“You can make it,” he says in a whisper. “But I would like to give your ankle more time. Might I carry you up?”
My throat clenches too tight for words to emerge. I stare into his eyes, but there isn’t a hint of mockery. The only thing I see is sincerity and maybe, just maybe, something burning deep inside of them.
I try to swallow but the tightness doesn’t ease. I nod my consent and he accepts it. Gently lifting me off my feet, cradling me across his chest then climbing the stairs two at a time.
The upstairs used to have different rooms, but only remnants of the dividing walls remain. Illadon and Rverre stand in the wide landing, looking around. Korr points in a direction and Illadon heads into the room. Korr and I follow.
Illadon guides Rverre to a spot near an intact wall where stone still rises solid and thick. She presses her palm to it, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.
“It remembers,” she murmurs.
Korr doesn’t ask what.
Korr gets to work. He builds a small fire, enough to chase the cold from the stone without announcing us to whatever might be around to notice. He assists in setting up sleeping rolls and making sure we’re all fed. Only when everything else is done does he turn to me.
“You rest here,” he says, indicating a place near the wall where the stone curves inward, creating a shallow pocket of shelter. “I’ll keep watch.”
It isn’t a question. And for the first time, I don’t argue.
As he moves away, I watch the firelight catch on the lines of his back, the controlled economy of his steps. He doesn’t pace or hover. He simply exists in the space like it belongs to him—like he’s already decided where the edges are and what must be protected.
The city looms around us, silent and patient, stone and shadow holding its breath.
I settle where he told me to, feeling the ache in my ankle throb in time with my pulse. I should be afraid. Of the city. Of the dark. Of whatever might be lurking in places like this.
Instead, all I can think is how dangerous it is to feel this safe.
The fire burns low, more suggestion than flame. Just enough light to soften the stone without throwing shadows too far.
Illadon settles quickly, exhaustion winning out once he knows Korr is watching. Rverre curls in near the wall, wings tucked tight, breath evening out as if the stone itself has convinced her it will hold. I envy them both.
Korr moves quietly, checking sightlines, listening to the way sound travels through the broken structure. When he finally returns to me, it’s not with ceremony. He crouches a careful distance away, movements deliberate, respectful.
“You’ll need to elevate it,” he says softly.
I stiffen out of reflex. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue, reaching for my pack. He pulls out a folded length of fabric, rolling it into a firm support before setting it near my leg.
“If you are,” he says evenly, “this will still help.”
I exhale and allow him to slide it beneath my ankle, the pressure easing enough to steal a quiet sound from my throat.
I clamp my mouth shut to stop it but he notices anyway.
His hand stills for half a breath, hovering, then withdraws.
Silence settles between us, heavier than before. It’s not awkward, but it is loaded.
“This place,” I say, because not speaking feels worse. “It feels… intact. Under the damage.”
“Yes,” he replies. “Cities remember how to hold people. Long after the people leave.”
I glance around the fractured room, the half-walls and open ceilings, the sense of space that used to be enclosed and safe.
“Do you think it will hold us?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is quieter than before.
“For the night,” he says. “That’s enough.”
I nod, swallowing past something tight in my chest. He rises to take his watch position, but I stop him without thinking.
“Korr.”
He turns back instantly.
“If you’re going to stand there all night,” I say, gesturing vaguely, “you’ll burn yourself out.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.
“I won’t.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.” That earns me a longer look. Something assessing. Something careful. “Sit,” I add, softer, “please.”
After a moment, he does. Not beside me. Close enough that the firelight touches both of us. Far enough that neither of us can pretend it’s accidental. We sit listening to the city breathe.
“This isn’t how I imagined finding it,” I admit.
“No,” he says. “But it rarely is.”
I pick at the edge of my sleeve, nerves fraying.
“You’re very… certain. About all of this.”
His gaze stays forward. “I wasn’t always.”
That catches my attention.
“What changed?” I ask.
He exhales slowly, like he’s deciding how much ground to give.
“I learned that hesitation costs more than commitment,” he says. “Even when commitment is frightening.”
My chest tightens. The words too close to something I’ve been avoiding.
“And if you commit to the wrong thing?” I ask quietly.
He turns then, meeting my eyes. The firelight catches in his gaze, reflecting something steady and unyielding.
“Then you stand with it,” he says. “And make it right.”
The certainty in his voice is terrifying. I try to hold his gaze but I look away first. Because standing with something has never been my problem. Staying has.
I stare into the coals, watching tiny shapes dance. I see him in my peripheral. Watching. Waiting. I close my eyes, to shut him out. When I hear the scrape of his boot I open my eyes. He is on his feet, his back to me.
It pulls at me. Some invisible string tugging on parts of me that aren’t physical, but hurt as if they are. My mouth is dry. A pressure pounds in my head. I inhale and my breath trembles.
“When this is over… you won’t stay,” I whisper, the truth slipping free.
He stops dead. His shoulders tighten. He lowers his head so far his chin must be on his chest. The soft crackle of the flames blend with the gentle breathing of the children.
Say something. Damn it say… anything.
“You assume I leave because that’s safer than believing I won’t,” he says, not turning or looking back.
I choke on the words, leaning forward. Unsure how to respond. What to think, much less say. I raise my hand, move my mouth, but no sounds emerge. He steps away, moving into the shadows. His rich green skin blending with the night remarkably well.
“Ko—”
The ground rumbles, cutting me off. It’s not dramatic, but it is unmistakable. Dust rains down from the remnants of the ceiling. Grains of sand dance across the floor.
The rumble fades as quickly as it came, leaving a brittle silence in its wake.
Rverre stirs first, a sharp inhale as she wakes. Her wings flare, scraping softly against stone before she pulls them tight again. Illadon is on his feet in a heartbeat, already between her and the dark, posture alert and rigid.
“What was that?” he whispers.
Korr moves without hesitation, crossing the room in long, controlled strides. He doesn’t draw a weapon nor does he rush. He plants his boots wide and stills, listening with his whole body, as if the stone itself might speak again.
The building exhales.
It’s subtle. A settling sound. Metal shifting against stone somewhere below us. It’s not a collapse and probably not a quake, but it is a reminder.
“It’s adjusting,” Rverre murmurs, her voice. “It’s noticed us.”
Korr’s jaw tightens. “Then we don’t give it anything to react to.”
He gestures Illadon closer with two fingers. Quiet and efficient. Illadon obeys, guiding Rverre back toward the shelter of the inner wall. I push myself upright, ankle protesting sharply enough to draw a hiss from my throat. Korr’s head snaps toward me.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, the lie too practiced to stop.
He doesn’t argue. He’s already beside me, one hand hovering near my elbow without touching. Waiting. Letting me decide. That shouldn’t matter as much as it does.
Another faint tremor runs through the floor. Not enough to knock us off balance, but enough that the fire shifts, embers collapsing inward with a soft rush of sparks.
“That wasn’t here earlier,” Illadon says, scanning the fractured ceiling.
“No,” Korr agrees. “It wasn’t.”
The implication hangs heavy and unfinished. The same way our conversation does.
“We need to move further in,” Korr continues, already thinking in terms of angles and weight and lines of stress. “Away from open spans.”
I nod, even though part of me wants to protest. Not because he’s wrong, but because moving means breaking whatever fragile thread connects us.
As he helps me up, his grip is careful, but when my weight shifts unexpectedly and I sway, his arm tightens around my back.
It’s only long enough to steady me, but the contact sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with pain.
For a heartbeat, we’re too close. His breath warm against my hair. My fingers curl reflexively over his muscled arm. He freezes, just as I do. Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks.
Then Rverre lets out a soft, distressed sound.
“It doesn’t want you standing there,” she says, eyes unfocused. “It’s… sensitive.”
Korr exhales slowly and steps back, breaking the moment before it can turn into something neither of us is ready to survive. He lifts his chin, voice steady again, the commander returning like armor sliding back into place.
“Then we listen,” he says. “And we adapt.”
We shift deeper into the building, finding a pocket of space where the walls are thicker, the ceiling lower, the stone older and more stubborn.
Korr rebuilds the fire, dampening it until it’s little more than a glow.
Illadon settles beside Rverre, murmuring reassurance in a voice meant only for her.
And I sit there, wrapped in my cloak, heart pounding too hard for the quiet.
Korr takes his position near the broken doorway, silhouette framed by starlight and shadow. He doesn’t look back at me, but I still feel the echo of what almost passed between us. The truth he didn’t say. The truth I wasn’t ready to hear.
The building creaks softly around us, like something shifting in its sleep. And I know, with a certainty that sinks bone-deep, that whatever waits for us tomorrow, this place has already marked us. Not because we arrived, but because we almost told the truth.