Chapter 29 Talia
TALIA
Iknow him before I see his face.
It’s not recognition in the dramatic sense. There’s no rush of memory or sharp intake of breath. It’s simpler than that. A subtle tightening beneath my ribs. A quiet, unwelcome familiarity settling into place like a key sliding into an old lock.
He steps into the open space between the columns, boots scuffing softly against stone.
He’s thinner than I remember. Older, in a way that has nothing to do with years.
His hair has gone mostly gray at the temples, pulled back in the same practical tie he always favored.
His clothes are patched, utilitarian. Survivor’s clothing.
He stops when he sees me.
The moment stretches. Not because anyone forces it to, but because neither of us knows how to shorten it without cutting something vital.
“Talia,” he says.
My name sounds strange in his mouth. Not wrong. Just… unused.
I don’t answer. I don’t trust my voice.
Around us, the city survivors pretend not to watch. They’re terrible at it. Everyone feels the shift even if they don’t know why. He takes a step forward, then stops himself, as if remembering old boundaries too late.
“I heard there were new arrivals,” he says. “Didn’t think—” He exhales. “Didn’t think it would be you.”
I nod once. It’s all I can manage.
His eyes flick down to my ankle, the careful way I’m standing. Then back up. He always noticed things like that. The practical details. The visible weaknesses. I hate that it still works.
“You look…” He trails off, searching for a word that won’t offend. “Different.”
“So do you,” I say. My voice is steadier than I expect.
He gives a short, humorless huff. “Yeah. I suppose I do.”
Silence presses in again, heavy with things neither of us will say out loud. Not here. Not in front of witnesses. Not when there are too many old ghosts standing between us.
“I didn’t know you survived,” I add.
“I didn’t know anyone did,” he replies. “Not from that section of the ship.”
For a moment, I see it clearly. The years he spent believing I was dead. The grief he must have folded into himself and carried forward like a scar. And still it doesn’t matter. He left. That was his choice.
My ankle shifts. Pain flares sharp and bright, dragging me back into my body. I hiss before I can stop myself. Before I can adjust, Korr is there.
He doesn’t step between us. He doesn’t bare his teeth or reach for a weapon. He simply moves close enough that I feel the solid heat of him at my side. One hand settles at my lower back. Not possessive. Not claiming. Supportive.
The contact steadies me as I redistribute my weight. The pain eases from sharp to manageable. More than that, the room feels… balanced again. Korr doesn’t look at the man in front of us right away. His attention stays on me.
“Do you need to sit?” he asks quietly.
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
He accepts that without argument, but his hand stays where it is. Only then does he lift his gaze and the air changes.
Not dramatically, but enough that my former husband straightens, awareness sharpening as he takes in Korr’s size, his posture, the unmistakable sense of something ancient and unmovable standing beside me. His eyes go from Korr to me then back again.
“You’re with him,” he says, not accusing. Assessing.
“Yes,” I say, a strange lump in my throat.
I don’t look at Korr, but I feel the change in him too. I don’t miss the way his breath hitches. More, I don’t miss the shift in myself.
Korr inclines his head slightly. A warrior’s courtesy. Nothing more.
“My name is Korr,” he says. “I am here to ensure her safety.”
Something flickers across the man’s face. Relief, maybe. Or something like it.
“I’m glad,” he says after a moment. “Truly.”
I study him then, really look. The lines around his eyes. The weariness he carries openly now. The way survival has stripped him down to essentials.
I don’t feel the surge of anger I expected. No rush of grief. Just a quiet ache, old and familiar, like weather settling into bone.
“We didn’t come here for reunions,” I say. “We’re scouting. Seeing if this place can hold more people.”
He nods immediately. “It can. Barely. But it’s killing us.”
I glance at Korr, then back to the man who once planned a future with me.
“We should talk,” he says carefully. “Later. When—”
“When it’s not public,” I finish.
“Yes.”
I nod once. Agreement without promise.
Korr’s hand shifts, fingers pressing lightly, a silent question. I answer by leaning into him just enough to matter. Whatever comes next, I won’t face it alone. And for the first time in a very long while, that doesn’t feel like weakness.