Chapter 30 Talia
TALIA
The building settles around us as night takes hold.
It isn’t quiet exactly. Cities never are, even broken ones.
There are distant shifts below us, the faint scrape of movement echoing up through hollow spaces, the soft crackle of small fires as the survivors make themselves scarce and still.
But the sound feels contained, muffled by concrete and height, as if the city has folded itself inward for the dark.
I sit with my back against a wall that once held glass and light and purpose. Now it holds only shadow and the slow creep of cooling stone. My ankle aches in a steady, manageable way, a dull reminder rather than a threat. I ignore it. I’ve grown skilled at ignoring pain.
Through the partial wall to my left, I can hear the children breathing.
Illadon’s is slow and controlled even in sleep, like he’s standing watch in his dreams. Rverre’s comes in softer rhythms, wings shifting now and then with a faint rustle that tells me she’s listening to Tajss, even unconscious.
The sound of them grounds me. Proof that they’re here. Alive. Safe, at least for this moment.
I press my palm flat to the floor, feeling the vibration of the structure beneath me. Solid enough. My thoughts refuse to stay quiet.
The memory of his face keeps intruding. Older than I remember.
Thinner. Worn down in ways that feel unfair, considering who walked away and who stayed behind to rebuild from the wreckage.
I hadn’t expected recognition to hit so hard, or so fast. One look and years collapsed into something raw and immediate, like a bruise pressed too soon.
I’m not angry, which might be what is unsettling me the most. Instead I feel … exposed.
As if a version of myself I’d sealed away has been dragged into the light without my consent. Not the woman who loved him. Not the one who begged for time. But the one who learned, finally, that being chosen comes with conditions.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
That whatever history I share with a man who survived somewhere else on this planet has no bearing on the choices I’m making now. That I’m not that woman anymore. That I’ve grown past needing things I couldn’t have. The lie sits badly in my chest.
I shift, easing pressure off my ankle, and wince despite myself. The movement draws a faint echo from the corridor beyond the room. Footsteps, careful and measured.
I don’t look up right away. I know who it is before he comes into view. I’ve learned the cadence of his presence the way you learn weather. Not by sight, but by the way the air responds. Korr stops just inside the threshold.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask if I’m all right. He surveys the space instead, attention moving in a slow circuit. Door. Walls. Ceiling. The narrow passage that leads to the children. Only after he’s satisfied does he turn his focus fully on me.
I feel it like a weight settling, not heavy but absolute.
He moves closer and lowers himself to sit across from me, far enough that our knees don’t touch, close enough that the firelight brushes his skin the same way it brushes mine. He rests his forearms on his thighs, posture relaxed without being careless.
For a moment, neither of us says anything. The silence stretches, thick but not uncomfortable. It’s the kind that invites truth if you let it. I stare at the floor between us, tracing cracks that look like fault lines on a map.
“They’re sleeping,” I say finally, because it’s easier than saying anything else.
“I know,” he replies.
No follow-up. No probing. I draw in a slow breath and let it out through my nose, steadying myself.
“I didn’t expect to see… anyone,” I say. The words feel clumsy, insufficient. “From before.”
Korr’s gaze doesn’t leave my face. There’s no flicker of jealousy there. No tension. Just attention, focused and unwavering.
“You don’t have to explain,” he says.
I huff a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s the problem. I think I do.”
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t lean in. He gives me space, the way someone does when they know forcing closeness would shatter something fragile instead of protecting it. I pick at the edge of my sleeve, nerves buzzing under my skin.
“I thought I was done with that part of my life,” I continue. “Done letting it touch me. But seeing him…” My voice trails off. I shake my head once, sharp and frustrated. “It’s like reaching back and dragging something out of the rubble I’d already buried.”
Korr’s jaw tightens, just slightly. I don’t think it’s the words, but the weight behind them.
“I don’t want to carry it into… this,” I say, finally lifting my eyes to his. “Whatever… this is. Whatever we’re doing. I won’t survive it if I let the past decide the outcome.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something deep in his gaze steadies, like a decision settling into place.
“It won’t,” he says quietly.
The certainty in his voice makes my chest ache. I look away first, because believing him feels more dangerous than doubting ever did.
I expect him to leave it there.
That’s always been my experience. People give you space when things get complicated. They tell you they understand and then step back, letting distance do the work they don’t want to do themselves.
Korr doesn’t.
He shifts closer, slow enough that I can stop him if I want to, but I don’t. When he settles beside me, our shoulders don’t touch, but the space between us feels charged.
“You think the past still has a claim on you,” he says.
It isn’t an accusation. It’s an observation, spoken with the same calm he uses when reading terrain.
I swallow. “I think it already proved it does.”
His gaze drops briefly to my ankle, then returns to my face.
“No,” he says. “It proved it still exists. That’s not the same thing.”
I let out a quiet laugh that holds no humor.
“Some things don’t fade. They wait.”
He considers that. I can see it in the way his eyes narrow, the way he weighs my words rather than dismissing them.
“You’re right,” he says at last. “Some things do wait.” My heart stutters. “And some things end because someone chooses to leave. That is not the same as you being unworthy of staying.”
The words stop everything. They’re more dramatic than a slap to the face. I press my lips together, breathing through the sudden burn behind my eyes.
“It felt the same,” I admit. “Like a verdict. Like no matter what I did afterward, that would always be the truth underneath everything else.”
Korr turns fully toward me. His knee angles in, his body a quiet wall at my side. He doesn’t touch me though.
“That truth was never yours,” he says. “It belonged to him. His fear. His limits.”
I shake my head. “You say that like it doesn’t leave a mark.”
“It does,” he agrees. “But it doesn’t get to define what comes next.”
I finally meet his gaze, really look at him. At the steadiness there. At the absence of doubt. At the way he isn’t trying to convince me so much as state something he has already accepted.
“And what if I don’t know how to believe that?” I ask.
“Then you don’t,” he replies. “Not yet.”
That surprises me. “That’s it?”
“For now.” His mouth curves, just slightly. “I’m not asking you to trust words. I’m asking you to watch what I choose.”
My breath catches. “And what are you choosing?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reaches out, slow and unmistakably intentional, and rests his hand over mine where it lies on the stone.
The contact is warm. Steady. Real.
“I am choosing you,” he says. “Without condition. Without expectation. Whether you accept that today or not.”
The world seems to narrow to that point of contact. The heat of his palm. The quiet certainty behind it. My instinct is to pull away, to protect the parts of me that learned too well what hope can cost.
I don’t.
My fingers curl slightly beneath his, not clinging, but acknowledging. Accepting the moment without promising the future. His thumb shifts, brushing my knuckles once. The touch is restrained, reverent. It sends a shiver through me anyway.
“You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” he adds. “You don’t have to be brave. Or healed. Or ready.”
I whisper, “And if I am none of those things?”
His gaze softens. “Then you are still enough.”
The words settle between us, heavy and gentle all at once. Somewhere nearby, the children breathe, the city hums faintly, and the night holds. For the first time since we entered this place, I let myself lean—just a little—into the truth I’ve been fighting.
He’s not here because he hasn’t decided yet. He’s here because he already has.
His hand still rests over mine. Warm. Certain. Not pressing. Not demanding. Just there. I study our hands like they belong to someone else.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit quietly.
“Do what?” he asks.
“Stay,” I whisper.
The word is heavier than I expect. He doesn’t flinch.
“You don’t have to stay all at once,” he says. “You stay one choice at a time.”
One choice.
My heart is beating too fast. Too loud. I’m suddenly aware of everything — the firelight against his jaw outlining his tusks, the faint scent of smoke and desert and something that is just him. The way he’s close enough that I can see the fine ridges along his brow.
I’ve spent so long bracing against him. What happens if I stop?
My fingers slide out from under his hand.
He goes still instantly. I rise onto my knees. His gaze tracks the movement — alert, not predatory. Waiting. Waiting for me. That does something to me. Something dangerous and freeing all at once.
“You’re very sure,” I murmur.
“Yes.”
“That terrifies me.”
“I know.”
I reach for him before I can think myself out of it.
My hand slides up his chest. Over the solid heat of him. Over the steady rise and fall of his breath. He inhales sharply — just once — and that small loss of control fuels something reckless inside me.
“You keep choosing me,” I say, voice barely more than breath.
“Yes.”
“Even now?”
“Yes.”
I close the distance. Not rushed. Not desperate. Intentional.
My mouth finds his.
For half a heartbeat, he doesn’t move.
Then his hand comes up to cradle the side of my face — not gripping. Holding like I am something worth handling carefully. The kiss is not soft, not frantic.
It’s heat and restraint colliding.
His mouth is warm and firm, answering me without overtaking. He lets me lead. Let’s me decide the depth, the pressure, the angle. That respect sends a tremor through me stronger than anything forceful could.
I press closer. He makes a low sound in his throat — not dominance, not hunger.
My fingers tangle at the base of his neck. I kiss him harder this time, claiming instead of testing. His other arm slides around my waist and pulls me in — controlled strength, anchoring, not conquering.
My pulse pounds in my ears. He tastes like smoke and heat and something steady enough to lean into. I shift, breath catching when his thumb brushes just beneath my ear, sending a spark down my spine. The kiss deepens, still measured, still aware of the children sleeping only a room away.
It makes it hotter. The restraint. The quiet. The fact that this is chosen.
I pull back first. Barely. Enough that our foreheads rest together. His breath is uneven. Mine is worse.
“If you leave,” I whisper, still hovering close enough to feel the words against his lips, “You will destroy me.”
His mouth curves against mine.
“I won’t,” he says.
It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t sworn on anything. It’s simply true. His hand slides slowly down my back, stopping at my waist. Waiting.
Always waiting.
I kiss him again. This time slower. Deeper. Not to test him or to prove anything. I kiss him because I want to. And that is the most dangerous choice I’ve made yet.