Chapter 31 Talia
TALIA
Iwake slowly, the way you do when your body doesn’t feel threatened enough to jolt you upright.
Warmth comes first. Then awareness of weight.
It’s no pinning or heavy, just present. In a moment it resolves to Korr’s arm lying across my waist. His forearm resting along the curve of my hip as if it settled there naturally and never thought to leave.
His hand is open, relaxed, fingers loose against my side.
My breath catches.
I don’t move, cataloging the room instead. The cracked concrete wall opposite us. The pale strip of early light sliding in through a broken panel high above. The steady, even breathing of the children in the adjoining space, still deep in sleep.
Then I realize Korr isn’t breathing in sleep. He’s awake.
I tilt my head just enough to see his face. His eyes are open, alert, focused—not on me, but on the doorway, the shadows beyond it, the world waiting outside this fragile pocket of quiet. He looks like he’s been awake for a while.
Watching. Listening. Guarding.
Something tightens in my chest. I shift slightly, the smallest movement, testing whether the arm at my waist will tense or pull me closer. It doesn’t.
His gaze flicks down to me immediately, though, sharp and attentive. When his eyes meet mine, there’s no surprise in them. No awkwardness. No trace of regret.
“Morning,” he says softly.
It’s not husky or intimate. Just his voice, low and steady, as if this is a normal thing to wake to. As if last night didn’t redraw the lines of my life.
“Morning,” I reply, my voice rougher than I intend.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
The air between us feels… charged isn’t quite right. That implies tension that wants to explode. This is different. It’s aware. Held. Like standing near a fire that you don’t intend to touch, but don’t step away from either.
I glance down at his hand on my waist.
He follows my gaze and, after a beat, lifts it—not withdrawing completely, just sliding it away with deliberate care, placing it on the ground beside him instead. The space he leaves behind feels conspicuously empty.
My ankle throbs dully as I shift onto my side, a reminder that the world hasn’t paused just because I allowed myself one unguarded moment. I grit my teeth, ready to mask it, but his eyes sharpen and a low grumble slips from him.
“Easy,” he murmurs.
I stiffen. “I’m fine.”
“I know,” he says. Not challenging, accepting.
That disarms me more than concern would have.
He sits up, smooth and controlled, giving me space without putting distance between us. I follow a second later, propping myself against the wall. The movement pulls the blanket down from my shoulder, exposing the curve of my collarbone to the cool morning air. I tug it back automatically.
His gaze doesn’t linger. That, too, feels intentional.
“Did we make things more complicated?” I ask before I can talk myself out of it.
The question hangs between us, stripped of accusation but heavy with everything I don’t say. The city. The people. The children. The way one choice can cascade into a hundred others.
Korr considers me for a long moment. Not weighing his answer—he already knows it—but deciding how to give it.
“No,” he says finally.
Just that.
I search his face for qualifiers. For hesitation. For the subtle tightening that would mean he’s already regretting something. There’s nothing. I let my breath slip out slowly and nod.
He reaches for his boots, pulling them on with efficient movements. The familiar rhythm grounds me, even as I feel the echo of his arm at my waist linger like a phantom touch.
“I should check the perimeter,” he says, glancing toward the doorway.
Of course he should. He always does.
I nod. “I’ll get the kids up.”
He pauses, boot half-laced, and looks at me again. There’s something careful in his expression—not fear, not doubt, but restraint.
“Thank you,” he says.
“For what?”
“For not retreating,” he replies simply.
I swallow, throat tight, and force myself to meet his gaze.
“I don’t do that anymore,” I say, surprised to find that it’s true.
A corner of his mouth lifts into not quite a smile, but close enough that it warms something low in my chest.
“Good,” he says.
He stands, towering and solid. The soft morning light illuminates his green skin, breaking across the ivory of his tusks. He hesitates as if considering something else. For a fleeting second, I think he might lean down. Touch my face. Press his forehead to mine.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he inclines his head in a gesture that feels oddly intimate for its restraint and steps toward the doorway. As he leaves, the space he vacates feels different than it did yesterday. Not emptier, changed.
I sit for a moment longer, listening to his footsteps fade, my body humming with awareness and something akin to certainty. We didn’t pull away. We didn’t pretend. And for the first time I don’t feel like I need to rebuild my armor before standing up.
Illadon wakes, interrupting any further thought. He stirs with a subtle shift. He’s learned to surface from sleep already listening. I notice it because I’m watching for it, because the room has that fragile stillness where even small changes feel amplified.
He sits up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, wings stretching once before folding tight again. His gaze sweeps the room automatically. Exit. Shadows. Rverre.
Then it lands on me.
His eyes flick to the space beside me, to the imprint in the dust where Korr had been moments before. To the blanket pulled up around my shoulders. To my posture, upright but unguarded in a way I haven’t allowed myself in years.
He gives a single, almost imperceptible nod, as if logging a fact rather than forming an opinion. Then he shifts closer to Rverre and nudges her awake with the back of his fingers, gentle and practiced.
She stirs with a soft sound, wings flexing before she fully opens her eyes. Her attention drifts, unfocused at first, then sharpens. She looks at me. Then past me. Then back again. Her head tilts, just a fraction.
“Oh,” she says quietly.
The word is small, but it lands with a weight all its own.
Illadon stills beside her. “Oh what?”
She doesn’t answer him right away. Her gaze tracks toward the doorway where Korr disappeared, then returns to me. Her emerald eyes are bright, unreadable.
“The air feels… settled,” she says finally.
Illadon frowns. “That’s not a thing.”
She shrugs, unapologetic. “It is today.”
He glances at me again, clearly tempted to ask something, then stops himself. I recognize that restraint. I taught it to him. You don’t pry where trust is being built.
“Are we moving soon?” he asks instead.
“Yes,” I say. “After we eat.”
He nods, accepting that without argument, and rises to check their packs. Rverre swings her legs over the edge of the bedding and watches him for a moment before looking back at me.
“You didn’t disappear,” she says.
My chest tightens. “No.”
Her wings give a small, satisfied rustle. “Good.”
That’s all she says.
She stands and pads closer, stopping just within my space. The way she does when she’s curious but doesn’t want to disrupt something delicate.
“He stays close to you now,” she observes.
I open my mouth to deflect, to soften, to explain. Then I stop.
“Yes,” I say.
She studies my face, not searching for weakness, only truth. Whatever she finds seems to satisfy her. She nods once, decisively.
“That’s better,” she declares, then turns away as if the matter is settled.
Illadon shoots her a look. “You can’t just decide that.”
She glances back at him, utterly unbothered. “I didn’t decide. I noticed.”
He exhales, clearly outmatched, and shakes his head as he finishes tightening a strap. But his shoulders are looser than they were yesterday. His movements steadier. Trust, given without demand.
I don’t miss the way he positions himself closer to the doorway. Or how Rverre drifts into the space between him and me, a quiet bridge rather than a barrier.
When Korr returns a few minutes later, dust streaking one shoulder, Illadon straightens instinctively.
“Perimeter’s clear,” Korr says.
Illadon nods. “Good.”
Korr’s gaze flicks to me, quick and checking, then to the children. Something eases in his posture.
Whatever line we crossed last night, it wasn’t invisible to the children. And somehow, that makes it feel less fragile instead of more. As if this thing between us doesn’t exist in isolation. As if it belongs to the world we’re trying to build, rather than pulling us away from it.
A Zmaj appears just inside the threshold, massive frame outlined by the filtered light from outside. He doesn’t crowd the room. Doesn’t posture. He simply stands, waiting silent. Korr and Illadon both notice him before I do.
Korr growls, low and dangerous. He turns, body angling subtly between us and the doorway without making a show of it. The Zmaj’s gaze tracks the movement and pauses, something thoughtful flickering behind his eyes.
“The leaders request your presence,” the Zmaj says, voice rough but controlled speaking in Zmaj. “Both of you.”
My stomach tightens. Korr doesn’t answer right away. He looks at me first. Not asking permission so much as checking my opinion. I straighten, ignoring the throb in my ankle, and nod once.
“We’ll come,” I answer.
The Zmaj’s gaze shifts to me, measuring, then he inclines his head a fraction, acknowledgement without deference.
“Soon,” he says. “The humans are… struggling.”
That admission surprises me. I saw it, of course, but I didn’t expect the Zmaj to openly own it. At least not without an argument.
“How?” I ask.
“Heat,” he replies. “Fatigue. Illness we can’t treat.” A pause. “You have something they don’t.”
Epis. The word doesn’t need to be spoken. Korr’s jaw tightens. Not anger. Calculation. He glances at Illadon and Rverre.
“You stay here,” Korr says. “Both of you.”
Illadon’s chin lifts. “We can help.”
“I know,” Korr says evenly. “That’s why you don’t.”
Rverre watches the Zmaj with narrowed eyes.
“The city is restless,” she murmurs. “It doesn’t like waiting.”
The Zmaj snorts softly. “It never does.”