Chapter 27
JOLIE
The desert doesn’t feel the same once we start moving together.
It still burns, still presses heat into every inch of exposed skin, still drags dry air down my throat until it stings with every breath, but something in the way I move through it shifts the second Hrask falls into step beside me.
The wind scrapes across the terrain in uneven gusts, carrying sand that stings against my face and settles into my clothes, and the horizon still warps in that same relentless shimmer, but I’m not tracking all of it alone anymore.
“You’re limping,” he says without looking at me, his voice low but direct as he adjusts his pace to match mine.
“I’m walking,” I shoot back, shifting my weight deliberately so the hitch in my step doesn’t look as bad as it feels. “There’s a difference.”
“Yeah,” he mutters, scanning the ground ahead instead of me. “One of those ends with you hitting the ground if you push it too far.”
“I’ve got it,” I say, even as my ribs tighten with each breath, the pain sharp and insistent every time I move wrong.
“Mm-hm,” he replies, the sound carrying just enough skepticism to make me grit my teeth.
We move in a staggered line instead of side by side, him slightly ahead and to the right, me trailing just enough to keep his movements in view without stepping directly into his path.
It’s not something we talk about, not something we agree on out loud, but it happens anyway, instinct sliding into place like we’ve done this before.
“You’re drifting,” he says after a few minutes, his tone sharper now.
“I’m adjusting,” I counter, correcting my path before he can say anything else.
“You’re compensating,” he shoots back, glancing over his shoulder briefly. “Different thing.”
“Same result,” I mutter.
He exhales through his nose, not quite a laugh, and slows half a step without making it obvious.
“Drink,” he says, nodding toward the pack on my shoulder.
“I already—”
“Drink,” he repeats, firmer this time.
I glare at the back of his head for a second, then reach for the pack, pulling the water free and taking a controlled sip. The liquid hits dry and sharp, barely enough to take the edge off, and I cap it again quickly before the instinct to keep going takes over.
“Happy?” I ask.
“Less annoyed,” he replies.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s close enough.”
The ground shifts under us again, sand giving way to a harder-packed stretch marked with faint lines that cut across the natural flow of the terrain. I slow slightly, my eyes catching on the pattern as something about it feels—
Wrong.
“Hold up,” I say, lifting a hand.
Hrask stops immediately, turning just enough to follow my line of sight.
“You see that?” I ask, stepping closer to the marks.
He crouches without hesitation, brushing his fingers across the surface in the same way I’ve watched him do a dozen times now.
“Yeah,” he says after a second. “That’s not environmental.”
The lines run parallel in places, then break, then reappear again, partially buried under drifting sand but still visible if you know what you’re looking for.
“Tracks?” I ask.
“Not exactly,” he replies, shifting slightly as he studies the pattern. “Too consistent for natural movement, too shallow for standard transport.”
“Dragged,” I say, crouching beside him despite the protest from my ribs.
“Yeah,” he agrees, glancing at me briefly. “Controlled movement. Repeated.”
My fingers hover over one of the lines, tracing it lightly without disturbing it.
“This is a route,” I murmur. “Or it was.”
“Smuggling,” he says, straightening slowly. “Has to be.”
I push myself up as well, slower this time, my balance shifting unevenly before I correct it.
“They’re using the Deadlands,” I say, looking out along the direction the lines lead. “Moving things through where nobody’s supposed to survive.”
“Smart,” he mutters. “No oversight, no interference, and if something goes wrong, it disappears.”
“Like me,” I say, before I can stop myself.
He looks at me then, really looks, his expression tightening just slightly.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Like you.”
The words sit heavier than they should.
I swallow against it, forcing my focus back to the ground.
“These lines are fresh enough,” I say, shifting my stance. “Not recent, but not gone either.”
“They cycle through,” he adds. “Wind erases it, they run it again.”
“So it’s active,” I say.
“Very.”
The realization settles into something sharper, something that cuts through the exhaustion and pain and everything else weighing me down.
“They’re still doing it,” I say, my voice tightening. “Even after—”
“Even after Tury,” he finishes.
I nod once.
“He didn’t just stumble into something,” I say. “He interrupted it.”
“And they made sure he didn’t do it again,” Hrask replies.
I turn slightly, looking out along the path the lines carve through the desert, following it as far as the distortion will let me.
“This goes back to the border,” I say.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Or close enough to it.”
I exhale slowly, the air catching in my chest before I force it out.
“We’re not done,” I say.
He doesn’t respond right away, and I glance at him, expecting hesitation, expecting that same resistance from before.
Instead—
He nods.
“Yeah,” he says simply. “I know.”
I blink at him.
“That’s it?” I ask. “No argument, no ‘we need a plan,’ no lecture about consequences?”
He huffs a breath, something almost like a laugh slipping through.
“You want me to fight you on it again?” he asks.
“Kind of,” I admit. “At least then it’d feel normal.”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Well, normal didn’t work out so great last time.”
I study him for a second, something shifting in the way he stands, the way he’s not holding himself back the same way he was before.
“You’re just… in?” I ask.
“I was already in,” he replies, his tone quieter now. “I just took the long way around admitting it.”
I shake my head slightly, something like disbelief slipping through despite everything else.
“You’re unbelievable,” I mutter.
“You keep saying that,” he says, glancing at me again.
“Because it’s still true.”
“Fair,” he replies.
The wind shifts again, dragging sand across the lines we’ve been studying, softening them slightly, and I watch as the edges blur just a little more.
“We need to move,” I say, stepping back. “Before this disappears completely.”
He nods once, already turning in the direction the route leads.
“Stay close,” he says.
“Not going anywhere,” I shoot back, falling into step beside him.
The rhythm comes easier this time.
Not because the terrain changes, or the heat eases, or the pain fades, but because we stop working around each other and start moving with each other instead.
He adjusts his pace without saying it, matching mine more precisely, and I shift my steps to align with his positioning, covering angles he can’t see while he does the same for me.
“You always this cooperative?” I ask after a while, my voice lighter despite the strain.
“Only when it matters,” he replies.
“That’s new,” I say.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’m trying something different.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I shoot back.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The route becomes clearer as we follow it, the disturbances more consistent where the terrain dips and holds the marks longer, and I feel something tighten in my chest that has nothing to do with the injury.
“They’ve been doing this a long time,” I say.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Long enough to get comfortable.”
“Too comfortable,” I add.
He glances at me briefly.
“That sound like you getting ready to start something?” he asks.
“That sounds like me finishing something,” I reply.
His mouth twitches slightly, not quite a smile, but close enough to register.
“Good,” he says.
I look ahead again, following the line as it stretches forward, cutting through the Deadlands toward something bigger than just survival.
“Because I’m not letting this go,” I add.
“Didn’t think you would,” he replies.
“And you’re not walking away this time,” I say, glancing at him.
“No,” he says, meeting my gaze. “I’m not.”
The certainty in his voice lands solid, unshaken, and something in me settles around it in a way I don’t question.
“Good,” I say quietly.
We keep moving.
Toward the border.
Toward the truth.