“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.
30
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’slistening 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.
