“We all draw attention,” I reply. “You included.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
His eyes flick past me, out toward the open valley. His shoulders tense, just a fraction.
“Because I know what to do with it.”
I follow his gaze, though I don’t see what he does. Just space. Wind. Possibility sharpened into threat.
“And you think I don’t?” I ask.
His attention snaps back to me, something unreadable passing through his expression.
“I think,” he says carefully, “that you stand too close to the center of this.”
I let out a slow breath. “I’m not trying to.”
Silence settles again, but it’s changed now. Less neutral. More charged. As if something unspoken has taken shape between us and neither of us knows what to do with it.
“I should let you work,” I say, rising.
He inclines his head slightly, blade still in his hand. As I turn to leave, his voice stops me.
“Talia.”
The way he says my name—low, deliberate—sends an unexpected ripple through me.
“Yes?”
“You should not be alone tonight.”
I glance back at him, searching his face for meaning I don’t want to assume.
“That sounds like an order.”
“It’s advice,” he replies. “You may choose whether to ignore it.”
I hesitate, then nod once. “Goodnight, Korr.”
He doesn’t answer. The scrape of blade against wood resumes as I walk away. I don’t look back, but I feel him watching until the camp lights swallow me.
I don’t go far.
I tell myself it’s because there’s too much to do before we leave. Supplies to inventory, schedules to adjust, children to reassure, but the truth is simpler and harder to admit.
I’m thinking about him. About the way he said my name.
About the warning that felt like concern wrapped in restraint. About the stick in his hands and the way he shielded it without anger. It unsettles me more than open hostility would have.
By the time I reach my tent, I’ve convinced myself that I should clear the air. Not for comfort, or so I tell myself, but for function. We’re about to travel together, and uncertainty is dangerous in the desert. I stare into my shared shelter for a long moment before turning around and heading back.
He’s still there when I return, though the light has shifted. The desert has softened into amber and shadow, the heat easing just enough to be deceptive. He’s standing now, Mudrosti tucked away, posture alert in that constant, coiled way of his.
“You followed my advice poorly,” he says without turning.
“I didn’t follow it at all,” I reply. “I came back.”
