“And you mistake control for protection,” I shoot back.
That hits him. He steps closer—not invading my space, not threatening—but close enough that I feel the heat of him, the restrained energy humming beneath his stillness.
“You do not understand what you are stepping into,” he says, voice low. “And I will not pretend otherwise to spare your pride.”
My breath catches. Anger flares, sharp and immediate.
“My pride?” I repeat. “You think that’s what this is about?”
“I think,” he says, “that you are used to standing in the center and calling it responsibility.”
The words slice deep. I feel it immediately—the old ache, the quiet certainty I’ve lived with for years.
“I didn’t ask to be there,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I stepped in because someone had to.”
He hesitates. Just a fraction, but enough that I see it.
“That may be true,” he says carefully. “But it does not make you untouchable.”
“I don’t want to be untouchable,” I snap. “I want you to stop treating me like I’m one wrong step away from breaking.”
His gaze drops—just briefly—to my hands. My stance. My breathing. Then it lifts again, unreadable.
“You are not fragile,” he says. “You are exposed.”
The distinction shouldn’t matter as it doesn’t change the way he’s acting, but it does.
We stand there, the argument spent but unresolved, something fractured between us that wasn’t there before. Not trust and definitely not respect, more of an illusion.
“This isn’t finished,” I say quietly.
“No,” he agrees. “It isn’t.”
I turn away before he can say anything else—before I can say something I can’t take back.
Behind me, the desert breathes. Ahead of me, the camp waits. And somewhere between the two, I’ve just learned that whatever binds Korr to this mission has nothing to do with orders. I take pride in not huffing as I walk away, angry, but resigned.
I don’t go back to my tent.
Instead, I walk toward the children’s area, following the familiar pull of quiet order. I drift through the soft murmur of voices settling, the rustle of blankets, the low cadence of bedtime routines. Someone has hung lanterns along the support poles, their light warm and steady, chasing the worst of the dark away.
Zoe sits cross-legged near the edge of the circle, helping Malcolm fold a blanket that’s far too big for him. She hums under her breath, tuneless but calm. When she looks up and sees me, her expression brightens.
“Did they decide?” she asks.
“Some of it,” I say, easing down beside her. “Enough for now.”
She nods as if that’s exactly what she expected.
“It’s loud tonight,” she adds.
“Is it?” I ask, glancing toward the valley, where the stars are beginning to prick through the red haze of the sky.
She tilts her head, listening to something I can’t hear.
“Not bad-loud. Just… awake.”
I don’t ask her to explain. I’ve learned better.
