Rverre is half-asleep, curled into herself with her wings tucked tight, breath slow and even. I brush my fingers lightly over her hair, careful not to wake her. The tension in my chest eases a fraction when she doesn’t stir.
This—this—is why I do it. Not the councils. Not the arguments. The quiet moments where the world holds still long enough for a child to rest.
“Will he be there?” Zoe asks suddenly.
I still.
“Who?”
“The watcher,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “The one who stands like the ground might move.”
My pulse stutters realizing she means Korr.
“Yes,” I say after a moment. “He will.”
She considers that, then smiles. “Good. The path is narrower without him.”
Before I can ask what she means, she lies back and pulls the blanket up to her chin, eyes already drifting closed.
I sit there longer than I need to, listening to the soft rhythm of breathing around me, letting the camp settle into something like peace. Somewhere beyond the lantern light, footsteps move along the perimeter—measured and steady.
I don’t look for him because I don’t need to.
The argument still burns under my skin, unresolved and sharp, but it no longer feels like a wall. More like a fault line—something that will shape what comes next whether we acknowledge it or not.
Soon, we leave. And whether Korr likes it or not, we are already walking the same ground.
4
KORR
Iwatch her leave, grateful she did before the words could harden into something permanent.
The canyon wall is close enough to brace against as I move, my hand brushing the rock without thought. Stone first. Always stone. The camp hums as preparations begin, tension leaking into motion the way it always does when decisions become real.
I welcome the noise. It gives my mind something to lock onto, but it can’t keep the echo of her words at bay.
You mistake control for protection.
I grind my teeth and force my focus outward, scanning sightlines, counting bodies, mapping exits. Anything but the way her voice changed when I crossed that line. Anything but the certainty that hit me when she stood her ground instead of backing away.
She is not fragile.
I knew that before today.
What unsettles me is how exposed she is and how little she understands what gathers around her because of it.
I stop at the narrowing of the canyon, where the stone presses in close enough to make breathing easier. The desert opens beyond, wide and unbounded, the slope falling away into space that offers no cover and no forgiveness.
We will have to cross it.
I volunteered because someone had to. Because the council would debate themselves into paralysis if allowed. Because the children will move whether they are escorted or not. And because she will be there.
The recognition comes sharp enough to cut. I shove it down.
Dragoste is not a thing to be entertained. It is not a thought experiment or a weakness. It is a binding that demands certainty and I refuse to give it room to breathe, not now. Not when survival still outweighs everything else.
I force my attention back to the camp.
