The meager supplies are being shifted around. Water stores first. Good. Shade rigs next. Better. Humans argue near the supply crates while Cavern Z’maj lift without being asked, already assuming weight will fall to them. Surface Z’maj watch, calculating.
Urr’ki spacing tightens instinctively. They feel it too. The coming movement. The imbalance.
Staring out at the desert I assign routes in my head. Looking for paths that favor rock over sand, cover over speed. If we move, we move along the bones of Tajss, not across her open skin.
That is when I see him. The hybrid boy stands just inside the line of movement, waiting where he knows I will notice him. He has a half-sized lochaber in one hand. Tiny wings idly flap. A pack rides his shoulders, balanced correctly.
He sees that he has my attention and strides closer. The point of the lochaber is aimed at the ground, loosely gripped in his hand. He walks with a confidence and certainty that is far beyond his years. He comes to a stop an arm’s length in front of me.
“I’m going,” he says.
Not a question. I meet his gaze and understand immediately that this conversation was never optional.
I do not answer him right away.
I take him in giving him the full measure I would any other warrior who presented himself. The stance. The grip. The way the lochaber is angled—not ready to strike, but not careless either. Controlled. Deliberate. The pack is cinched tight across his shoulders, weight distributed the way a seasoned scout would manage it. Someone helped him prepare. Or he prepared himself and learned fast. Too fast.
“No,” I say finally.
The word is carefully even. Illadon does not flinch.
“I wasn’t asking,” he replies.
I almost bare my teeth. Almost, but I manage to suppress the growl.
“That doesn’t change the answer.”
“It does,” he says calmly. “You just haven’t adjusted yet.”
I step closer, enough that he has to tilt his head to meet my eyes. He does not retreat. His wings twitch once, settling again, betraying the tension his face refuses to show.
“You are a child,” I say.
“I am a warrior and her protector,” he answers. “She will not go without me.”
“That is not your decision.”
“It is and it is made.”
I exhale slowly through my nose, keeping my voice steady.
“You do not understand the risk.”
“I do,” he says. “You just think it belongs to you.” I pause. The audacity of it. The precision. “You are trained to guard,” he continues, watching my face carefully. “I am trained to listen. Rverre will not follow someone she cannot see. You stand behind her. I stand beside her.”
I grind my teeth.
“You will slow us down.”
“I will keep her safe and keep her from running.”
That stops me. The boy does not press the advantage. He waits. His patience is infuriating. It is calculated and clearly learned the hard way.
“If she goes,” he says quietly, “and I stay, she will come back for me. She always does. She will not tell you first. She will not tellherfirst.” He does not name Talia, but the space he leaves is loud. “She will just go.”
I look past him toward the camp. Toward the children’s area. Toward the small, fragile point of gravity that is already bending the world around her. Illadon follows my gaze.
“You know I’m right,” he says.
