“Because she won’t stop,” he says finally. “And because if she goes without me, she’ll break something trying to come back.”
The words land with awful clarity.
“You think you’re the only thing holding her together,” I say.
“No,” he replies. “I think I’m the thing that lets her move forward without tearing herself apart.”
I close my eyes for a moment, the weight of it pressing down hard.
“You know I can’t protect you the way I protect her,” I say.
“I know,” he says again. “That’s why I need him.”
I open my eyes. “Korr?”
Illadon nods. “He watches the ground. You watch us. I watch her.”
The simplicity of it steals my breath.
“You planned this,” I whisper.
“Yes.”
“Before the council?”
“Yes.”
“Before I agreed to go?”
He hesitates at that, only a little, but enough.
“No,” he admits. “But once you did, it was done.”
I sit back on my heels, staring at him. At this child who learned inevitability far too young.
“I don’t want this for you,” I say.
“I know.”
“I wanted you safe,” I add, and the words slip before I can stop them.
He smiles then. Not wide and certainly not triumphant, just… understanding.
“So you did,” he says. “That’s why you taught us how to choose.”
I laugh softly, the sound brittle. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
“It still worked.”
I reach out before I can second-guess myself and rest my hand on his shoulder. Solid. Real. Alive.
“If anything happens to you?—”
“I won’t forgive you?” he offers gently.
I huff out a breath. “No. I won’t forgive myself.”
He considers that. “Then don’t let it.”
