That’s the moment I know. Not that he’s coming—that was never really in question. But that trying to stop him now would cost more than letting him walk beside us. I nod once.
“Stay where I can see you.”
He straightens a little more. “Always.”
I rise, brushing dust from my knees, and gesture back toward the others.
“Go say goodbye,” I tell him. “Properly.”
He hesitates, then nods and turns away. I watch him walk back toward his mother, shoulders squared, steps steady. And somewhere behind me, I feel Korr’s attention settle, not on Illadon, but on me. As if he’s just realized the same thing I have.
This journey isn’t just about where we’re going. It’s about who we’re becoming once there’s no one left to stop us.
Illadon walks over to his mother, back straight, wings tight. The dragging of his tail against the ground the only indicator of reluctance.
Calista doesn’t rush him. She waits just far enough away that the moment belongs to them alone. She cups Illadon’s face in bothhands, thumbs brushing the edges of his scales the way she has since he was small enough to sit in her lap and demand stories he already knew by heart.
“You don’t have to be brave for me,” she says softly.
Illadon swallows. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away.
“I know,” he says.
She presses her forehead to his, eyes closed.
“You come back,” she murmurs. “Not because I need you to. Because you promised yourself you would.”
“I will,” he says. No hesitation. No flourish. Just truth.
Her hands slide to his shoulders, gripping once—harder than she probably means to—before she lets go. When she straightens, her eyes are bright, but dry. A distance behind her, Ladon watches.
He doesn’t step forward or intrude on the moment. He stands with his arms folded, posture relaxed in the way of someone who knows when presence is enough. When Illadon looks his way, Ladon inclines his head once. Pride. Clear and unguarded.
Illadon’s chest lifts.
He turns back to Calista, hesitates, then wraps his arms around her. She stiffens in surprise before pulling him close, one hand pressing between his shoulder blades like she can anchor him to the ground if she tries hard enough.
“Go,” she says quietly against his hair. “Before I change my mind.”
He steps back, gives her one last look, and then he’s moving—sure-footed and steady—back toward us.
Rverre waits at the edge of our group, wings tucked tight, eyes bright with a certainty that makes my chest ache. When Illadon reaches her, she reaches back without looking, fingers tangling with his as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Korr takes position without ceremony, taking the lead with the ease of someone who has done this a thousand times. I don’t look at him. I don’t need to. I feel the shift as the line settles, the moment when preparation turns into motion.
The parents watch. No one speaks. No one waves.
We pass the last line of tents, the last markers hammered into familiar ground. The canyon walls fall away behind us, stone giving way to open sky, and the desert stretches out ahead—wide, unbounded, and waiting.
The first step into the sand feels heavier than it should. Then another. And another. The camp does not follow. The valley does not call us back.
Ahead, Tajss opens—vast and awake—and whether we’re ready or not, we walk into it together.
6
TALIA
The sand is finer than it looks.
