It shifts underfoot with a subtle resistance that throws my balance just enough to make every step difficult. Not necessarily treacherous, but unfamiliar in a way that reminds me how much the canyon walls had been doing to protect us from life in the open.
Korr doesn’t comment. He moves ahead of us, angled slightly so the stone remains within reach, his stride unhurried but exact. Each step is placed, not taken. I find myself matching his pace without meaning to, adjusting before I realize I’m doing it.
Rverre exhales.
It’s soft, barely audible, but it’s the first time I’ve heard her breathe like that since we left the tunnels. Her shoulders loosen. Her wings shift, settling more comfortably against her back, no longer held so tight they tremble.
Illadon notices too.
He moves closer to her without breaking stride, his presence quiet and intentional. He doesn’t look at me when he does it, but I see the choice all the same.
The desert hums as if in response. It isn’t sound exactly—more a pressure, a low awareness that presses against the senses until it becomes background noise. The air is warming and the heat climbs faster without the canyon’s shade, already reaching for my skin like it’s testing how long I’ll last. I swallow and keep moving.
Epis dulls the edge, but it doesn’t erase it. It never does. My body adapts, adjusts, survives—but it remembers that this isn’t what it was built for. I push the thought aside and focus on what I can control. My footing. My breathing. Rverre’s pace.
Korr slows by half a step.
It’s subtle enough that it could be coincidence, but I know it isn’t. He does it without looking back, without comment, giving the group time to settle into a rhythm that won’t cost us later. I don’t thank him and he doesn’t seem to expect it.
The sand gives way to stone in places. Exposed rock breaking through the surface like Tajss never fully committed to burying herself. Korr angles us toward them immediately, favoring the solid ground even when it adds distance.
I register the fact and file it away. This isn’t wandering. He’s mapping.
We don’t speak. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because the desert doesn’t need our words yet. It asks different questions. Where will you stand? How close will you walk? What will you protect first when the ground turns against you?
Rverre hums again, barely louder than before.
It isn’t a tune I recognize. It isn’t even consistent. Just sound shaped by breath and movement, rising and falling as she walks. I glance at her, ready to intervene if I see tension building, but she’s calm. Focused. More present than I’ve ever seen her.
Illadon walks taller, not in a puffed up way, or like he’s performing for her. He’s settled, like something in him clicked into place the moment the canyon let go.
I look back and see that nothing follows. No echo of footsteps. No voices calling our names. The valley doesn’t close. The camp doesn’t call. The desert simply accepts us, step by step, as if we’ve been expected all along.
I lift my gaze to the horizon, where heat already shimmers faintly against the sky, and feel the weight of what we’ve done settle fully into my chest.
This is not a test run. This is commitment. And whether I’m ready for it or not, Tajss has taken note.
The desert stops pretending after the first hour.
The heat sharpens, climbing fast enough that I feel it press behind my eyes. Light fractures off the sand in bright sheets, turning distance into illusion. What looks solid wavers. What looks flat hides shallow dips that steal balance and energy with quiet efficiency.
Korr lifts a hand.
Not a stop—just a signal. We slow, closing distance instinctively. He angles us left, away from the open stretch I’d been watching, toward a line of darker stone half-buried beneath sand.
“That adds distance,” I say.
It’s not a challenge. Just a fact.
“Yes,” he replies.
He doesn’t explain immediately. That alone prickles. I wait a few steps, giving him the chance to elaborate, but he keeps moving, steady and deliberate, attention fixed on the terrain ahead. I don’t like that.
“Distance costs water,” I add.
He glances back then, eyes sharp but not irritated. Measuring.
“Speed costs lives,” he says.
