Illadon’s head tilts slightly, attention snapping between us. Rverre doesn’t react at all. She keeps walking, humming under her breath, her pace unchanged.
“We’re not under immediate threat,” I say. “The sand is stable here. Visibility’s good.”
“For now,” Korr replies. “And it won’t stay that way.” He gestures with a short movement of his chin, indicating the open stretch ahead. “Heat funnels through there. Wind follows. When it shifts, it will blind you before you know it’s coming.”
I follow his gaze. The air shimmers faintly, the kind of distortion that’s easy to dismiss if you don’t know what you’re looking at. I bite back a retort.
“This isn’t the canyon,” I say instead. “We can’t afford to move like we’re still hemmed in.”
“We can’t afford to forget what stone teaches,” he counters. “Open ground gives you choices. It also gives you nowhere to hide.”
“That assumes hiding is the goal.”
“It often is,” he says evenly.
We walk in silence for several steps, the tension between us taut but contained. He hasn’t dismissed me and I haven’t backed down. The disagreement hangs there, unresolved but not hostile. Illadon breaks it.
“If the wind comes from the west,” he says, eyes narrowed against the glare, “the stone will break it before it reaches us.”
Korr slows, surprised enough that he doesn’t hide it.
“That’s correct,” he says after a beat.
Illadon nods once, satisfied, then looks at me.
“It’s like the tunnels. You don’t fight what you can let pass.”
Something in my chest shifts. Korr studies the boy for a long moment, then adjusts our angle slightly—not as far toward the stone as before, but enough that it remains within reach.
It’s a compromise. I see it. So does Illadon. Rverre hums a little louder.
We reach the stone ridge just as the wind changes.
It’s subtle at first—a shift in pressure, a faint hiss as sand lifts and skims across the surface. Then it strengthens, a hot, abrasive breath that would have scoured our eyes and skin raw if we were still out in the open. Instead, the rock takes it.
The sound deepens, wind scraping along stone instead of flesh. The temperature drops by degrees—not comfort, but relief. I let out a heavy breath. Korr doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t need to.
We pause briefly in the ridge’s partial shade. Illadon adjusts Rverre’s pack strap without being asked, his movements practiced and careful. She leans into him without breaking her rhythm, wings brushing his arm once before settling again.
I kneel, pretending to check my footing while I recalibrate. He was right. That doesn’t mean I was wrong—but the distinction matters less than the outcome.
Korr scans the horizon, posture loose but alert, every line of him tuned to movement. He looks more at ease here, with stone close enough to brace against. I see it. The way his shoulders ease when there’s something solid at his back.
I also see that the desert hasn’t softened. We’ve just learned how to move with it. I straighten and meet his gaze deliberately.
“You should have explained,” I say quietly. “Not assumed.”
His eyes flick to mine, steady and unflinching.
“You should have trusted,” he replies. “Not challenged in motion.”
Fair. I nod once.
“Next time.”
“Next time,” he agrees.
No apology. No victory. Just recalibration. We move on.
