“Rverre,” he murmurs.
It’s barely sound. More intention than voice.
She stirs, wings flexing once before settling again. Her tail brushes the sand as her brow furrows, and for a breath I think she’ll resist waking, but then her fingers curl around his without panic. Her eyes open slowly, unfocused at first, then finding him.
“You stayed,” she says sleepily.
“Always,” Illadon replies.
No bravado. Not even a promise. It carries the weight of truth.
She pushes herself upright with his help, leaning briefly into his shoulder before she remembers herself and straightens. Her gaze flicks to the horizon immediately, then to Talia, who watches the exchange with something tight and soft in her eyes.
“The ground’s awake,” Rverre says quietly.
That makes me still. Talia and I exchange a glance before focusing on Rverre.
“How awake?” I ask.
She tilts her head, listening in that way that still unsettles me. “Not loud. Just… waiting.”
That is better than the alternative.
Illadon nods as if that answers something he’d already been weighing. He reaches for her pack and tightens one of the straps that loosened overnight, careful not to jostle her wings.
“You eat first,” he tells her.
She wrinkles her nose. “I’m not hungry.”
“You will be,” he says mildly.
She considers that, then nods and accepts the ration he offers without complaint. Talia turns away for a moment, pretending to adjust her own pack. I recognize the instinct. Give them space. Let the moment belong to them.
It is not as if the desert rushes us, but the suns continue to climb higher, light hardening against the sand, and the window of mercy begins to close. I step forward, appreciating the feel of solid stone under my boots one last time before turning back to the group.
“We move in two minutes,” I say.
No objections or questions. Illadon finishes securing Rverre’s pack. She stands on her own this time, rolling her shoulders once to settle the weight. When she looks up at him, her expression is calm. Ready.
Talia meets my gaze across the small circle we’ve formed. There is understanding if not agreement between us. We’re not at peace, but we are in alignment. For now, it has to be enough.
We shoulder our packs and step away from the stone, leaving behind the brief illusion of stillness. The desert opens again, wide and unguarded, heat rising to meet us. I look carefully around to make sure nothing follows.
It feels like Tajss waits—patient, attentive, and very much awake. I do not like the feeling. But, looking at Rverre as she points the direction we need to travel, I understand something with unsettling clarity. This journey will not be decided by force. It will be decided by who listens best.
We move in a loose group. I keep the lead while Rverre and Illadon walk side-by-side and Talia brings up the rear.
The first stretch is always deceptive—ground firm enough to invite confidence, sand packed just enough to hide how quickly it will steal strength. I set the pace deliberately slower than instinct urges. Endurance is won early or not at all.
The desert opens further as we go, stone thinning into scattered ribs instead of sheltering walls. I angle us toward what cover remains, even when it forces a shallow zig instead of a straight line. My shoulders tighten with every step away from solid ground.
Too open.
I compensate by widening my awareness, scanning for changes in wind, shifts in sand texture, anything that might signal movement before it becomes threat. The land speaks quietly here. You have to know how to listen without letting it overwhelm you.
Talia matches my pace.
I don’t think that it is deliberate. She just… does, adjusting with me when the ground shifts, shortening her stride when the sand deepens, lengthening it when stone breaks through again. She watches Rverre without hovering, intervenes only when the child’s attention drifts inward too far.
