Not because Rverre stumbles or the heat overwhelms us or the ground demands it, but because he decides the balance has tipped from progress into risk. That alone tells me more than any argument we’ve had so far.
“This is far enough,” he says, halting at the edge of a shallow rise where stone breaks through sand in uneven ribs. There’s no shelter worth the name, just a scatter of rocks tall enough to steal a sliver of shade if the suns angle right. It isn’t safe.
But neither is moving.
Illadon doesn’t question it. He eases Rverre toward the lee side of a boulder, helping her shrug off her pack. She sinks down with a soft exhale, wings loosening, tail curling in close as if the ground itself has invited her to rest.
I feel it too. A bone deep exhaustion that comes from not only exertion, but a constant alertness. The enduring threat thatsomething will go wrong with, if we’re lucky, barely a moment’s notice.
Korr plants his feet and stares in all directions. Slow and methodical. I don’t think he’s so much searching for something specific as looking for anything that doesn’t belong. This is not vigilance sharpened to a blade. This is assessment.
“We’ll stay until the heat breaks,” he says. “Then we move again.”
I nod, because that’s easier than admitting relief.
We work without discussion. Packs down. Water rationed. Shade cloth strung low and tight between stone points that barely deserve the name. Illadon mirrors Korr’s efficiency with steady, quiet movements. Rverre watches for a moment, then curls in on herself, eyes fluttering shut.
I settle a short distance away, close enough to see them clearly, far enough not to crowd. My legs ache with the kind of deep, insistent pain that reminds me how long it’s been since I truly rested. I press my palm into the soft sand of the ground, feeling for something solid beneath the surface. I don’t press far before stone answers back.
Korr finishes his circuit and returns to the center of our small, fragile island of stillness. He crouches, draws a line in the sand with the toe of his boot, then another.
“Watch rotation,” he says.
“I’ll take first,” I say automatically.
“No,” he replies just as quickly.
“That wasn’t a suggestion,” I say, squinting up at him.
“Neither was mine.”
Illadon straightens, alert. “I can take?—”
“No,” Korr says again, less unkindly this time. “You rest now.”
Illadon hesitates, glancing at Rverre, then at me. I shake my head once, subtle but firm. Reluctantly, he settles back down beside her, one hand resting near her shoulder without touching.
Korr turns back to me. “You take second.”
“And you?” I ask.
“First and last.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. He’s already made the calculation. Pushing now would only turn this into something it doesn’t need to be.
“Fine,” I say. “But you wake me.”
His gaze flicks to mine, locking on, and a beat passes.
“I will,” he says.
He speaks with such certainty. As if he cannot fathom a maybe. It’s not if, it’s when. It’s will.
The suns climb higher, light sharpening, heat pressing in. Rverre slips fully into sleep, the tension draining from her small frame. Illadon’s eyes close soon after, though his posture never truly slackens. A guard even in rest. I envy them both.
Korr takes his place a short distance away, standing where he can see everything at once—children, terrain, horizon. I sit with my back to stone, watching him from the corner of my eye asmy body loosens its grip. This is the first time since leaving the canyon that rest feels… chosen.
I draw my cloak tighter, close my eyes, and let myself drift—not fully asleep, not fully awake—trusting, for the first time, that someone else is holding the line. And that may be the most dangerous thing I’ve done yet.
