Rverre blinks against the light, squinting up at the brightening sky. She breathes in slowly, then presses her bare palm to the ground as if checking in with something only she can hear.
“It changed,” she murmurs.
Korr turns toward her instantly. “How?”
“Closer,” she says after a pause, a small smile forming.
I tighten the strap on my pack and focus on practicalities—water levels, ration placement, the way the shade cloth folds into itself when we break it down. My body is stiff, my muscles reluctant after too little sleep, but the motion helps. It grounds me in the now instead of the echo of a sealed doors and words that never quite stop hurting.
“We’ll adjust our route,” Korr says. “The wind will turn by midday.”
I glance up despite myself. “You’re sure?”
He nods once. “The air is already pulling.”
I follow his gaze, scanning the horizon. At first, I see nothing but shimmer and distance. Then—subtle, almost imperceptible—I feel it. A faint pressure at my back.
“You’re right,” I say quietly.
Something flickers across his expression. As if this confirms something he’s been filing away since the moment we left the canyon. I don’t know how to read it so I look away.
We get moving and the terrain resists immediately. The sand is loose underfoot as the stone thins out. I fall into step without thinking, matching Korr’s pace instinctively, even though part of me bristles at how natural it feels. Illadon and Rverre walk just ahead of me, close but not touching, their silhouettes easy and familiar against the glare.
Rverre hums under her breath, a low, wandering sound that doesn’t have a melody so much as a direction. I’ve learned not to interrupt it. Whatever she’s doing, it keeps her calm.
“You’re favoring the left,” I say after a few minutes.
“Yes.”
“There’s a shallow ridge ahead,” I add. “If the wind comes up early, it’ll break there.”
Korr slows enough to look back at me.
“You see it,” he says.
“I do,” I say, sharper than I’d like.
I don’t like the way I respond but it feels like he’s questioning me and everything about him makes me feel a bit on edge. He considers, then shifts our line by a few degrees. Illadon adjustsimmediately. Rverre doesn’t even glance back. The change flows through the group like it was always meant to happen that way.
We walk in silence for a while after that, the kind that isn’t empty but shared. The suns climb higher, heat presses down with intent rather than suggestion. Sweat traces familiar paths down my spine, my hair damp against my neck, but the pace holds. Korr glances back once more, his eyes flicking to my gait, my posture. Assessing but now showing concern.
“I’ll tell you if I’m slowing,” I say, sharper than necessary.
“I know,” he replies calmly.
The irritation I was expecting doesn’t come, only a strange, hollow quiet where it should be. I look away, fixing my attention on Rverre as she pauses abruptly, wings twitching. She lifts her head, eyes unfocused.
“This way,” she says, pointing—not straight ahead, but slightly off, toward a shallow dip where the sand darkens.
Korr studies the line, then nods. I expect him to disagree or argue but doesn’t.
“We follow.”
Illadon doesn’t hesitate. Neither do I.
As we angle toward the new path, I realize something with a jolt that has nothing to do with the desert or the city or the children between us. I’m not watching Korr to see if he’ll fail. I’m watching him because some part of me expects him not to.
And that is the most dangerous shift of all.
