TALIA
We keep moving.
No one says it out loud, but Rverre’s words linger like grit caught between teeth. The ground doesn’t like it when you pull away. I tell myself she’s talking about footing, about balance, about how the desert resents hesitation. Anything but us.
The formation tightens anyway.
Not because Korr orders it, not because the terrain demands it outright, but because space has become inefficient. The wind pushes harder from behind us, warm and insistent, scouring the sand into shallow ripples that steal traction without warning. Every step costs more than it did a minute ago. Every breath feels a fraction too shallow.
I focus on the practical.
Counting steps and regulating breathing. Keeping Rverre in sight without hovering. Keeping Illadon from burning himself down by trying to be a shield instead of a child. I can do this. I’vedone harder things than walking through heat with unresolved tension snapping at my heels.
The desert disagrees.
The hum I’ve come to associate with movement—Rverre’s soft, wandering sound—fractures. It stutters once, then fades entirely. I notice it immediately. My shoulders tense before my mind catches up.
“Rverre?” I ask, keeping my voice light.
She doesn’t answer. Her steps haven’t slowed, but her wings twitch in small, uneven movements, like she’s adjusting to pressure I can’t feel. Illadon notices and shifts closer, but he doesn’t touch her.
Korr slows by half a step.
It’s subtle. Anyone else might miss it, but I don’t. His awareness sharpens, scanning not just the horizon now but the space between us. The silence stretches, thin and wrong.
“What is it?” I ask.
Rverre frowns, small brow creasing as she presses her palm briefly to the sand without stopping. The contact is quick, almost reflexive.
“It’s… confused,” she says finally.
Illadon glances at me. “Confused how?”
She shrugs one shoulder, frustrated. “Like when too many people talk at once. And no one listens.”
I swallow and look ahead, pretending the shimmer on the horizon is more interesting than the tightness in my chest. Theterrain hasn’t changed. The wind still comes from behind. By every rational metric, we’re fine.
And yet.
The desert feels closer. Not louder. Just… attentive.
Korr gestures with two fingers, signaling a slight adjustment in pace. Slower and more deliberate. I mirror it without comment, irritation flaring despite myself. Not because he’s wrong—but because part of me resents how easy it is to go into agreement with him.
We walk like this for several minutes, tension coiled and quiet. The children between us feel it even if they don’t name it. Illadon’s jaw is tight. Rverre keeps glancing down at the ground like she’s waiting for it to say something it hasn’t decided on yet.
I make a point of not looking at Korr.
If I do, I’ll have to acknowledge how close he’s stayed since the argument. Not touching, but just close enough that I don’t drift without meaning to. Close enough that the desert seems less eager to test me. And I hate that it makes me feel helpless and that I like it at the same time.
“You’re favoring the right now,” I say, breaking the silence before it can fracture into something worse.
“Yes,” he replies.
“No explanation,” I mutter.
“Not unless you ask,” he says.
I bite back a sharper response. This isn’t about winning ground. It’s about keeping it. For the children. For the fragile thread we’re already walking.
