The basin opens wider ahead, the sand smoothed into long, shallow ripples that catch the light in dull silver waves. Scattered stones dot the ground, half-buried, too evenly spaced to feel natural. The air tastes flat, like it’s been waiting too long.
Korr steps forward, then stops, as if the ground itself has pushed back.
“We don’t cross this yet,” he says.
I nod, relief threading through me even as unease tightens my spine. “Agreed.”
He turns to me then, fully, his expression carved into something careful and intent.
“This is where people make mistakes,” he says. “They rush because nothing is happening.”
I hold his gaze. “And you don’t?”
“No,” he says. “I slow.”
For a moment, the space between us hums—not with heat or tension, but with something deeper. Respect, maybe, or at least recognition.
Rverre takes a small step closer to Illadon, her fingers brushing his arm. He doesn’t look down at her, but his stance shifts subtly, putting himself between her and the open ground without blocking her view.
“We should skirt it,” I say. “See if the quiet follows.”
Korr considers, then nods. “Edge only. No deeper.”
We angle left, careful and deliberate, tracing the basin’s perimeter without committing to its center. The farther we move, the more the desert seems to… exhale. The air regains texture. The wind returns in faint, uncertain fingers. Rverre relaxes by degrees, her shoulders lowering, her wings loosening just a little.
“It doesn’t mind this,” Rverre says.
“That makes two of us,” I murmur.
We stop again when Korr lifts his hand—not sharp this time, but slow. Measured.
“Rest here,” he says. “Short. Then we move before the light shifts again.”
I sink down against a low stone, muscles trembling now that they’re allowed to. Illadon helps Rverre settle beside me, offering her water without comment. She drinks, then leans briefly into his shoulder, trusting in a way that both warms and terrifies me.
Korr stays standing, eyes never fully still.
I watch him from the corner of my eye, the set of his shoulders, the way his awareness stretches outward like a shield we can’t see but all feel. He catches my gaze and holds it—not challenging, but not soft either.
He’s grounded. Whatever waits ahead, we won’t stumble into it blind. And I let myself believe that might matter.
The light shifts while we rest.
The color of the sand deepens, the red-white flatness warming into something more deceptive. Heat gathers low, not pressing yet, just waiting for permission to assert itself.
“We move,” Korr says quietly.
No debate or hesitation. We rise with the smooth efficiency of people who’ve learned that stillness is temporary and comfort is conditional. Packs settle back into familiar places. Straps tightened. Water checked and rechecked.
I stand—and the pain hits.
Sharp. Sudden. White-hot enough that my breath stutters before I can stop it.
I clamp down on the reaction immediately, locking my jaw, forcing my weight evenly across both feet. I can handle pain. I’ve been handling it since before the crash, before Tajss ever decided we belonged to her.
But this isn’t new pain. This is the kind that’s been building quietly, ignored too long, now done with patience. Korr’s head turns. He doesn’t ask. He watches. And somehow that’s worse.
“Keep moving,” I say, already stepping forward.
