I make it three strides before my ankle protests hard enough that my gait betrays me. Just a hitch. Barely there, but it’s enough.
“Stop,” Korr says.
“I’m fine.”
“Talia.”
The way he says my name—flat, grounded—cuts through my reflex to argue. I hate that it does.
“I said I’m fine,” I repeat, sharper now.
He steps closer, gaze flicking to my foot, then back to my face. “Sit.”
“No.”
His eyes narrow, not in anger, but focus. “This is not a negotiation.”
Illadon has already halted, Rverre hovering beside him, concern written plainly across her face. I hate that too.
I exhale slowly and lower myself onto a low outcrop of stone, every movement measured now that I’m no longer pretending. The relief of taking weight off it is immediate—and damning.
Korr crouches in front of me. Close. Too close.
His hands are large, scarred, steady. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t touch yet. He studies my ankle like it’s terrain—something to be read before acted on.
“How long?” he asks.
I look away. “It began yesterday.”
His jaw tightens. “You didn’t say anything.”
“It was mild and there was no point.”
“There is always a point.”
I don’t answer that.
He reaches for my boot, pauses just long enough for me to register the courtesy, then loosens it carefully. When his fingers brush my skin, heat flares—not pain this time, but somethingsharper, more disorienting. I inhale sharply before I can stop myself.
His eyes flick up instantly. “Hurts?”
“Yes,” I admit. “But it’s manageable.”
He doesn’t comment on that. He removes the boot completely, fingers firm but gentle as he tests the area above the ankle. The ache deepens, radiating upward, not sharp so much as insistent.
“Stress fracture,” he says after a moment. Not guessing. Knowing. “Small. But angry.”
I huff a humorless breath. “That sounds about right.”
“There is nothing to set,” he continues. “Nothing to fix.” His hands still, then resume with careful precision. “Only to support. And limit strain.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
He pulls a wrap from his pack and winds it around my ankle with practiced ease. His touch is deliberate, controlled, but not impersonal. Each pass is firm, anchoring, his thumb pressing just enough to check stability before moving on.
My thoughts scatter. Ridiculously so.
I’m overly aware of his hands. Of the heat of his skin. Of how close he is—close enough that I can see the fine dust caught in the ridges of his scars, the slow rise and fall of his breath. Close enough that my body reacts before my mind can catch up.
