This is stupid.
I force my gaze to the horizon. To the sand. To anything but the quiet competence of him kneeling in front of me… from the idea of him worshipping me…
“You should have said something,” he murmurs, not looking up.
“I didn’t want to slow us down.”
His hands pause and he looks at me.
“This is not slowing us down,” he says. “This is how we keep moving.”
I swallow hard, knowing he’s right, but not wanting to accept I was wrong. He finishes the wrap, secures it, then presses his palm lightly against the outside of my ankle—testing, grounding. The contact is brief, but it sends a jolt straight up my spine.
“All right,” he says, rising smoothly. “We adjust pace. Shorter strides. No sudden turns.”
“I can manage,” I say automatically.
“I know,” he replies. “That does not mean you manage alone.”
I don’t have a response for that.
Illadon relaxes once Korr steps back. Rverre watches me with solemn attention, then nods once, as if filing the information away somewhere important.
We start moving again.
The pain is still there—persistent, unavoidable—but it’s contained now. Supported. And worse than that, I’m acutely aware of every step because I know he’s watching.
Not hovering.
Accounting.
As we walk, heat climbing and shadows stretching longer, one thought keeps circling, unwanted and impossible to ignore.
This wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t heroic. It was just… care.
And I have no idea what to do with it.
13
KORR
We move again.
She does not thank me twice. She does not test the wrap or comment on the pain. She simply adjusts—altering her stride, redistributing weight and accepting the limitation without complaint.
It should reassure me, but instead, it worries me that she is hiding pain. That she is trying to be strong for the children or for me or for some reason I do not comprehend.
I take point, putting distance between us under the excuse of vigilance. The desert stretches ahead in pale waves, broken only by scattered stone ribs that promise cover they will not keep. Wind slides across the sand in thin, needling currents. Nothing moves. Nothing announces itself.
I hate the openness. Danger can come from any danger. My shoulders are tight with tension as I try to look and be aware of everything. It is quiet and that is when the land is most dangerous.
Illadon keeps close to Rverre, his attention split between her footing and the horizon. He does not watch Talia, knowing he does not need to because he trusts that I will. And I do. Every step.
She is quieter than she has been. Not withdrawn, but focused. Her breathing stays even, but there is a tightness to her shoulders that was not there before. Pain, controlled, mixed with pride. I recognize it because I wore it for years.
“You will slow if it worsens,” I say without turning.
“I will,” she replies immediately.
