Too quickly. I hear what she does not say:I won’t unless you force me.
I almost stop again. Almost turn back. Almost remind her that fractures worsen invisibly, that pain ignored becomes damage paid later.
Almost, but instead, I keep walking.
Control is survival. I cannot afford to make this about her. Or me. Or the way my hands lingered a fraction longer than necessary when I finished the wrap.
That was a mistake. The desert does not care about intention.
After a time, the heat presses harder. It rises from the sand in shimmering sheets. I adjust our path again, angling toward a low shelf of broken rock. Shade will be thin there, but the ground will hold better.
Talia follows without questioning me, but she is watching me the way I watch terrain — not for authority, but for pattern. When Islow, she slows. When I change angle, she adapts. She does not crowd me nor does she hang back.
She moves like someone who understands systems. That cuts into my thoughts, distracting. She’s able. Very much so.
I stop, raising a hand. Illadon halts instantly. Rverre steps close to him without being asked. Talia stops just behind my shoulder.
She’s close. Too close. I feel her heat through fabric and air. The bond of dragoste stirs, sharp and unwelcome, as if proximity is an invitation. I tighten my jaw and force my attention outward.
“There,” I say, pointing. “We rest briefly. Not long.”
She nods. “Understood.”
No argument which should ease the tension between us, but it does not.
As the others settle, I step away from her, creating space I do not need for any reason more than I cannot be so close to her. I scan the horizon while pretending not to listen to the soft sounds behind me — the shift of fabric, the quiet murmur of Rverre’s voice, the careful way Talia lowers herself to the stone.
She does not favor the injury when she sits. She hides it. I clench my fist and release it slowly. This is why I should not have touched her. This is why dragoste is a liability.
She does not ask for help. Does not look at me. She gives me nothing to react to yet my awareness keeps circling back, traitorous and persistent.
When I finally turn, she is watching me. Not accusing. Not inviting. Just… seeing.
Her gaze drops before mine can hold hers, but the moment holds anyway. Quiet, unresolved, and heavy with things neither of us is willing to name. We cannot afford this. The desert will not tolerate divided attention.
I turn away again, setting my stance toward the horizon, and make myself a wall between what follows and what waits ahead.
But the truth settles in my chest with unwelcome clarity: I did not just bind her ankle. I bound myself. And Tajss is not finished testing what that will cost us.
We rest just long enough for the heat to ease from punishing to survivable.
I mark the time by the angle of the suns and the way the wind shifts—subtle, inconsistent, trying to decide which direction it wants to betray us from. The stone beneath my boots is warm, holding the day’s memory. I don’t like that either.
Illadon keeps Rverre occupied with quiet conversation, his voice low, but steady. He gives her something to focus on that isn’t the land pulling at her attention. It’s a skill. One I didn’t have at his age. One I don’t have now.
Talia sits apart, weight angled carefully, ankle extended to keep pressure off it without making a display of pain. She thinks I don’t notice the way her fingers flex when she shifts. The controlled inhale she takes before standing again. I do. I notice everything.
“We move,” I say.
She rises without comment.
That should settle it, but it doesn’t. We fall back into formation, but I cannot ignore that something has changed. The rhythm isoff by a fraction. It’s barely perceptible, but it is enough that my instincts keep tripping over it. She lags half a step behind. Not much. Definitely not enough to justify stopping, but enough to matter.
I slow, matching her pace. She adjusts as annoyance flickers across her expression before she smooths it away.
“You don’t need to do that,” she says quietly.
“I do,” I reply.
