The city may be drawing closer, but so is something else. And it is becoming harder and harder to pretend they are not connected.
When we stop again it is because I say we do—but this time, I don’t justify it with heat, wind, or terrain. I justify it with her.
“There,” I say, indicating a shallow break in the stone ahead. Not shelter. Just enough curve to blunt the wind and give us ground that won’t shift under our weight. “We make camp.”
Talia opens her mouth then closes it without protesting. That alone tells me how close she is to the edge.
Illadon guides Rverre toward the lee of the stone, already moving with the efficiency of someone who understands whatthe body needs before the mind admits it. Rverre presses her palm to the rock, eyes unfocused, breathing slow.
“Still okay?” he asks.
She nods. “It’s… waiting.”
I don’t like that word any more now than I did the first time. Talia lowers herself carefully, too carefully, which raises my concern further.
“Your ankle,” I say.
She stiffens. “It’s nothing.”
It never is—until it is. I crouch in front of her before she can stand again, keeping my movements deliberate, unthreatening. I don’t touch her yet. I won’t unless she lets me.
“You didn’t fall,” I say. “But you twisted it. You cannot pretend that the stress fracture isn’t there.”
Her jaw tightens. “We can’t afford to stop.”
“We cannot afford for you not to walk tomorrow more,” I counter.
She exhales sharply and looks away, the fight draining out of her in a way that tells me she’s exhausted beyond pride whatever energy pride gives her.
“Fine,” she says. “But don’t make it a thing.”
I almost smile, but I stop myself. I want to care for her, to see to her needs, and in that it is a victory for me, but she would see it as gloating, not what I want.
When I take her boot off, I do it gently, careful of the angle, mindful of how human joints fail differently than mine. I remove the wrap to inspect how it is now. Her ankle is already swelling. Not too badly yet, but it’s there. I keep my grip light. Professional. Controlled.
And still—she inhales when my fingers brush her skin. I do not think it is in pain, but from awareness. Which hits me like a blade between the ribs.
I adjust my hold, giving her more space, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, her hands curl into the fabric of her cloak, knuckles pale, breath uneven.
“You don’t have to—” she starts.
“I know,” I say quietly. “But I will.”
I re-wrap the ankle firmly, supporting without restricting. Every pass of the cloth is measured. Purposeful. I focus on the task because if I don’t, I will notice the heat of her skin, the way her pulse jumps under my fingers, the way she’s watching me like she doesn’t trust herself not to react. She swallows.
“This is stupid,” she mutters. “It barely hurts.”
“Pain isn’t the problem,” I say. “Damage is.”
Her mouth twists. “You always talk like that?”
“Only when I care about outcomes.”
That shuts her up. I bow my head to the work, letting my hair fall over my face to hide my smile.
When I finish, I test the wrap once, careful not to press too hard. She winces—not sharply, but enough to confirm I wasn’t wrong.
“You’ll need to favor it,” I say. “I’ll adjust pace. Shorter stretches. More stone.”
