She laughs softly, breathless and a little bitter. “You were already doing that.”
“Yes,” I agree.
She looks at me then, really looks, and something unguarded flickers across her face. Not gratitude. Something more dangerous.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” she says quietly.
“I do,” I reply.
“That makes one of us.”
I straighten and step back, giving her space again before either of us crosses a line we won’t be able to retreat from.
Illadon watches from a careful distance, eyes sharp, but he says nothing. Rverre hums softly, the sound threading through the air like a held breath finally released. Talia tests her weight, cautiously. It holds.
She nods once. “Okay.”
I think that the word carries more trust than she means it to. I turn away before dragoste can surge again, moving to check perimeter and sightlines, grounding myself in stone and distance and duty. But the imprint of her ankle in my hands lingers—warm, real, impossible to forget.
This isn’t just about the city anymore. And if I don’t find a way to control what’s waking in me, I’m going to become a liability to the people I’ve sworn to protect.
I stop a distance from the others, staring across the darkening desert. Wide-open and empty. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and causes chill bumps to form on my arms. I hate this space. So open. So empty. So… dangerous.
Night settles without ceremony. No dramatic fall or sudden silence. Just the slow withdrawal of heat and the quiet rearranging of sound as the desert exhales. Stone cools. Wind thins. The stars sharpen overhead until the sky looks cut open. My eyes adjust to the darkness as I turn back to the others.
Illadon has begun making a camp and I assist him.
It’s a small camp with no fire or excess movement. We place the packs against the broken rock, tight shadowy shapes. Illadon and Rverre settle first, their proximity easy, practiced. She curls in toward him, wings tucked, tail looped carefully away from the stone. He adjusts his position without waking her, instinct guiding every shift.
Talia sits apart, closer to the rock face, ankle braced, posture controlled. I don’t comment as I take first watch again. Not because it’s my turn—because it is mine to take.
The desert changes at night. It does not become safer. It becomes honest. Distances flatten. Sounds carry. The ground remembers every step we took during the day and waits to see if we will be careless enough to repeat them.
I pace the perimeter slowly, widening and narrowing my awareness in practiced cycles. Nothing moves that shouldn’t. No shift in sand that signals approach. Wind direction stabilizes, finally committing to a steady drift from the west.
This is good, but still unease clings.
It isn’t the land. It’s her.
Talia shifts once, suppressing a hiss when her ankle reminds her of its presence. She freezes, as if movement itself were a failure. I don’t look at her right away. Giving her the dignity of privacy she clearly needs.
When I do glance over, her gaze is already on me and neither of us looks away.
“You should rest,” she says quietly.
“I am,” I reply.
She almost smiles at that. Almost.
“You don’t believe that.”
“No,” I admit.
Silence stretches again, but it isn’t sharp, it’s weighted. Considered.
“I won’t slow us down,” she says suddenly, too quickly. Defensive. Clearly an old habit.
“I know,” I say. “That isn’t what concerns me.”
