Her fingers curl into the fabric at her knee. “Then what does?”
I choose my words carefully. Too much truth here would fracture something that hasn’t fully formed yet.
“You push past warning signs,” I say. “Including your own.”
She exhales slowly, staring out into the dark.
“If I stop every time something hurts, nothing gets done.”
“That’s how people break,” I reply.
“That’s how people survive,” she counters.
We are both right and I know it. Which is the problem.
A quiet sound drifts from Rverre. Illadon shifts, protective even in unconsciousness. The sight grounds me more than stone ever could.
“You don’t trust me,” Talia says, not accusation, an observation.
I turn and look at her.
“That is not true.”
She arches a brow. “You don’t trust yourself either.”
The words land cleanly, without anger or judgment. Nothing but clear and cutting insight. Dragoste stirs again, restless and unwelcome. I clamp down hard.
“You stand in places that change people,” I say instead. “That carries risk.”
“So does guarding the edges alone,” she replies softly.
I don’t have an answer so I grunt, the only response I can come up with. Anything else would summon the dragoste. Set it free and that I cannot allow. I shrug, nod, and turn back to my watch, letting my feet put what distance I can between us.
Silence reigns as the night deepens and the stars shift. Time passes without announcement. Eventually, her posture loosens. Not sleep—just rest. She leans her head back against the stone, eyes closed, breath evening out. I reposition slightly so I can see her and the horizon without moving again.
This is dangerous. Not because of the desert. Because I am beginning to measure my decisions around her presence instead of terrain alone. It’s truth and I accept it without flinching.
Tomorrow, the land will test us harder. The path will narrow. The listening will demand more than instinct. And I will have to decide whether guarding her means holding the line—or stepping closer to it than I ever intended.
For now, I stand watch. The desert waits. And so do I.
14
LIA
Iwake sore in places that shouldn’t ache this much.
Not the deep, earned soreness of a long march or a bad night’s sleep, but the tight, persistent kind that lingers under the skin. The kind that reminds you—quietly, relentlessly—that your body noticed something you’d rather it hadn’t.
My ankle throbs dully. Not sharp or enough to stop me from standing, but enough to be irritating. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and test it. The pain is manageable. I rotate it carefully, testing range, cataloging sensation the way I always do. It holds. It complains, but it holds. Good.
What I don’t like is how heavy my limbs feel. How slow my thoughts are to line up. I slept too deeply. That realization snaps me fully awake and I sit up at once, scanning our small camp, pulse spiking—not with fear, but with embarrassment.
The desert is already brightening, the air cooler but thinning fast. Rverre is curled near Illadon, both still asleep, their breathing slow and even. Packs sit where we left them with no signs of disturbance.
And Korr—is not in sight.
My shoulders loosen as relief flashes hot and sharp, followed instantly by irritation at myself for feeling it at all. Stubbornly I don’t look for him right away, busying my hands instead—tightening straps that don’t need tightening, flexing my ankle again as if the answering pain might change. Which it doesn’t.
