But the memory comes. His hands. Careful. Controlled. Too aware. The way he touched me, but didn’t take advantage.
That should be reassuring. It isn’t. It only makes everything messier.
I press my lips together and force my focus outward. The stone beneath us is cool, holding the last of the night chill. The wind has shifted, faint but steady, brushing grit across the sand in soft lines that erase yesterday’s certainty. Morning on Tajss never feels gentle, but this one, more than any other, feels… exposed.
I hate that I slept through part of it. I hate that I let someone else hold watch while I rested without meaning to. Worse—I hate that some part of me trusted him to and that’s the thought I shut down hardest.
Last night wasn’t intimacy. It was necessity. A stress fracture wrapped. A problem managed. That’s all. I tell myself that firmly, the way I tell children that a scraped knee isn’t the end of the world.
If I let it be more than that—if I let myself name the way my pulse jumped when he was close, the way awareness hummed under my skin long after he stepped back—I’ll want something I don’t have room for. Which is why I don’t look for him. Looking would be an admission.
Instead, I rise slowly, careful of my ankle, keeping my movements quiet. I take inventory. Water. Shade cloth. The angle of the suns. Control feels better when it’s something I can measure. Then I notice him.
Korr stands farther out, near a broken line of stone, posture already set for the day. Back to rock. Eyes on the horizon. Exactly where he should be. Exactly where he always places himself—close enough to intervene, far enough not to intrude.
Of course he is.
He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge that I’m awake. The distance feels deliberate, and the fact that I’m grateful for it makes my jaw tighten.
Good, I tell myself.This is better. This is how it should be.
Last night was circumstance. Today is movement. Progress. Distance.
If I keep it that way—if I keep my focus on the children, the terrain, the city that waits somewhere ahead—then I won’t have to examine the quieter truth settling uncomfortably in my chest. That the restraint scared me more than the touch ever could have.
I set my shoulders, draw a steady breath, and pack for the day, breaking camp without ceremony.
No one announces it. Korr doesn’t give the signal so much as allow motion to begin, and the rest of us follow like a body remembering how to breathe after a pause that went on too long. Illadon wakes Rverre with a soft murmur, their exchange soft and quiet. She stretches, wings flexing once before settling,then presses her palm to the ground like she’s checking in with something invisible.
I focus on my pack.
My ankle protests as soon as I put weight on it, but it’s not enough to make me stop. It is enough to make me aware of every step I take afterward. I adjust automatically—shorter stride, firmer placement, favoring stone where it breaks through the sand. If Korr notices, he doesn’t comment. Which almost irritates me, but I stop that, forcing myself to not think about it.
We set out with him in the lead, Illadon and Rverre between us, and me just behind. The spacing feels intentional in a way that makes my skin prickle. Protective, but not crowding. Like he’s accounting for my injury without turning it into a conversation.
I tell myself that’s good leadership. That it’s nothing more, means nothing. If only I could make myself believe it.
The desert wakes fast. Light sharpens. Heat creeps in under the skin, subtle but insistent, and the sand loses the cool forgiveness of night. Rverre hums as we walk, low and wandering, her attention turned inward. Illadon matches her pace, eyes flicking between her footing and the horizon.
Korr adjusts course by degrees—never abrupt, never announcing it—angling us toward a stretch where stone ribs break the surface more often. I follow without comment, even though part of me bristles at how natural it feels to trust his judgment right now.
That’s new and I don’t like it.
My ankle catches on a shallow dip. Not a stumble—just a wrong step. Pain flares, sharp enough to steal my breath for half a second before I force it down and manage to not slow.
“You favor it,” Illadon says quietly, falling back half a step so his voice doesn’t carry.
“I’m fine,” I reply automatically.
He gives me a look I recognize. The one children use when they know better but don’t want to push. He nods and turns his attention back to Rverre without comment.
We walk another stretch in silence. The suns climb higher, light flattening the landscape into glare and shadow. Sweat traces familiar paths down my spine. My ankle aches steadily, manageable, but persistent and impossible to ignore.
Korr slows.
Not much, but enough that the formation compresses slightly. Enough that I don’t have to push to keep pace. I stop short and glare at his back.
“You don’t need to—” I start.
