He doesn’t turn. “I know.”
“Then don’t.”
He turns then, just his head, eyes sharp but not confrontational.
“You’re compensating.”
“I can manage.”
“I’m sure you can.” He pauses, considering his words the way he considers terrain. “You shouldn’t have to.”
The quiet that follows feels heavier than any argument we’ve had so far. Rverre’s humming falters, then resumes, softer this time. Illadon shifts closer to her, instinctive and protective. I hate how much I want to snap back.
“I didn’t ask you to take responsibility for me,” I say instead, keeping my voice low.
“I didn’t,” he replies just as quietly. “I took responsibility for the pace.”
It’s infuriating. Reasonable. Hard to argue with without sounding petty.
We move again, the tension unresolved but contained. The ground firms beneath our feet as stone surfaces more frequently, and my stride evens out despite myself. I tell myself it’s the terrain. Not him. Ahead, Rverre slows, wings twitching. She lifts her head, eyes unfocused.
“It’s… closer,” she says.
Illadon stills. Korr raises a hand, halting us without urgency. I brace my weight carefully, grateful for the pause even as I resent needing it.
“How close?” Korr asks.
She tilts her head, listening. “Not today. But it’s watching.”
That word. Watching.
I don’t miss the way Korr’s shoulders tense. Or the way his attention sharpens, scanning angles and shadows that look empty to me. He nods once, decision already forming.
“We keep moving,” he says. “But tighter. No wandering.”
I open my mouth to comment, then close it. This isn’t the moment.
As we resume, he shifts position. Still in the lead, but angled so he can glance back without turning fully. The formation adjusts around that change without discussion. Efficient. Controlled.
Safe.
As the desert stretches on and the heat presses closer, one thought keeps circling no matter how hard I try to shove it aside: Distance was supposed to protect me. Instead, every step I take away from him makes me more aware of how much I’m already accounting for his presence—and how hard it’s becoming to pretend that doesn’t matter.
We pause only because the land insists.
Not a stop—just a hesitation as Korr slows near a shallow break in the stone where the sand thins enough to lie about how solid it really is. He lifts a hand, palm down. Illadon halts immediately. Rverre drifts closer to him without being told.
I stop a half step behind Korr and brace myself, shifting my weight carefully.
Pain flickers along my ankle. Not sharp or dramatic, but definitely present and persistent. A reminder that my body has opinions even when I’d rather it didn’t.
Korr crouches, pressing his palm to the ground, then scraping back sand until stone answers. He studies the surface, the angle of the exposure, the way the wind skims across it without comment.
What he doesn’t do is look at me.
I wait.
This is where he should say something. About my gait. About the way I favored my right side too long before correcting. About how my breathing changed when the ground dipped. He’s noticed all of it—I know he has, but he says nothing.
