He shifts his stance, scans the horizon, then rises smoothly to his feet.
“We angle right,” he says. “Five degrees. Less give.”
That’s it. No commentary. No concern. No warning wrapped in control. Something inside me twists, sharp and unexpected.
I don’t know why that hurts more than being called out would have. Maybe because judgment I know how to handle. Judgment is familiar. It’s something I can push back against.
This—this quiet restraint, this deliberate choice not to touch what’s obviously there—feels like being seen and refused at the same time.
I swallow.
Say something.Now. About the pain. About last night. About how close I came to saying something I don’t even have language for yet.
I open my mouth. Pause, then close it.
What would I even say?
My ankle hurts more than I’m admitting. I don’t like how safe I felt when you were there. I don’t want to need anyone, and somehow that makes me angry at you.
None of that belongs in the open desert with children listening to the ground. So instead, I snap.
“You don’t have to keep adjusting the route,” I say, sharper than necessary. “The original line was fine.”
Korr turns his head just enough to glance at me. I don’t see any surprise or defense on his face or in his stance, only that same calm, steady presence.
“The ground changed,” he replies calmly.
“It always does,” I say. “That doesn’t mean we have to overcorrect every time it twitches.”
Illadon flicks a look between us, then pointedly returns his attention to Rverre. Smart kid.
Korr doesn’t argue, explain, or push back. He inclines his head once.
“We’ll hold this line, then.”
That’s it. No edge. No correction. No reminder that he’s right and I’m sore and human and being unfair. He accepts the snap like it weighs nothing.
And that—more than anything else today—angers me.
I turn away before my face can give me away, fixing my attention on the horizon, on the way heat shimmers and distance lies. My ankle throbs in quiet protest. My chest feels tight for reasons that have nothing to do with exertion.
We move again, the formation adjusting smoothly. I walk with my jaw clenched, irritation burning low and hot, knowing with uncomfortable clarity that I didn’t lash out because he challenged me—I lashed out because he didn’t.
Sand shifts. Stone ribs fade into scattered bones beneath our feet. The rhythm returns—measured, deliberate, survivable. I let myself believe that’s all this is. Temporary.
The thought settles into place with the weight of a decision. A rule. Something I can hold onto when my instincts start to drift where they shouldn’t.
This is a journey. The city is the goal. Everything else is… incidental.
Once we reach it—whateveritturns out to be—this tension will dissolve. The closeness. The near-misses. The way my awareness keeps slipping sideways toward things I refuse to name.
We’ll return. We always do.
I focus on the horizon, on the way the land folds and unfolds ahead of us. My ankle throbs in a steady, manageable rhythm. Not enough to stop me and not enough to matter.
I tell myself that too.
Korr walks just ahead, close enough that I could reach out if I wanted to. Close enough that the space between us feels intentional rather than accidental. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t crowd. Doesn’t slow unless the terrain demands it.
