I start pulling on my boot before he can say anything else, working the leather over the swelling with deliberate care. The pressure makes my vision flicker white at the edges, but I keep going. Stopping halfway would only make it worse.
Korr crouches in front of me, but doesn’t touch or reach out, only watching.
“It needs to be rewrapped,” he says.
“No,” I answer immediately.
His brow furrows. “It’s worse.”
“I said no.”
The word comes out sharper than I mean it to, edged with something defensive and ugly. I hate that he heard it. I hate more that he doesn’t react.
“We can adjust the support,” he says calmly. “It will reduce strain.”
“I can walk,” I say. “That’s what matters.”
“For how long?”
“As long as I have to.”
His gaze holds mine, steady and infuriatingly patient. He’s not angry. He’s not challenging me. He’s just… assessing.
That makes it harder.
“If we stop every time something hurts,” I say, lowering my voice, “we don’t move. And if we don’t move, the children pay for it.”
“That isn’t true,” he says.
“It is to me.”
The silence that follows is heavy with things I refuse to unpack. I finish lacing my boot, hands trembling slightly despite my bestefforts. I tuck that away too. Needing help is not an option nor is stopping.
I have built my life on endurance—on pushing past limits because someone always needed me to. Because children don’t get to wait while adults fall apart. Pain is just another responsibility. One more thing to carry quietly so no one else has to.
Korr straightens slowly, not taking his eyes off of my ankle.
“If it worsens?—”
“Then I’ll tell you,” I say.
It’s a lie. We both know it.
He shifts his gaze to mine and studies me for another long moment, then nods once. He doesn’t touch the wrap or force the issue and that restraint lands harder than his hands ever could.
I rise to my feet, keeping my expression neutral, my posture controlled. The pain flares, sharp and insistent, but I swallow it down and take a careful step forward.
See? Still standing. Still managing.
I don’t look at him as we start moving again, because I’m afraid of what might change if I do.
We move but it doesn’t take long for something to shift.
At first, it’s subtle enough that I try to ignore it—the way Rverre’s steps lose their rhythm, how her gaze keeps drifting sideways instead of forward. She doesn’t stumble or slow. She just… veers. Not enough to look intentional, but enough to be wrong.
Illadon notices before I do.
He adjusts quietly, easing closer, placing himself half a step to her side. When she drifts left, he drifts with her, gentle as gravity. Not correcting her or trying to command, following with his own form of devotion and care.
