Rverre’s voice is barely louder than the wind.
I open my eyes. She’s watching me, head tilted, expression thoughtful rather than accusing. Illadon sits close to her, his presence steady, grounding, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
She shrugs one wing, the motion small.
“You tell everyone else when to stop.” Her gaze flicks briefly to my ankle, then back to my face. “You don’t tell you.”
I open my mouth to respond—to explain, to deflect, to turn it into something manageable—but nothing comes. The words catch somewhere behind my ribs, tangled up with pain and pride and the knowledge that she isn’t wrong. She holds my gaze, steady and innocent.
I look away first.
Rverre doesn’t push, leaning back against the stone, eyes drifting shut as if she’s said what she needed to say and the rest is up to me.
The stars sharpen overhead. Night settles in quietly, indifferent to my plans and promises. I adjust my cloak, easing into a position that hurts a little less, and tell myself again that tomorrow will be better.
That I’ll walk it off. That this will pass. But sleep comes uneasy and thin, and beneath it all there’s a tight, waiting sense—like a fracture under pressure, invisible until the moment it finally gives.
Something is going to break. I just don’t know yet if it’s my body, my resolve… or something far harder to put back together.
16
KORR
Ishould not be watching her sleep.
That is the first line. I crossed it hours ago.
The camp is quiet in the way that comes after a hard day. No restless shifting or whispered voices, just the soft sighing of breath and fabric as bodies settle into what rest they can steal. Illadon sleeps curled protectively around Rverre, one arm loose but ready, instinct already written into his bones. She hums faintly in her sleep, a sound so low it feels more like vibration than noise.
Talia lies a short distance away, back against stone, ankle braced, posture controlled even in rest. As if sleep itself is something she doesn’t quite trust.
I tell myself I’m checking the perimeter, but it is a lie.
I crouch beside her slowly, careful not to disturb the sand or let stone scrape under my boots. She doesn’t stir. Her breathing is shallow but even. Exhaustion has claimed her deeper than she intended.
I look at her ankle. The swelling is worse. Not catastrophic, yet, but the skin is tight and the joint is slightly misshapen in a way that speaks of stress layered on stress. A fracture that is being asked to behave like it isn’t one. She re-wrapped it well enough. She always does thingswell enoughand never better than that, as if excellence might invite intervention.
I press my fingers lightly along the edge of the wrap, testing heat and resistance. She inhales sharply but doesn’t wake. Even in sleep, her body refuses to fully surrender. She will destroy herself before she asks for help.
Not out of pride alone—though there is plenty of that—but out of habit. Out of belief. Out of a quiet certainty that stopping is more dangerous than breaking. I recognize it because I lived it. Because it almost killed me.
Dragoste surges hard.
Not gentle or romantic, dominating. It hits like a warning bell driven straight into my bones—protect,now, before this becomes irreversible. I clamp down on it with force, jaw tightening, breath controlled.
No.
Control matters. Control is survival.
But the truth presses in anyway, relentless as the desert. Guarding the group means guarding her, not just the children.Her.
Even if she resents it. Even if she fights me. Even if it costs me the illusion that I can stand at a distance and call that safety.
I rewrap the ankle more carefully than before, adjusting tension, reinforcing support without waking her. My movements areprecise, restrained, professional. I give her no excuse to feel handled or claimed.
Still, my hands linger a fraction longer than necessary. And I hate that compromise that I cannot resist.
