Talia tries to stand. Her ankle folds instantly.
I catch her—not carefully this time, and not politely. My grip is firm, decisive, arms locking around her before she can argue or fall again. She stiffens, breath hitching, but doesn’t fight me.
“This is not heroics,” I say, voice low and tight. “This is damage.”
Her eyes flick past me to Rverre, already safe in Illadon’s arms. Relief loosens something in her chest enough for the pain to rush in fully. She exhales sharply, forehead dropping for a moment against my shoulder before she can stop herself.
That—that—is the moment everything shifts.
Because she didn’t choose me. She chose the child. And it cost her more than she can afford to keep paying. I hold her upright, unyielding now, and feel the truth settle hard and undeniable in my bones.
Tajss has spoken. And it has made the decision for us.
I do not hesitate.
Hesitation is how people die out here.
I shift my grip and lift her cleanly off the ground, one arm braced under her knees, the other locked around her back. Her weight settles against me like it belongs there, like my body already knows how to hold her without asking my mind for permission.
She inhales sharply. “Korr?—”
“No,” I cut in, already turning. “Do not.”
Her hands clutch instinctively at my shoulder, then still. I feel the tension in her frame, the reflexive fight to reclaim control, but the ankle has stolen that from her. I don’t soften my hold and don’t give her space to argue.
“Illadon,” I say, voice carrying without effort. “You take point with Rverre. Five body-lengths ahead. Watch the ground, not the horizon.”
He nods once, instantly compliant, shifting Rverre so her feet are steady before moving.
“Rverre,” I say next, lowering my tone without weakening it. “Listen forward, not down. Tell us if the land changes again.”
Her eyes flick to Talia—guilt, worry, connection—then back to me.
“Okay,” she says, small but clear.
“Talia,” I say her name last.
She looks at me, jaw set, eyes sharp with a dozen objections she’s already lining up.
“You are done walking,” I tell her. Not unkind, but definitely not negotiable.
“I can?—”
“No,” I repeat. “You cannot.”
Anger flashes. Pride. The instinct to be useful even when it hurts. I’ve seen it too many times to mistake it now.
“This is temporary,” she says tightly. “We can’t afford?—”
“We can’t afford you breaking completely,” I interrupt. “That is the only calculation.”
I adjust my grip, redistributing her weight so the strain leaves her ankle entirely. Her breath stutters despite herself. I feel how much effort she’s been spending pretending this isn’t happening.
The desert watches. Illadon watches. Rverre watches. Everyone sees it. I don’t lower my voice.
“We are changing formation,” I announce. “I carry her until the ground stabilizes or the pain does. We move slower. We choose stone. We stop when I say.”
Talia goes very still in my arms.
