“You don’t get to—” she starts.
I meet her gaze and hold it.
“I do,” I say. “Because you are no longer a variable.”
That hits her. I feel it and see it on her face.
“You’re making this worse,” she mutters.
“No,” I reply evenly. “I’m making it survivable.”
Silence follows, thick and unmistakable. No one argues further. Illadon turns and begins walking. Rverre follows, casting one last glance back before focusing forward again. Talia exhales slowly, resignation threading through her anger.
“This isn’t fair,” she says quietly.
“No,” I agree. “It isn’t.”
I step forward, boots sinking into sand that no longer matters because I am carrying what does. This is the moment the line moves. Not because Tajss forced it. Because I did.
We don’t speak again until we’re safe.
That is the rule I live by. Words are useless when the ground is deciding whether it wants to kill you.
I carry her until the stone rises again and the sand loosens its grip, until the land stops shifting underfoot and Rverre’s breathing evens. Only then do I slow. Only then do I setTalia down—carefully, deliberately—against a slab of rock broad enough to shield us from the worst of the wind.
She doesn’t thank me. She doesn’t even meet my eyes. Her jaw is locked so tightly the muscle jumps beneath her skin.
Illadon moves Rverre a few paces away without being told. He knows better than to stay inside this space. The air between us is too charged, too brittle. Rverre looks back once, uncertainty flickering across her face, then allows Illadon to guide her out of earshot.
The moment they’re gone, Talia explodes.
“Howdareyou,” she snaps, voice low but shaking. “Do you have any idea what you just did?”
I remain standing, watching, and holding her eyes with mine.
“Yes.”
“You picked me up in front of them,” she says, gesturing sharply. “You stripped me of authority in one move. You made me look?—”
“Human,” I finish calmly.
Her eyes flash. “Weak.”
“No,” I say. “Injured.”
“That’s not the same thing to anyone who matters,” she fires back. Her hands tremble as she presses them against the stone at her sides. “I was handling it.”
“You were failing, quietly,” I reply.
The words land like a blow. She inhales sharply.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do,” I say, just as evenly as before. “Because you stopped deciding for yourself.”
Her laugh is short and humorless. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
“You hid pain,” I continue. “You adjusted pace without admitting why. You reframed damage as duty. That isn’t leadership. That’s erosion.”
