Her eyes sting. I see it and I see that she hates that I do.
“You undermined me,” she says again, more quietly now. “In front of the children. In front of him.”
“I protected them,” I correct. “Including you.”
Her voice cracks. Just barely. “I didn’t ask for that.”
“No,” I agree. “You wouldn’t.”
Silence stretches between us, sharp-edged and humming with everything she isn’t saying. Fear. Shame. The terror of being seen when you’ve built your entire life around not being. I don’t soften my stance. I’m not going to fold any longer.
“You don’t get to choose to break,” I say.
Her head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t get to decide that sacrificing yourself is acceptable,” I continue. “Not when it endangers the mission. Not when it puts the children at risk. And not when it forces others to carry the consequences.”
Her breath stutters. “So now I’m a liability.”
“You’re a responsibility,” I say.
The words hang heavy and irrevocable. She looks away first. Her shoulders draw inward, as if she’s bracing for something that never quite comes.
“This changes things,” she says finally.
“Yes,” I reply. “It does.”
She nods once, sharply. A decision clicking into place behind her eyes.
“Fine,” she says. “Then let’s be clear.”
I wait.
“You do not touch me again unless I ask,” she says. “You do not overrule me unless I am unconscious or the ground is actively swallowing us. And you do not mistake my endurance for permission.”
I meet her gaze.
“And you,” I say, “do not lie to me about your limits. You do not pretend pain is optional. And you do not confuse pride with survival.”
Another stretch of silence. Neither of us yields. The line is drawn.
She looks past me, toward where Illadon and Rverre wait, steadying herself. When she speaks again, her voice is level and very strictly controlled.
“Get them ready,” she says. “We move when the land allows it.”
I incline my head. Not in apology. In acknowledgment. We are no longer arguing about authority. We are negotiating terms of impact.
And whatever this is between us—whatever fault line just cracked open—it isn’t going to close again.
We stew with the consequences.
The land has gone still, but it is the wrong kind of stillness—the kind that waits for you to make the next mistake. Wind skims low over the sand, lifting grit in thin veils that never quite rise. The suns hang higher than I want them to, their light hardening.
Talia does not look at me.
She keeps her attention on the horizon, posture controlled, jaw set. Her ankle is braced, but I see the way her weight favors one side despite her discipline. She is calculating. Always calculating. How much pain she can absorb before it costs someone else.
Illadon crouches near Rverre, murmuring quietly to her, one hand resting close enough to steady without trapping. He watches Talia too, though he pretends not to. He understands more than he should.
