He flinches — not from fear, but surprise — and I immediately regret it. The edge drains out of me all at once, leaving something raw behind. Korr exhales slowly.
“You can fight me,” he says. “Or you can conserve strength. Those are your options.”
I swallow hard. My ankle pulses in time with my heartbeat, the pain no longer abstract or manageable. The desert looms ahead, indifferent and vast. The truth presses in from all sides. If he puts me down, I will keep going. If I keep going, I will make this worse. If I make this worse, the children pay.
The realization settles heavy and unavoidable. I close my eyes, just for a second.
“Don’t make this about obedience,” I say hoarsely. “Because I won’t forgive that.”
His grip doesn’t tighten or loosen.
“I’m not asking you to obey,” he says. “I’m asking you to survive.”
I open my eyes again.
Slowly, deliberately, I relax my grip. The resistance drains out of my body in a way that feels like defeat mixing with something else I don’t have language for yet.
“Fine,” I say. The word scrapes on the way out. “But this doesn’t mean you were right.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but something resembling respect.
“It means you chose,” he replies.
He adjusts his hold — subtly and carefully — redistributing my weight so the pressure eases from my ankle. The relief is immediate and humiliating in equal measure. I suck in a breath despite myself.
He starts walking and this time, I don’t fight it.
I stare out over the desert as it rolls toward us, heat shimmering, stone ribs cutting through sand like bones through skin. My pride aches worse than my ankle.
My heart pounds with something dangerously close to grief. Because somewhere between the argument and the surrender, something irreversible has happened. I can no longer pretend I don’t need him. And, worse somehow, Korr has stopped pretending he can let me break.
18
TALIA
The silence that follows is worse than the argument. Not so much because it’s awkward, but more because it’s settled.
Korr’s stride evens out after a few steps, long and deliberate, built for endurance rather than speed. He doesn’t rush and he doesn’t speak. That restraint is heavier than anything else he could have done.
The desert adjusts around us as I struggle, internally, to come to terms with my situation.
Illadon moves without being told, repositioning himself just off Korr’s left flank, eyes up, posture alert. Adapting to the new situation with ease. Rverre walks close on the other side, her gaze flicking between me and the horizon with an intensity that makes my chest tighten.
No one comments which might be the worst part.
I tell myself I’m angry and that I should be. My free will was overridden and now I’m being carried. A burden. Reduced to a problem with a solution instead of a voice with agency, and yet…
My ankle isn’t screaming anymore. The constant throb dulls to something manageable, something distant enough that I can think clearly again. My breathing comes without effort. My shoulders unclench, one muscle group at a time, like my body has decided the argument is over whether I agree or not.
I recognize it, but there is still a part of me that hates it. Hates the loss of control. The loss of self-determinism. I hate that most of all.
“You’re favoring the right,” I say, grasping for something neutral.
“Yes,” Korr replies.
“You’ll walk us into uneven ground.”
“No,” he says calmly. “I’ll keep you out of it.”
