Time was the one thing he couldn’t give.
“I know,” he says, and it sounds like an apology even as he reaches for his bag. “That’s why I have to go.”
The memory blurs at the edges, dissolving back into heat and motion and the solid rise and fall of Korr’s chest beneath my cheek. My fingers curl reflexively into the leather at his shoulder, searching for purchase I don’t intend to take.
I don’t wake all at once.
Consciousness returns in layers—the ache in my ankle, the tight line of his arm at my back, the awareness of being held in a way that leaves no room for denial. My throat tightens.
This changes how the world treats me.
That thought surfaces fully formed and undeniable.
I am no longer moving under my own power. Routes will bend for me now. Pace will change. Decisions will be made with my limits in mind whether I want them to be or not. I open my eyes.
The desert stretches ahead, endless and indifferent. Illadon walks a short distance in front of us with Rverre, matching Korr’s pace without comment. No one looks back. No one stares.
This isn’t a spectacle; it’s reality. I swallow hard, tightening my jaw as I brace myself against the truth I don’t want to accept. That being carried isn’t what scares me, it’s how comfortable I am with it.
I don’t know exactly when it started. It wasn’t a particular moment or a look. Just a shift so slight I almost convince myself it’s nothing.
Illadon slows ahead of us where the sand thins into broken stone, scanning the ground the way Korr taught him to. He pauses, weighing two possible paths—one firmer, one shorter. Normally, he’d glance back at me for confirmation, but instead, his gaze flicks to Korr.
It’s barely a second. Korr doesn’t look at me. He studies the terrain, the angle of the sun, the way the wind curls against the rock. He lifts his chin a fraction.
“Left,” he says.
Illadon nods and adjusts course immediately.
My chest tightens. It isn’t defiance and it isn’t dismissal. It’s instinct — the kind that forms before thought, before loyalty, before intention can intervene. I swallow and force my voice steady.
“Right is firmer past the break,” I say. “Less slippage once we cross.”
Illadon stops and turns, eyes flicking between us, uncertainty rippling through him. It’s gone in a heartbeat, replaced by careful consideration. Korr doesn’t correct me. He doesn’t assert himself. He just waits while Illadon hesitates and that’s what hurts. It’s not the pause, but the fact that it exists at all. Finally, Illadon nods.
“Right,” he says, and adjusts again, cheeks flushing faintly as if he knows he’s crossed some invisible line without meaning to.
Korr shifts his grip slightly to compensate for the change in terrain. Still silent, steady, and still carrying me.
The desert stretches on, indifferent to the fracture blooming quietly between us. Illadon keeps walking, but something in his posture has changed. It’s not less respectful, only recalibrated. His awareness angles differently, attention tethered to Korr’s presence in a way that didn’t exist before, but I see it immediately.
This is how leadership moves when pressure is applied — not through argument, but gravity. And gravity has shifted. I press my fingers into the leather at Korr’s shoulder, grounding myself in sensation rather than thought. If I let this spiral, it will become something sharper than it needs to be.
This doesn’t change anything,I tell myself silently.
But even as I think it, I know it’s a lie. Korr isn’t replacing me. He’s becoming structural. And the most frightening part is that no one is wrong for letting it happen.
I try telling myself I’m imagining all of this. That the rhythm feels off because I’m higher than the ground, because my body isn’t doing what it’s used to doing. That being carried rewires perception in ways I don’t like, but it keeps happening.
Illadon slows again when the stone fractures into uneven plates. He doesn’t stop this time. He angles his body slightly, already anticipating a correction.
“Korr,” he says quietly.
It’s not a question. I inhale sharply through my nose.
“Two steps forward, then cut right,” I say before Korr can answer. “There’s a dip there that looks solid but isn’t.”
Illadon looks back at me. His brows knit, calculating. Korr doesn’t interrupt, which should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
