Illadon hesitates just long enough for the choice to become visible then he nods.
“Right,” he says, and adjusts.
Korr doesn’t correct or speak up to reinforce his authority. Which somehow makes it worse. Because now this isn’t him taking over. It’s him being deferred to.
The decision settles around us like dust after a collapse. Quiet and final. No one acknowledging it aloud, but everyone registering the change. I swallow and look away, fixing my gaze on the horizon. The desert doesn’t care who leads. It’s patience is eternal, waiting to see who breaks first.
“I can walk,” I say, too abruptly.
Korr doesn’t look at me. “Not yet.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
His tone isn’t dismissive. It’s factual in a way that leaves no room for argument without turning me into the unreasonable one. Which makes it sting more. Illadon glances back again, concern flickering across his face.
“We can stop if?—”
“No,” I say immediately. “We keep moving.”
Illadon’s eyes flicker to Korr again before he nods. The sting of that is as sharp as any blade.
I shift in Korr’s arms, testing my balance, hating how natural it feels to be held like this. How some traitorous part of me has stopped bracing for the drop. The world is quietly adjusting around until the space I used to occupy doesn’t exist anymore.
I catch Illadon watching me, his expression carefully assessing. The same look I’ve taught him to use when figuring out a problem.
“I’m still here,” I say softly, more to myself than anyone else.
Korr’s grip tightens slightly, not claiming, more anchoring.
“I know,” he says.
And despite everything I believe him, because he isn’t erasing me. He’s carrying me forward. The problem is that I don’t know how to survive what it feels like that is costing me.
20
TALIA
Being carried changes how you read the land.
I don’t feel the stone through my feet anymore. I feel it through Korr’s body instead—the way his stride adjusts before the ground gives, the minute shifts of muscle and balance that tell me when a surface lies. He absorbs the terrain for both of us, translating it into motion I’m not choosing. That loss of feedback unsettles me more than the pain.
The stone plates ahead fracture, angled just enough to threaten ankles and momentum. Korr slows without comment, steps lengthening and shortening as needed. His grip doesn’t tighten, but it firms.
Rverre stops. Illadon halts instantly, hand hovering near her shoulder, his posture protective without being possessive. Korr stops two steps later.
“What is it?” he asks.
Rverre doesn’t answer right away. Her wings flex once, then still. Her gaze drifts sideways, tracking something I can’t see.
“It’s louder,” she says.
“Louder how?” I ask.
Rverre kneels, pressing her palm to the exposed stone. Her brow furrows, focus sharpening her features into something older than she should be allowed to be.
“Closer,” she says. Then, softer, “And paying attention.”
