Korr shifts his weight carefully and follows the route I named, every step deliberate, trusting the call even when it slows us. The ground holds. Not perfectly, but enough.
My throat tightens, and I hate it — hate the warmth behind my eyes, hate the way something fragile stirs where armor used to sit. Because he didn’t take over. He listened.
And worse — he stayed.
22
TALIA
The gentle rocking of being carried lulls me into a half-sleep. I try to stay alert, to keep my attention focused outward and close at the same time, but it’s impossible. The dry heat, the warmth of the wind, the endless sameness dull my senses.
The suns arc across the sky and we continue. One step, then another. The journey stretches on, interminable. I glance back to check on the children. They march side by side, Illadon half a step ahead of Rverre, alert and ready.
The connection between the two of them has always been clear. The first two hybrid babies. Close enough in age to be of a kind. Illadon is a natural leader, taking after both his mother and father. I’ve watched him come of age faster than any human child—faster than I was ever prepared for, even here on Tajss.
Watching them, the empty ache in my heart returns. That unending sense of loss I’ve learned to survive by ignoring. Pretending it doesn’t exist. That it doesn’t still hurt, all these years later.
Korr adjusts his arms, jarring me just enough to pull me out of the reverie. My arms shift instinctively around his neck. His shoulders are solid beneath my forearms, unyielding in a way that feels less like muscle and more like structure. Stone that walks. Stone that does not ask whether it should keep going.
He doesn’t apologize for the adjustment. He doesn’t comment at all. He simply settles me while continuing forward as if nothing has changed.
I tell myself that’s what bothers me. The quiet. The lack of commentary. The way he absorbs disruption and moves on.
But that isn’t the truth.
The truth is that he keeps showing up in the ways that count and never once asks me what it costs me to let him.
The desert stretches on, the same palette repeating until time feels slippery. Sand. Stone. Heat. Wind. The horizon wavers, distant and unreachable, like a promise that refuses to come closer no matter how long you stare at it.
I glance back again at the children, because that’s easier than looking inward.
They move well together. Not identical. Not mirrored. But attuned. Illadon watches the land the way Korr does, scanning ahead, while Rverre’s attention drifts outward and downward, fingers brushing stone when it appears, wings flexing when the air changes. They adjust to each other without conversation. A quiet negotiation of space and intent.
It shouldn’t surprise me. I’ve watched them grow into this.
Still, something twists in my chest.
They were never meant to be alone in this world. Neither of them. Even now—even here—they orbit each other naturally, like gravity was always going to pull them together. I swallow and look away.
That ache resurfaces, sharp and familiar. Not sudden grief, but the long, low thrum of something unresolved. A wanting that never learned how to soften. I tell myself it’s just exhaustion. The pain in my ankle. Anything but the truth.
Korr’s stride remains steady. No hesitation. No rushing. Just forward motion—relentless and patient.
I become acutely aware of how much of the world I’m no longer touching.
I don’t feel the subtle give of sand or the warning scrape of stone through my feet. I don’t feel the slope until his body compensates for it. The land reaches me secondhand now, filtered through muscle and instinct that are not my own.
It’s disorienting.
And worse—it’s effective.
My body relaxes despite myself. Not fully, but enough that my breath evens out. Enough that the constant vigilance I live with loosens its grip.
And I hate that part most of all.
If I let this become normal, I won’t know how to take myself back.
“Korr,” I say, quietly.
