His gaze stays forward. “I wasn’t always.”
That catches my attention.
“What changed?” I ask.
He exhales slowly, like he’s deciding how much ground to give.
“I learned that hesitation costs more than commitment,” he says. “Even when commitment is frightening.”
My chest tightens. The words too close to something I’ve been avoiding.
“And if you commit to the wrong thing?” I ask quietly.
He turns then, meeting my eyes. The firelight catches in his gaze, reflecting something steady and unyielding.
“Then you stand with it,” he says. “And make it right.”
The certainty in his voice is terrifying. I try to hold his gaze but I look away first. Because standing with something has never been my problem. Staying has.
I stare into the coals, watching tiny shapes dance. I see him in my peripheral. Watching. Waiting. I close my eyes, to shut him out. When I hear the scrape of his boot I open my eyes. He is on his feet, his back to me.
It pulls at me. Some invisible string tugging on parts of me that aren’t physical, but hurt as if they are. My mouth is dry. A pressure pounds in my head. I inhale and my breath trembles.
“When this is over… you won’t stay,” I whisper, the truth slipping free.
He stops dead. His shoulders tighten. He lowers his head so far his chin must be on his chest. The soft crackle of the flames blend with the gentle breathing of the children.
Say something. Damn it say… anything.
“You assume I leave because that’s safer than believing I won’t,” he says, not turning or looking back.
I choke on the words, leaning forward. Unsure how to respond. What to think, much less say. I raise my hand, move my mouth, but no sounds emerge. He steps away, moving into the shadows. His rich green skin blending with the night remarkably well.
“Ko—”
The ground rumbles, cutting me off. It’s not dramatic, but it is unmistakable. Dust rains down from the remnants of the ceiling. Grains of sand dance across the floor.
The rumble fades as quickly as it came, leaving a brittle silence in its wake.
Rverre stirs first, a sharp inhale as she wakes. Her wings flare, scraping softly against stone before she pulls them tight again. Illadon is on his feet in a heartbeat, already between her and the dark, posture alert and rigid.
“What was that?” he whispers.
Korr moves without hesitation, crossing the room in long, controlled strides. He doesn’t draw a weapon nor does he rush. He plants his boots wide and stills, listening with his whole body, as if the stone itself might speak again.
The building exhales.
It’s subtle. A settling sound. Metal shifting against stone somewhere below us. It’s not a collapse and probably not a quake, but it is a reminder.
“It’s adjusting,” Rverre murmurs, her voice. “It’s noticed us.”
Korr’s jaw tightens. “Then we don’t give it anything to react to.”
He gestures Illadon closer with two fingers. Quiet and efficient. Illadon obeys, guiding Rverre back toward the shelter of the inner wall. I push myself upright, ankle protesting sharply enough to draw a hiss from my throat. Korr’s head snaps toward me.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, the lie too practiced to stop.
He doesn’t argue. He’s already beside me, one hand hovering near my elbow without touching. Waiting. Letting me decide. That shouldn’t matter as much as it does.
