Another faint tremor runs through the floor. Not enough to knock us off balance, but enough that the fire shifts, embers collapsing inward with a soft rush of sparks.
“That wasn’t here earlier,” Illadon says, scanning the fractured ceiling.
“No,” Korr agrees. “It wasn’t.”
The implication hangs heavy and unfinished. The same way our conversation does.
“We need to move further in,” Korr continues, already thinking in terms of angles and weight and lines of stress. “Away from open spans.”
I nod, even though part of me wants to protest. Not because he’s wrong, but because moving means breaking whatever fragile thread connects us. As he helps me up, his grip is careful, but when my weight shifts unexpectedly and I sway, his arm tightens around my back. It’s only long enough to steady me, but the contact sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with pain.
For a heartbeat, we’re too close. His breath warm against my hair. My fingers curl reflexively over his muscled arm. He freezes, just as I do. Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks.
Then Rverre lets out a soft, distressed sound.
“It doesn’t want you standing there,” she says, eyes unfocused. “It’s… sensitive.”
Korr exhales slowly and steps back, breaking the moment before it can turn into something neither of us is ready to survive. He lifts his chin, voice steady again, the commander returning like armor sliding back into place.
“Then we listen,” he says. “And we adapt.”
We shift deeper into the building, finding a pocket of space where the walls are thicker, the ceiling lower, the stone older and more stubborn. Korr rebuilds the fire, dampening it until it’s little more than a glow. Illadon settles beside Rverre, murmuring reassurance in a voice meant only for her.
And I sit there, wrapped in my cloak, heart pounding too hard for the quiet.
Korr takes his position near the broken doorway, silhouette framed by starlight and shadow. He doesn’t look back at me, but I still feel the echo of what almost passed between us. The truth he didn’t say. The truth I wasn’t ready to hear.
The building creaks softly around us, like something shifting in its sleep. And I know, with a certainty that sinks bone-deep, that whatever waits for us tomorrow, this place has already marked us. Not because we arrived, but because we almost told the truth.
24
TALIA
The fire dims to a patient ember-glow. Wind threads through broken corridors and stairwell, carrying the dry scent of stone and dust and something older beneath it. The kind of smell that only comes from places people once lived but was abandoned long ago.
Illadon and Rverre sleep close, curled into each other with the unselfconscious trust of youth. Rverre’s wings twitch occasionally, reacting to something she’s dreaming or sensing. Illadon’s arm tightens every time, instinctive, protective even in rest. I look away before the ache in my chest sharpens into something unmanageable.
My ankle throbs in slow pulses. Not enough to scream for attention. Just enough to remind me it’s there. That I am not what I was yesterday. I adjust my position carefully, easing the pressure, and draw my cloak tighter.
Korr doesn’t pace. He stands watch like a fixture, not restless or rigid, just present. Weight balanced. Attention stretched outward and inward at the same time. The city beyond is a fieldof shadows and angles, black against starlight. He watches it the way one watches deep water.
I try not to think about the way he stepped back earlier. How easily he did it. How much discipline that must have taken.
Time stretches. My thoughts loop whether I want them to or not.
When this is over, you won’t stay.
The words replay, quieter but no less sharp. I hadn’t planned to say them. They slipped out because exhaustion thins the walls you build around yourself. Because being carried strips you of illusions. Because Tajss doesn’t care about the lies you tell yourself to survive.
I hear the faint scrape of movement and look up.
Korr turns from the doorway, finally. He doesn’t come closer right away. He studies me the way he studies terrain, not invasive, but thorough. As if he’s mapping where not to step.
“You’re awake,” he says.
“Barely,” I reply. “You move too quietly.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. Just barely. “Habit.”
