I shake my head slightly.
“You’re not making a great case for yourself.”
No response, of course. I look at him, then at the path ahead. No good options. Just better ones. I step forward. Past him.
He falls in beside me, not crowding or touching, but close enough that I feel the space he’s holding. How it’s controlled, protective, and constant.
I don’t look at him. I don’t need to. Because now I know exactly what he’s doing. And whether I like it or not, I’m moving with him.
6
LEENA
The sand looks the same in every direction, but I know it isn’t.
I adjust my footing as the dune shifts, the surface gives just enough to force me to compensate with every step. Heat presses, relentless, turning the air thick and dry in my lungs. Behind me, the wind erases everything. Every step. Every mark. Every sign we were ever here. Erasing any hope of being found by those I know must be looking.
In front of me, nothing changes. Same rise. Same fall. Same endless stretch of gold and red that makes distance impossible to judge. I hate it. Hate that we’re going further and further from my people. From home.
“We’re going the wrong way.”
The words are sharp, but he doesn’t slow or even look back.
“Safe.”
I exhale hard through my nose.
“That’s not an answer.”
He shifts, adjusting his path by a few degrees. Not toward anything I can see. Just… different even though to me it looks the same.
“It’s not faster,” I press. “If we’re trying to get distance from the camp, we should be moving?—”
“Not fast.”
“What?” I blink.
He glances back briefly.
“Alive.”
He turns forward and keeps moving. I stare at his back for a second, irritation flaring toward anger before I force it down. He’s not arguing. He’s not explaining. He’s just deciding. I pick up my pace to keep up with him, adjusting my stride to match the uneven ground.
“This isn’t how you travel,” I mutter. “You don’t just—wander until something works.”
He changes direction again. Subtle, barely noticeable, but I see it. A slight angle off the ridge we were climbing. I look around but can’t see if he’s avoiding a drop or correcting for slope. Whatever it is, he’s choosing something else.
“Why did you just change direction?” I ask. No answer. Of course. I push forward, stepping up beside him instead of following him. “If there’s something out here I need to know about, you don’t get to just keep it to yourself.”
He stops so suddenly that I almost walk into him. My foot sinks into the sand as I catch myself, breath hitching from the abrupt halt.
“What—”
He tilts his head slightly, looking not at me, but past me. He’s listening. I freeze. Every line of his body tightens, not in panic, not in fear, but in focus so complete it’s almost visible. His attention narrows, locking onto something I can’t see, can’t hear, can’t feel.
The air doesn’t change. The ground doesn’t move. Everything looks exactly the same. And yet he’s not moving. At all.
“What is it?” I ask, quieter.
