His gaze brushes over me, then moves away before I can accuse him of anything. Smart male. Annoyingly trainable.
The western rim bends ahead, dipping toward a broken ledge where two slabs lean together, trapping a strip of shade between them. It’s not a shelter and definitely not comfort. It’s shade. On Tajss, those are different things.
I angle toward it. Kavor follows without question, which makes my shoulders tight.
He should be harder to move. He is too large to follow so quietly. Too dangerous to listen so well. A wall with opinions should not become a shadow because I point.
We reach the ledge with first heat crawling at our backs.
The shade is narrow, low, and full of red dust. One slab angles far enough to block the first sun, but not the second when it climbs. The ground beneath it is dark stone, cracked but solid. I test it with my heel, then crouch before my knees can decide they want permission.
Kavor remains at the edge of the shade for a breath too long, staring out over the open basin. No. Not staring. Watching.
His wings sit tight again. His shoulders set as if the sky has weight. One claw rests near the stone slab beside him, close enough to touch but not touching. Then he steps under the leaning rock.
The change is small. His breath lowers. His tail stills. His wings ease by a fraction. I notice. He notices me noticing. Neither of us says anything. Good. Some things are easier when left in the dark with the rest of the crawling creatures.
“We stop here?” he asks.
“For now.”
“How long?”
“Until my shadow says leaving won’t cook us before the next rib.”
He looks at the ground.
“At your shadow?”
“At its angle. Mine moves honestly. Yours has wings and lies.”
His gaze drops to the broken shape of his own shadow, horned and winged and too large across the stone. Something plays across the corners of his mouth.
“Useful distinction,” he says.
“I’m full of them.”
“Yes.”
I look at him and his face is serious. I hate that too.
I loosen the strap across my chest and lower my pack between my knees. The eastern death list presses against the inside leather. The map presses beside it. Records. Names. Routes. Evidence of everyone who learned something too late.
No glow.
The thought slips in before I can stop it. I shove it away. Failed hope is a waste of water.
“Food,” Kavor says.
My hand freezes halfway to the pack flap. Of course he heard the tiny change in my breath when I crouched. Of course he saw the shake I hid by reaching for my pack. Of course he thinks the answer to everything is putting something in my mouth until I stop arguing.
“I’m checking the map.”
“After food.”
“We need to know the next route.”
“We know enough to eat.”
