Aris’s first mistake is pretending she isn’t still dizzy.
I see it before she does—the way her hand presses to the caravan doorframe a heartbeat too long, the set of her shoulders like sheer willpower can override biology. Pride always moves first. Bodies follow later.
She steps down anyway.
Boots hit packed earth beside the Waystation line.
The world shifts under her.
Her breath catches—sharp, quiet, furious at itself. Her balance goes, knees folding like the oath-band at her wrist just tightened again.
She doesn’t fall.
Because I’m already there.
One arm circles her back. The other braces her at the waist. I don’t haul her up like she’s weak—I anchor her, absorbing the sway before it becomes a drop.
She exhales against my shoulder, warm and disoriented. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,
