1
KARA
The wind comes down the canyon like a living thing, tugging at the makeshift tents and tearing smoke from the firepits. Cloth flaps, ropes strain, poles creak. All around me, the camp stirs in exhaustion and hunger. Children cry against their mothers’ shoulders. The wounded groan on the bare ground, the thin blankets we fled the tunnels with already fraying. The air smells of sweat, blood, and dust.
I balance a battered water jug against my hip and weave through the chaos, searching for a place to set it down. My muscles ache, but it’s the sight of people bickering over scraps that twists my gut tighter than thirst ever could.
“Give it here!” one man snarls, clutching a blanket against his chest like it’s gold.
“I found it first,” the other snaps back, yanking at the edge.
The cloth tears with a harsh rip, drawing the attention of everyone close. A circle forms quick as breath—people eager for distraction, or maybe just ready for someone else’s misery to eclipse their own.
“Stop it,” I say, pushing into the circle before I can think better of it. My heart is slamming hard, but I raise my chin and meet their glares. “We don’t have enough for fighting. Share it, or be cold together tonight.”
They don’t even pause before the bigger one sneers down at me.
“Stay out of this, girl.”
“I’m not a?—”
The shove catches me off balance. His palm hits my shoulder hard, sending me stumbling back on the loose rock. I nearly drop the jug. My cheeks burn hotter than the desert sun, shame and fury mixing until I want to scream.
As I catch myself, movement flickers at the edge of my vision, and I see the scarred Zmaj rising.
The Zmaj are native to this hellscape of a desert planet—massive and dragon-like, with their scales, wings, horns, tails… and muscles. All of them are built for this terrifying place.
This one I’ve seen often. He was crouched near an outer fire, sharpening a blade with deliberate strokes, but he straightens to his full, towering height. Sunlight carves shadows across the jagged marks that run from his jaw to his chest and over his body. His hand rests on the hilt of his lochaber over his shoulder—not drawn yet, but ready.
His gaze pins the men like a hawk locking on prey. For a heartbeat, I think he might strike without a word, but another shadow cuts through the crowd.
“Enough!” Amara’s voice cracks like a whip.
Amara. She was among the first of us to mate with the Zmaj after our generation ship crashed here on this planet we were never meant to be on, back when I was barely a child. She’s also one of the de facto leaders of the humans—by what right, I have no idea, just that she is. Probably her personality.
She’s all sharp edges and fire. She storms into the circle, braid swinging, eyes blazing. She seizes the first man by the collar, dragging him forward until his toes barely scrape the sand. The other doesn’t even get time to flinch before she shoves him flat on his back.
“You think the desert cares about your blanket?” she snarls. “It’ll strip the flesh from your bones just as quick—with or without it.”
No one dares laugh. No one dares move. The only sound is the crackle of the fire and the rasp of her breathing. Slowly, Amara releases her grip. The men stumble back, eyes down, chastened. She turns in a slow circle, daring anyone else to challenge her. None do.
Finally, her gaze cuts to me.
“And you—” She doesn’t soften, doesn’t slow. “Stay out of it, girl. You’ll get yourself killed.”
The words land like a slap. Not cruel, not mocking—just blunt, a dismissal from someone too busy keeping us alive to waste gentleness on pride.
I want to snap back, to scream that I’ve survived everything they have, that I’m not a child anymore. The words choke in my throat. Instead, my hands curl tight around the jug until my knuckles are white.
At the edge of the circle, the scarred Zmaj lowers himself back to his crouch. His hand slips from his weapon, the threat fading as silently as it came. His gaze lingers a moment—dark, unreadable—before he picks up the knife he dropped and resumes his work.
Trembling with barely suppressed rage, I look around, wishing for an ally but knowing I’m alone. Then I spot Rosalind farther back. She’s the Lady General—our leader—and though she doesn’t intervene or speak, I see how she follows every beat of the exchange.
Amara’s command, the men’s shame, my stumble, the warrior’s almost-step forward—her expression is calm, but there’s something sharp in it too, like she’s drawing lines or inferences none of us see. The crowd disperses. Life in the camp grinds on—hungry, weary, fearful—but my chest still heaves with the sting of embarrassment, of being shoved aside again.
Girl. Child. That’s all they see. Dismissed. Again.
I’m not a child, I vow silently, gritting my teeth. Not anymore. How long can anyone remain a child in this hell we call home?
