Harlan’s mutters grow louder, desperate. Joran tells him to shut it, but his voice shakes.
I look up once more. The twin suns are ghosts behind the gray, faint and blurred, their light smothered until they’re nothing but pale disks.
The scarred warrior never looks back, never breaks stride. I keep my eyes fixed on his back. My belly aches, my throat tastes of grit, but as long as he keeps walking, I will too.
By the time the suns sink, we’re staggering. Even Joran has stopped cursing, his voice rasped into silence. Harlan mutters prayers under his breath until his words slur into nothing. The younger Zmaj paces at the edges, restless wings twitching but too drained to lift.
The scarred warrior chooses the place to stop. He doesn’t say it—he never does—but he slows, then silently drops his pack and plants the lochaber upright in the sand. The rest of us follow suit.
We settle among jagged outcrops of stone that lean together like broken teeth. They block some of the wind, but not enough. Grit slithers through every crack, scouring skin, whispering acrossthe blankets we’re using as a thin shield. My teeth crunch with sand when I swallow.
We build no fire. There’s nothing to burn, and the light would only blind us in this strange half-dark. The sky hangs low and heavy, smothering the stars. I can barely make out the pale blur of the twin suns before they vanish entirely. Tajss has never looked like this, and the wrongness presses until I can hardly breathe.
Harlan drops to the ground, head in his hands. Joran stretches out on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes as though shutting it all out might change it. Neither says much. Hunger has stolen their words.
The younger Zmaj crouches near the rocks, wings hunched close. His tail lashes sand in sharp bursts, his gaze flicking constantly toward the canyon’s mouth. He’s young, yes, but it’s clear he feels it too.
I sit with my back to the stone, knees pulled to my chest, blanket tight around my shoulders. My stomach cramps, sharp and hollow. Every inhale tastes of dust.
And still, my gaze goes to him.
The scarred warrior sits opposite me, the lochaber resting across his knees. His head is tilted slightly, eyes narrowed, watching the horizon the way a predator does—unblinking, patient. He looks carved for this world, as if storms and hunger and endless stone were the forge that made him.
My chest tightens. I should look away, should close my eyes and pretend to sleep like the others. But I can’t. His silence pulls at me, steadier than any prayer, sharper than any threat.
The wind hisses louder through the canyon teeth, rattling the stone at our backs. Sand stings my cheek where it finds a gap in the blanket. I pull it tighter, but the sound doesn’t stop—the whisper of something building, stronger with every breath.
The younger Zmaj mutters low, his wings snapping open once before folding again.
“It’s coming.”
None of the humans answer. Even Joran, quick with his curses, keeps his face buried under his arm.
The scarred warrior lifts his gaze to the sky, and for the first time, I see something flicker in his eyes. Not fear. Anticipation.
The storm isn’t here yet, but it’s coming closer.
And when it comes, he’ll be ready. And, somehow, I’ll be ready too.
7
KARA
The wind shifts.
At first it’s a low whistle between the canyon teeth, weaving through the cracks of stone, sliding across my skin like a ghost—cool but thin, carrying dust that settles on my skin. But it’s growing stronger. Tugging at my clothes. Lifting my hair.
The younger Zmaj stiffens, wings twitching tight to his back. His eyes flick upward, searching the sky, though there’s no way he can see through the heavy gray.
“It’s coming,” he mutters, voice sharp.
I draw my blanket closer, but the gusts worry at it, tugging the fabric against my throat. Grit stings where it reaches skin, small needles biting even through cloth.
Harlan groans and curls tighter in on himself, muttering prayers. Joran shoves an elbow against his side with a growl.
“Shut it. You’ll curse us louder than the storm.”
Another gust whips through, stronger. Sand rattles down from the stone above, hissing as it sprays across the ground. My teeth grind against it when I swallow.
