The scarred warrior lifts his head, gaze fixed on the canyon’s mouth. His eyes narrow against the grit—unreadable, steady. He doesn’t flinch when the gusts buffet his broad frame. He simply waits.
The next breath of wind comes harder still, lifting the blanket from my shoulders. It flaps wildly while I clutch at it, tightening my grip and trying to hang on. My burned arm screams in pain as the grit works its way into the bandage. I hiss through my teeth, biting down on the sound.
The canyon groans around us. The walls funnel the wind until it wails high and shrill, a predator’s cry echoing in stone. Dust rises in coils, swirling before collapsing into drifts across the ground.
“This isn’t passing.” The younger Zmaj’s voice cuts over the roar, his wings snapping open, sand hissing across the membranes before he folds them again. His tail lashes sharp bursts against the stone. “It’s going to hit us.”
“You don’t know that—” Joran says, coughing into his sleeve and spitting grit.
Another gust drowns him out, ripping his words away. Sand whips across our shelter, biting into exposed skin. Even Harlan swears this time, clutching his cloak over his head.
The scarred warrior rises—slow, deliberate. The lochaber slides from his knees to his back in one smooth motion. He doesn’t speak, but his gaze shifts toward the jagged rocks at the canyon’s edge, where spires lean together. I look over there and see what he does.
Shelter.
He moves, and we move with him.
The storm builds around us as we stumble forward. Each gust comes harder than the last, dragging grit into our hair, our mouths, our eyes. The air is filled with fine dust and sand, making it thick and hard to breathe. My lungs burn with every inhale.
Harlan stumbles, nearly going to his knees. Joran yanks him up, cursing into the wind. The younger Zmaj snaps his wings wide to steady himself then shields the men as best he can, his eyes cutting toward every shadow as though something else might rise at any moment.
My legs tremble, but I keep my gaze fixed on the scarred warrior’s back. He strides into the gale unbowed, his frame a shadow carved out of the gray. For every gust that batters me sideways, his presence drags me forward.
The rocks loom closer—black shapes through the haze. Jagged spires claw toward the sky, cracks yawning between them. The scarred warrior stops, looking back and motioning. He stretches his arm, hooking it around my waist, pulling me in. He presses me into the narrowest gap. I push myself in as far as I can and crouch low. The rest follow, scrambling inside one by one.
The shelter is cramped, shoulders pressed to stone, knees drawn to chests. Wind pours through the cracks in shrill whistles, carrying sand that trickles across our faces and into our clothes. The scarred Zmaj blocks the gap with his body, his dark eyes locked on me, saying all that he needs to say with his gaze.
Joran coughs and spits, cursing between ragged breaths. Harlan mutters prayers, his words shaking harder with every gust. The younger Zmaj fills the gap that the other’s body doesn’t.
I sit with my back against the stone wall, blanket clutched tight, heart pounding. My bandaged arm burns, my stomach growls, but worse than hunger is this sense that we’re being hunted by the storm itself.
The gale howls louder, rattling the stone, pouring grit in steady streams until it feels like the canyon is filling with sand.
And then I hear it.
Not wind. Not sand. Something heavier. A scrape, slow and deliberate, unmistakable—claws dragging across stone.
The younger Zmaj stiffens, wings twitching wide before he forces them tight again. His eyes narrow, faintly reflecting in the gloom as he leans toward the gap.
I freeze, my blanket clutched so tight my knuckles ache. My heart slams so loud I swear it will give us away.
The scarred warrior doesn’t move from the entrance, his frame filling the gap like a wall. But I see the shift—the faint roll of muscle across his shoulders, the flex of one clawed hand near the haft of his lochaber. He’s heard it too.
The sound comes again. Closer. A hiss this time, low and guttural, vibrating through the rock at my back.
Through the swirling grit outside, shapes move. At first they blur into the storm, but then one lifts its head. Horns catch the dim light, pale and sharp. Scales glint faint as lightning flickers across the sky—gone as quick as it came. Another shadow prowls behind it, shoulders rolling low, hulking and heavy.
Not the storm’s tricks. Not our fear.
Creatures.
Joran makes a strangled sound, half curse, half plea. Harlan clamps a hand over his mouth, muttering broken prayers against his knuckles.
The younger Zmaj growls, tail whipping hard against the stone.
“They’re coming in,” he says, his voice tight, sharp, nearly breaking.
My pulse hammers. I draw my knife, my burned arm flares with pain, but I don’t loosen my grip.
