The scarred warrior lowers his stance, lochaber sliding free in one slow, steady motion. His dark eyes flick once to me, holding for a breath, saying everything without speaking.
Stay. Wait. Live.
Then his gaze turns back to the storm. The wind shrieks louder. The sand pours harder.
And the shadows move closer.
8
KARA
Sand lashes the rocks outside in furious waves. It’s a hiss, like boiling water—constant and endless. Wind pours through every crack in the spires, a shrill whistle that claws down my spine. My blanket does nothing; grit finds every gap, every seam, stinging my eyes, working into the bandage on my arm until the burn feels raw again.
I press my back tighter to the stone. It feels safer if I make myself smaller. Tucked in the corner, knees drawn up, I can almost believe the rock will swallow me whole and hide me.
Almost.
Because I hear it again. A scrape. Long. Slow. Deliberate.
My head jerks toward the sound. The scarred warrior fills the gap, lochaber angled across his back, his broad frame holding back the storm as if the canyon itself forged him. His eyes are steady, black and fathomless, scanning the grit-choked dark beyond.
He’s heard it too.
The younger Zmaj stiffens, wings twitching open before he forces them shut again. His tail slaps against the wall, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
“They’re here,” he mutters.
Joran snaps his head up, face pale under the grime.
“What? What do you mean, they?” His voice cracks like brittle wood.
“Shut it,” Harlan hisses, clutching his arms tighter around his knees. His lips move in prayer even as his wide eyes stay locked on the shifting shadows outside.
I squeeze the handle of my knife, my burned arm throbbing, but I don’t loosen my grip. The scrape comes again, closer this time. My stomach knots so hard it hurts.
The scarred warrior doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. But I see the shift—his shoulders roll back, claws flex once against the lochaber’s haft, a coiled patience like a predator waiting for its moment.
The storm masks everything. Sight. Smell. Sound. All I have are fragments—hulking shadows crawling through the grit, a guttural hiss swallowed by the gale, the flash of something pale and curved—horns? tusks?—before the storm swallows it whole.
My breath rasps loud in my throat. Too loud. I clamp my jaw shut, chest aching from the effort.
Another scrape. This one rattles through the stone at my back. The shelter itself seems to breathe with it, pulsing in time with something out there.
Joran curses under his breath, a choked, broken sound.
“We’re trapped. Gods, we’re trapped?—”
Harlan shoves an elbow into his ribs, harder than I’d expect from the quiet one.
“Shut up,” he snaps, voice rough with fear. His prayers fall away, replaced by silence more desperate than words.
The younger Zmaj leans forward, teeth bared, wings twitching hard enough that the cramped space shudders with every movement. He looks ready to throw himself straight into the storm, to meet whatever comes head-on.
But the scarred warrior shifts, just a fraction—enough to catch him in that obsidian stare. One look is all it takes. The younger Zmaj snarls low, but he doesn’t move. He stays put, coiled tight, chest heaving.
The message is clear even without words: hold.
My throat goes dry. My body screams to curl smaller, to vanish into the stone. But the knife digs into my palm, grounding me. If he can stand there, if he can stare into the storm unflinching, then so can I.
