The scrape comes again. Louder. Closer. A guttural hiss vibrates through the stone, so low my ribs rattle with it.
My pulse hammers. My burned arm throbs with each beat, but I don’t let go.
The scarred warrior lifts the lochaber from his back, the motion slow, precise, deliberate. The blade glints dull in the filtered light, steady as the hand that holds it. His gaze flicks once—just once—to me.
It holds. And in that silent beat, I understand.
This is no passing storm. No illusion. Something hunts us, using the storm for cover. And it’s almost here.
Not it. Not one. More than one. Heavy bodies moving through the grit, claws dragging furrows across the stone. Shapes slipping in and out of the swirling sand—low and hulking, horns curving pale in the flashes of dim light.
Joran makes a choked sound, dragging his knees up to his chest.
“There’s more,” he mutters, rocking once, twice, voice cracking high. “Gods, there’s more of them.”
“Shut it,” Harlan growls again, though his own knuckles are white where they clutch his blanket tight. His lips twitch like he wants to fall back into prayer, but the words won’t come.
The younger Zmaj snarls, low and sharp, his wings twitching hard enough that the membranes snap in the confined space.
“Let me out,” he hisses. “I’ll cut them down before they reach us.”
He shifts toward the gap, tail lashing, but before he can move farther, the scarred warrior’s arm shoots out, one clawed hand bracing against his chest. Not shoving. Just there. Solid as stone.
The younger Zmaj freezes, teeth bared. For a heartbeat I think he’ll fight it, but then his gaze meets the scarred warrior’s, and something in it—unspoken, immovable—snaps him still.
The growl dies in his throat. He stays crouched, chest heaving, fury twitching through every muscle, but he doesn’t move forward again.
The scarred warrior lowers his hand without a word. His lochaber stays raised, steady in his grip, the blade angled toward the shifting dark. His eyes narrow—not at the storm, but at whatever waits inside it.
A scrape rakes down the side of the spire. The stone shudders under my back. I flinch before I can stop myself, teeth clenched tight to choke down a sound.
The creatures circle. I can’t see them fully, but I feel them. Every hiss, every scrape of horn against rock, every rumble that vibrates through the stone—it all presses closer, suffocating. The storm should drown them out, but somehow it doesn’t. It carries them instead, amplifies them, until the air inside the cramped shelter buzzes with their presence.
Joran squeezes his eyes shut. His lips move fast—too fast—a jumble of curses and broken pleas. Harlan elbows him again, harder this time.
“You’ll draw them in,” he hisses.
But I know better. They’re already here.
I shift the knife in my hand, my burned arm throbbing with the movement. Sand stings my face where it pours in through the cracks, filling the air with grit until every breath scrapes my lungs raw. My heartbeat is louder than the storm. Louder than everything.
“They’re coming in,” I whisper.
The younger Zmaj snaps his head toward me, eyes flashing bright. He doesn’t deny it. He knows.
Another motion, closer still. Shadows moving through the swirling wall of sand and dirt. A guttural hiss follows—deep andguttural—vibrating through my bones. The stink of venom rises, sharp and acrid, burning my throat.
I clutch my knife tighter, knuckles white. My chest heaves. My body wants to curl tighter, smaller, vanish into the shadows—but I force myself to lean forward instead. If the scarred warrior holds the line, then I will too.
The motion comes again and sand bursts through the cracks, stinging my face.
Joran lets out a strangled cry. “It’s coming through?—”
The scarred warrior doesn’t even glance back. His shoulders shift, muscles coiling tight. He braces his stance, lochaber raised. Ready. Waiting.
His eyes flick to me. Just for a breath. And in them is an unspoken order. Steady. Hold.
I nod, my throat too tight to speak.
