The crowd quickly thins, but the heat in my chest doesn’t fade. My shoulder throbs where the shove landed, a bruise blooming beneath the skin. I hug the water jug closer—more for something to grip than because I need to.
No one looks at me. Not really. A few eyes flick my way, then dart off again. Better to forget the girl who thought she could stop grown men from tearing each other apart. Better to let Amara carry the weight.
Amara herself doesn’t spare me another glance. She’s striding toward another knot of survivors, barking orders about digging firepits deeper and lashing poles tighter. I don’t think she meantto cut me down—it’s just who she is. Brisk, efficient, forged hard by years of survival. A blade doesn’t pause to apologize when it slices.
Still, the sting settles deep.
I drop the jug beside one of the cooking fires. No one thanks me. No one ever does. My usefulness is measured in silence—the absence of thirst, the absence of hunger. When you’re young, you don’t get credit for carrying weight. You get ignored.
Movement near the edge of camp draws my attention, and I see Rosalind sitting cross-legged by a fire, with her hands folded in her lap. She’s an older woman, hair streaked with silver, but her posture is as straight and steady as it was in every story told about her. She cradles her child at her breast, but she doesn’t speak. She didn’t when Amara shouted or when I stumbled—not even now. But her eyes—sharp and steady—are on me.
I shift under the weight of her gaze, glancing around, assuming she must be looking at someone else, but when I look back, it’s clear she’s looking at me. For a heartbeat, I think she might call me over—ask me something, offer advice, or maybe scold me herself.
Instead, she just inclines her head. It’s slight, like she’s marking something down in a ledger only she can see. Then she looks down to her kid—one of the half-breeds, half Zmaj, half human—as it makes a noise.
A ripple of anger and frustration courses through me. I don’t need watchers. I don’t need more people deciding what I am or am not. What I need is a chance. Frustrated, I shake my head and look around for something else I can do to pull my weight, whether it’s appreciated or not.
The scarred Zmaj hasn’t moved from his place at the camp’s edge. He’s sharpening his blade with slow, steady strokes that hiss with each pass. His scars catch the fading light—jagged pinkish-white ridges against reddish scales. No one goes near him. Even the children steer wide, glancing nervously as if his scars might leap off and burn them.
I wonder why he stood so fast when they shoved me. Was he going to intervene? It’s nothing, I’m sure, but my stomach twists, remembering the weight of his stare before Amara cut across it.
The desert wind gusts, rattling the makeshift tents. It carries a smell I can’t place—dry and metallic, like stone dust and rust. My eyes follow the canyon edge. Far off, the rock formations rise like broken teeth, jagged and strange. For an instant, I think I see something glint—metal, maybe—catching the sun before it fades behind the cliffs.
I shiver, though the air is still hot.
Tomorrow, I’ll prove them wrong—Amara, Rosalind, all of them. I’ll show them I’m not just some girl who gets shoved aside. Tajss doesn’t care about age. Tajss doesn’t care about anything but survival. And I will survive.
Shaking my head, I go about my business, working until the suns are setting low and the camp quiets as shadows stretch long and sharp across the canyon floor. I make my way back to the spot I’ve claimed as mine, picking my way through the crackling fires, their smoke tugged away by the wind. Past the people huddling close and clutching their meager rations as they mutter among themselves.
At the far edge of it all, he’s there—sitting alone—the scarred Zmaj.
I wonder if he’s spoken a single word today. He crouches with his back to the cliff wall, legs folded, a long blade resting across his knees. He’s working something in his hands. I can’t tell what from here, but it looks intricate.
I shouldn’t watch him. Everyone else pretends he isn’t there. The younger children edge wide around him, whispering behind their hands. The older survivors glance once, then look away quickly, as if meeting his eyes might bring down his curse.
But I can’t help it.
The firelight catches the ridges carved across his face and chest—scars old and deep, some jagged like claws, others neat like blades. They’ve tried to heal, but Zmaj scales don’t mend smooth the way human skin does. His body wears the marks of battle, written into him like scripture.
When the fight broke out earlier, he almost intervened. His hand was on his weapon, his muscles coiled tight, and then—Amara stepped in. He stayed where he was, shoulders tense, as if the restraint cost him.
Now, in the hush after the storm, he’s still there, working on something. Watching him makes my skin prickle—not from fear but from something hotter, sharper.
Our eyes catch for the barest moment.
I expect him to look away, but he doesn’t. His gaze holds mine, unreadable, a weight pressing down until my breath catches. There’s nothing soft in it—no pity or kindness. But there’s no contempt either. Just… watching. Seeing.
It lasts a heartbeat. Two.
Then he turns back to the object in his hands, as if I don’t matter at all.
I exhale slowly, heart racing. I should be grateful. If Amara hadn’t stepped in, maybe he would have. Maybe he would’ve cut those men down without hesitation. Maybe that’s what he’s good for—violence, fear, and nothing more. But the way he almost moved lingers in my mind.
Not everyone ignores me. Not completely.
Night settles hard and fast on Tajss. The twin red suns sink below the horizon, leaving the canyon rim painted in bruised purple and deep shadow. I feed another twisted stick to the small fire that serves the group I sleep with, but I can’t sit still. The makeshift tent fabric feels like it’s pressing down on me, and the weight of Amara’s dismissal burns hot in my chest. I slip out, water jug abandoned, and wander to the canyon’s edge.
The land stretches vast before me, jagged cliffs stabbing toward the stars. Alien plants glow faintly in the dark—spines tipped with cold blue light, blossoms pulsing like the beat of a heart. I’ve never seen anything so strange, so alive. For an instant, I feel like the canyon itself is breathing, watching, waiting.
