The younger Zmaj crouches near the carcass, his claws dripping with blood. His chest heaves, wings trembling. He glares at mefirst, then at the scarred warrior, fury sparking behind his eyes, but he doesn’t speak.
The storm shrieks on.
I shift my weight, knife still ready, gaze locked on the gap the carcass no longer fills. The storm drives grit in steady streams. Beyond the haze, shapes still move.
We killed one, but not all.
The scarred warrior seems to sense it too. He plants his lochaber against the stone, scars catching the dim light, his dark eyes never leaving the storm.
The fight isn’t over. Not even close.
The beast lies half across the floor, its scaled bulk steaming in the cool draft that cuts through us. Blood pools black in the dim light, thick and sticky, seeping into the grit. The stink is overwhelming—metal and venom and something sharp, almost electric, that makes the back of my throat burn.
I can’t tear my eyes from it. My arm shakes harder, my burned skin screaming under the bandage, but I won’t let go. If I do, it will feel too much like surrender.
My chest heaves with ragged breaths. The fight lasted only moments, but it’s carved itself into me, raw and permanent. I still hear the shriek of its fangs snapping inches from my face. Still feel the way the scarred Zmaj’s presence filled the gap beside me, lochaber rising and falling in arcs of brutal precision.
We killed it together. I killed it too.
But the victory tastes like ash. Because outside, the storm shrieks louder than ever. And in the gaps between the gusts, Ihear the scrape of claws and the guttural hiss of more predators circling.
We aren’t safe. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Joran whimpers in the corner, his back pressed flat against the wall.
“Gods save us,” he repeats, over and over, his voice a cracked litany.
“Shut it,” Harlan snarls, but his own face is pale, his eyes wide and wild. His hands twist in the fabric of his cloak like he’s trying to wring a prayer out of it.
The younger Zmaj crouches near the carcass, claws dripping dark blood, wings trembling with restrained violence. His chest heaves like he’s run a league, his gaze sharp and angry. He doesn’t look at the dead beast for long. His glare slides straight to me, hot and sharp, then flicks to the scarred warrior standing steady at the gap.
Something dangerous burns in his eyes. Not just anger. Jealousy.
I press harder against the stone, forcing myself to breathe. My burned arm throbs with each heartbeat, but worse is the tight pull in my chest every time I risk a glance at him—the scarred warrior.
He hasn’t moved from his post by the entrance. His lochaber drips blood steady onto the stone, his stance unshaken, his gaze locked into the storm. He doesn’t flinch at the howling wind, the tearing sand, the shadows sliding outside. He is still. Solid.
A wall I want to lean against.
Heat rises under my skin, sharp and unwanted. My mouth is dry, my heart hammering too hard. I don’t know if it’s the fight, the storm, or him. Maybe all of it.
The younger Zmaj’s growl rumbles low, dragging my attention back.
“We can’t stay boxed in,” he snaps, voice sharp with frustration. “They’ll keep testing until they break through.”
“You want to go out there?” Joran asks, snapping his head up. His laugh is high and broken. “You’re mad.”
“Better mad than prey.” The younger Zmaj’s claws scrape sparks from the stone as he gestures with one hand.
The scarred warrior doesn’t turn or speak, but one subtle shift of his shoulders, one flicker of those black eyes, holds the younger Zmaj still. That silence says more than any order could.
I clutch my knife tighter until my fingers ache. The storm presses against the shelter in waves, sand tears through the cracks, assaulting exposed skin, piling into small drifts at our feet. My lungs burn with each breath of grit, but it isn’t the storm that makes my skin prickle. It’s the weight of the scarred warrior’s silence.
And then his gaze flicks to me, just for a heartbeat, and something hot twists low in my stomach. My chest tightens. My breath stumbles. Not pity. Not dismissal. Not even command. Something better, more. Darker.
My cheeks burn. I look away quickly, clutching my bandaged arm. My skin pulses under the cloth, venom burn throbbing in rhythm with my heartbeat. I can’t stop trembling, though I tell myself it’s only exhaustion.
The beast’s blood drips thick, each drop echoing in my ears. Joran mutters, Harlan’s lips move in frantic prayer, the younger Zmaj bristles like a caged predator. But all I feel is him—looming at the gap, scars catching the dim light, eyes unreadable, presence filling the cramped space like a second heartbeat.
