We’re alive. For now. But the storm isn’t passing.
10
KARA
The beast’s carcass slumps heavy against the gap, wedged half into the shelter. Already the storm is burying it grain by grain, sand hissing over scales, piling into crevices. Every gust drives more grit through the cracks, sharp as thrown glass. The air scratches my lungs raw with every breath.
We’re jammed shoulder to shoulder, five bodies crammed in between stone in a space that feels smaller by the heartbeat. My knees ache from being drawn tight, my arm burns where the venom seared, but it’s not the pain that makes me shiver. It’s the storm.
It doesn’t just shriek outside—it presses in. The sound fills the narrow chamber, high and thin, like knives dragged across glass. Sand pours through the cracks in soft, steady streams, worming into clothes, teeth, hair. I taste it every time my tongue touches the roof of my mouth. I breathe it even when I try not to.
Joran hunches low beside me, spitting grit, wiping at his face with a sleeve already caked in dust. His curses are ragged, half-muttered, like he doesn’t want to admit how scared he is.
“We’re going to choke in here,” he repeats, louder and angrier, as though anger could bluff the storm into easing.
On my other side, Harlan rocks forward and back, lips moving quick. His prayers tumble one after the next, desperate beads on an unending string. I can’t hear the words over the wind, but I feel the cadence in his breath—fast, uneven, cracking at the edges. He clings to the rhythm like it’s a rope that will pull him through.
The younger Zmaj crouches near the gap, wings twitching against the stone with restless snaps. He mutters to himself in guttural tones, too low for me to understand. Once, his clawed hands flex, scraping grit from the floor as though he’d tear the storm itself apart if he could only get his fingers on it. His eyes burn when they cut toward the scarred warrior—defiance, frustration, a need to act that has nowhere to go.
And then there’s him.
The scarred Zmaj doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t curse or pray or pace. He doesn’t shake grit from his scars even as it gathers in pale ridges across crimson-edged scales. He sits braced at the gap, lochaber across his leg, back pressed into the stone like he’s part of it. The storm claws at all of us, but he stays rooted, steady, as if his silence alone could hold the shelter together.
I clutch my blanket tighter, pulling it up over my mouth in an attempt to block the sand, but it doesn’t help much. The grit finds every gap, stings every strip of bare skin. My arm throbs beneath its makeshift bandage, but it’s only one ache among dozens—hunger gnaws hollow, thirst rasps my throat, exhaustion presses lead into my bones.
Despite the storm, or perhaps because of it, I see the others clearer.
Joran’s curses aren’t just noise—they’re fear wearing the mask of anger. Harlan’s muttering isn’t just babble—it’s the only thing keeping him from breaking. The younger Zmaj’s restless fury isn’t aimed at me, not really—it’s his skin crawling at being trapped, wings and tail pinned when he was meant to run free.
I’ve been too focused on myself to notice. Too busy bristling at how they dismissed me, how they made me feel small. I never bothered to see them beyond the way they hemmed me in. Held me down.
But here, pressed into stone with the storm pouring itself down our throats, I see them unraveling. I see how fragile they are. And next to them—him.
The scarred warrior is silent, steady. Scars white against crimson. Black eyes fixed on the storm as if it’s something he’s already faced a hundred times before. His stillness fills the space like a wall against the wind, and for the first time, I realize how much I’ve been leaning on it.
The storm wants to grind us down to nothing. Joran curses it. Harlan begs it. The younger Zmaj tries to fight it.
But him? He just endures.
And caught between choices, with the sand seeping into my lungs and the grit stinging my skin, I find myself enduring too.
The storm isn’t easing, it’s building.
Wind screams sharper, higher, until the stone seems to vibrate with it. Sand hammers the outer wall in waves, sifting throughcracks in steady streams. The air grows thicker, grit swirling like smoke, catching in my lashes, burning the corners of my eyes.
I press my blanket over my mouth and nose, but every breath still tastes of sand and dust. My throat rasps raw. My tongue feels swollen, dry as bone.
Beside me, Joran hacks hard, spitting up mud-dark grit.
“We’re going to smother in here,” he gasps, face streaked with sand and sweat. His curses have lost their edge, ragged now, fraying at the ends.
Harlan rocks faster, prayers tumbling into nonsense, his voice barely more than a wheeze. His fingers dig so hard into his knees I think he’ll draw blood.
The younger Zmaj snarls low, wings scraping against the stone as he jerks upright. He wants to move, to fight, to do, but there’s nowhere to go. Every flap sends grit cascading down on us, making the air worse.
The space shrinks with every breath. My chest tightens, heat and dust pressing me into the rock. My arm burns when I shift to brace against the wall, but it’s swallowed in the larger ache of hunger, thirst, and fear clawing at me all at once.
A shadow moves in front of me.
