The scarred warrior rises from his crouch, filling the space like a wall against the storm. He plants himself squarely in front of the gap, shoulders broad, body braced. His wings fold tight, sealing cracks I hadn’t even noticed were bleeding sand.
The wind howls harder, shrieking through the narrowest fissures. He leans into it—silent, immovable—and suddenly thespray cutting into my skin eases. The worst of the storm hammers against him, not me.
I blink through the grit, stunned. My blanket slips lower. The sand still stings, still grinds into my teeth, but less. Just enough less that I can breathe.
His eyes catch mine through the dim haze. Black, unreadable. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move except to hold the storm back. But in his silence I hear the truth clearer than words—I see you. I will not let this take you.
Heat prickles up my throat, not from fever or venom, but something much more dangerous. Feelings.
I look away quickly, dragging the blanket higher, but the memory of his gaze presses deeper than the grit. The storm rages on. The stones shake. The others mutter and cough and snarl. But in the press of bodies and dust, I feel the shape of his presence—unyielding, unbroken—and it keeps me upright.
Time stretches thin in the storm’s grip. I don’t know if minutes or hours scrape past. The shrieking never stops. The sand never stops. It pours through every seam in the stone, grinding against skin, coating tongues and teeth. My throat feels carved raw, my stomach a hollow knot that won’t unclench.
A sound breaks the rhythm. My belly growling. Loud.
Shame sears my cheeks hotter than the grit-sting. I curl my arms tight, blanket pulled higher, but it’s too late. The sound cuts through the storm, sharp as a blade.
Joran’s head jerks up. His face is streaked brown with sand-sweat paste, eyes rimmed red. He bares his teeth like a dog snapping for the last scrap.
“Figures,” he rasps, voice raw. “All noise and no use. Your knife nearly got us killed and for what? Not a mouthful of food to show for it.”
The words slice deeper than the storm. I open my mouth to snap back, but before I can, the younger Zmaj growls, wings flaring wide enough to knock grit loose from the walls.
“Watch your tongue, human.” His voice is rough but steady, stronger than mine would’ve been. His glare could burn holes straight through Joran.
Joran coughs, but spits grit between his boots, defiant.
“She’ll only slow us down. Same as you—wings don’t make you any less of a burden if you can’t bring meat.”
Harlan’s prayers stutter, falter, but he doesn’t speak. He just rocks harder, as if faster words will drown the fight out. The younger Zmaj leans forward, claws scraping stone. I feel the tension in the air rising—the snap about to come, only one wrong word away.
And then it breaks.
Not in shouts or blows, but in silence. The scarred warrior shifts.
He doesn’t stand, or raise his weapon. He doesn’t even speak. Only moves his head, black eyes cutting across us like the edge of a blade.
The storm still shrieks, the sand still pours, but in that gaze the fight dies before it can begin.
The younger Zmaj’s wings fold tight, his jaw clenching hard. Joran’s curses wither in his throat. Even Harlan’s muttering stills for a heartbeat, as if his prayers recognize a stronger will.
I sit frozen, every nerve buzzing. My heart slams hard against my ribs, not from fear but from the raw power in that silence.
Once more he commands without a word. The storm rages outside, but inside, his presence bends us all around it. And I realize—that it bends me too.
I blink and focus on breathing. I’ve been fighting the perceptions of others for so long that this shift inside myself is strange and uncomfortable. I drop my eyes, unable to continue looking at the scarred warrior, but the image of him is burned into my mind’s eye.
The rustle of his wings. The way his tail twitches as he narrows his eyes, tightens his jaw, not speaking, but able to command the respect and attention of all of us. The tightening sensation deep in my core. The wetness that I don’t want to admit to. I clench my eyes shut, exhale sharply, and pull my focus into the moment at hand.
The silence holds. Fragile. Thin.
Even Joran isn’t breaking it. He’s hunched down, coughing grit into his sleeve. The younger Zmaj curls his claws tight, jaw working. Harlan’s whispering stirs back up, quieter, like a stream trickling over stones.
The storm fills the rest.
The wind wails through the cracks, higher, thinner, until it’s less like air and more like a scream. Sand scrapes down the walls in steady sheets. It gathers in the folds of my blanket, works under my collar, fills my ears until I can’t tell if the sound comes from the storm or inside my own head.
I shift, pulling the cloth tighter over my mouth. The bandage on my arm chafes, grit grinding into the raw skin beneath, but it’s drowned in the bigger ache—my chest burning with every breath.
