And then—something changes.
It takes me a moment to notice. Not less noise. More. A new note threading under the shriek. Low. Resonant. Too steady to be wind.
My head jerks up, heart hammering. I strain to listen, but the sound seems to come from everywhere at once—the stone, the sand, the very air. A deep vibration crawling through the storm’s scream, rising and falling like the draw of some great breath.
No one else reacts. Joran rubs grit from his eyes. Harlan rocks on. The younger Zmaj mutters under his breath. But the scarred warrior… he hears it too.
His black eyes cut to mine across the dim space. Just once. A flicker, but enough. He shifts his weight, hand resting deliberate on his lochaber.
The storm lashes harder, pouring sand in streams thick enough to sting bare skin. And beneath it, that undertone swells—closer, louder.
I lean forward despite myself, peering past the carcass wedged in the gap. The storm swirls sandy-gray, a living wall of grit and shadow. In its churn I see something move—heavier than air, slower than sand.
A mass. A shape. Vast, there and gone in the same heartbeat.
I suck in a sharp breath, and sand scours my teeth. The scarred warrior doesn’t look away. He shifts forward, lochaber rising.
And I know—whatever else hunts out there in the storm, this isn’t finished yet.
11
KARA
The stone walls tremble against each blast of wind, grit pouring through cracks like water through a sieve. My teeth grind on sand. My throat rasps raw with every breath. The carcass wedged across the gap bulges inward, scales shuddering under the weight pressing from outside.
A sound rises beneath the shriek of the storm—a low, bone-deep rumble. Each time it comes, the stone seems to flinch.
“We can’t stay,” Joran rasps. His face is streaked brown with sweat and grit. He spits into the sand and coughs until his whole body shakes. “The gods-cursed rock’s coming down.”
“Stay still,” Harlan mutters, eyes squeezed shut, voice quick and frantic. “Stillness will save us. Shelter will save us.”
His prayers tumble faster, louder, as if he can drown the storm out with sheer desperation. The younger Zmaj snaps his wings against the stone, restless energy clawing at the tight space.
“He’s right. The walls are cracking.” His eyes dart to the scarred warrior, sharp, demanding. “We can’t rot in here like prey waiting for slaughter.”
The scarred Zmaj hasn’t moved. His lochaber rests steady against his shoulder, eyes locked on the carcass that shudders harder with every gust. He’s like the rocks, except somehow steadier. Stronger. His scars tell the story of having survived worse than this, though I have no idea what those stories are.
I want to know. If we survive.
Suddenly the carcass tears.
A seam splits down its flank, grit pouring through like blood. The storm bellows through, blasting against us—a wall of sound and fury. The chamber shakes so hard I think it’ll crush us into rubble.
Harlan screams, folding over himself, prayer breaking into a sob.
The scarred warrior rises.
Not slow. Not hesitant. One moment crouched, the next braced tall, wings flaring to block the worst of the sand pouring through the gap. His head turns, just enough for his black eyes to catch mine.
Move.
No words. No gesture. Yet the meaning slams into me with all the force of the storm.
He hooks one arm around my waist and pulls me toward the gap. My feet stumble, legs weak, but his grip is steady. Behind usJoran curses, Harlan whimpers, the younger Zmaj snarls—but they follow. They have no choice.
The scarred warrior drives us into the storm.
Sand swallows me whole. It rips at my blanket, claws at my eyes, scours every inch of exposed skin, and shoves grit down my throat until I’m choking. The world is a tan-gray blur—no up or down, no sky or ground. The wind howls so loud it devours thought.
