I cling to the scarred warrior, broad shoulders cutting a path through the chaos. Without him, I’d be lost in a heartbeat.
Behind me, Joran hacks curses between coughs, every word ripped away by the wind. Harlan’s voice is gone entirely, just muffled sobs swallowed by the storm. The younger Zmaj shouts something, his words lost in the gale, his wings snapping open only to be battered back down.
We run blind, feet sinking in shifting sand, grit cutting skin, lungs screaming. Every step feels like it’ll be the one that swallows me whole.
The storm isn’t just around us—it’s inside us. Grinding us down, filling every hollow with grit until there’s nothing left but dust.
And through it all, the scarred warrior doesn’t slow. Doesn’t falter. His hand on me is the only thing real, the only thing solid in a world that’s been swallowed by sand.
12
KARA
Sand lashes my skin raw, scouring every exposed inch. My blanket is useless—ripped at, torn thin, grit pouring through until it’s just another weight dragging me down. Every breath tastes like dust and blood. My throat burns as if the storm has crawled inside to scour my insides too.
I stumble. My foot slips, sinking deep into shifting grit, knee buckling. The storm seizes me in that instant, shoving sideways and tearing me from the others. The world tilts, blurs, disappearing?—
A hand clamps around my waist.
The scarred warrior yanks me upright, one brutal tug that jerks the breath from my chest. His grip is iron, steady against the shrieking chaos. For a heartbeat I’m pressed flush against him, his scales rough, his silence heavier than the storm itself. His hand around my waist pulls me forward, half-dragging me back into the line of shadowed shapes stumbling through the grit.
I choke down air thick with sand. My lungs burn, tears streak mud down my cheeks. I hate that I nearly fell. I hate that I needed him to pull me up like some child too small to stand.
But more than hate, there is a hot coil of need curling low in my chest. A need to be worthy of that hand—to be someone who can keep pace with him instead of a burden dragging behind.
I square my shoulders, grit biting through cloth, and force my legs into motion. Each step sinks, drags, but I keep moving. Faster. Harder. If I fall again, it won’t be because I let the storm take me.
The scarred warrior doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. His hand leaves my waist, but the phantom of it lingers like a brand, keeping me upright.
I grit my teeth, vowing that next time, I won’t need saving.
The storm howls so loud that the world feels split apart, but through the grit I keep moving, feet sinking, legs screaming. The scarred warrior carves a path ahead, broad shoulders bent into the gale, his silhouette the only steady thing in the chaos.
Behind me, a shout rips through the wind. I jerk my head so fast that it wrenches my neck, just in time to see Joran stumble, dropping to his knees in the grit. Sand whirls over him in a wave, threatening to bury him alive. He hacks and chokes, his curses breaking into ragged coughs.
“Harlan—!” he calls, his voice shredded by the howling winds.
Harlan falters too, one hand pressed to his chest, eyes wild with panic. He staggers, blown by the gusts, nearly vanishing into the sandy-white blur.
Without thinking, I lunge for them. The storm slams me sideways, stealing half my breath, but I shove through. My knife is clutched tight in one hand, but I need the other free. I grab Joran by the collar, hauling him up. He fights me, cursing even as he coughs, but I don’t let go.
“Move!” I scream, the wind tearing the word from my throat. “Get up, damn it!”
I shove him forward and lurch for Harlan, fingers closing around his arm. He’s trembling, lips moving fast in prayer, eyes glazed with fear. Sand cakes his lashes, his lips, his beard. If I let go, the storm will take him. Silently cursing, I put my knife away and grab Joran’s collar.
I drag them both, step by punishing step, lungs burning. My wounded arm throbs, venom-scar screaming beneath the bandage, but I grit my teeth and pull harder.
Ahead, the scarred warrior glances back.
His black eyes lock with mine through the storm’s blur. For the space of a heartbeat, everything else falls away—the grit, the wind, the weight. His gaze is steady, cutting through chaos, and I know he sees.
Not weakness. Not failure. Not the girl dismissed and shoved aside.
He sees me dragging men twice my size through the teeth of the storm. He sees me refusing to fall.
Something twists in my chest, and warmth flushes over my skin. It’s not pride, not exactly. It’s fiercer. A need that burns worse than hunger—to keep that look on me. To hold it. To deserve it.
The storm surges, sand battering harder, but I square my shoulders and shove Joran and Harlan forward again.
