Joran swears, shaking his head, but even he shuffles forward when the warrior steps inside. Harlan follows, half dragged by the younger Zmaj.
I stand a moment longer, staring up at the sockets, at the teeth like white spears stabbing into the sand. My stomach churns, dread and awe twisting together until I can’t tell one from the other.
Then I move. My boots sink deep into the sand at the base of the jaw. I duck beneath one massive tooth, cold bone slick under my fingers, and step into the dark.
Inside, the wind muffles. The sand dulls to a hiss. The storm is still out there, screaming through the desert—but here, in the hollow skull of a monster, we can breathe.
For now.
The storm dulls to a distant roar. Sand rattles through the cracks and eye sockets, spilling in fine streams that pool around our boots. The air smells strange—dry bone and dust, sharp with a mineral tang that sticks to my tongue.
We huddle together. Joran slumps against one jagged molar, still cursing under his breath. Harlan sinks to his knees and presses his forehead to the bone wall, prayers spilling out so quiet they sound like sobs. The younger Zmaj paces tight circles, wings and tail twitching, muttering that this is wrong, that the dead watch us from their hollow graves.
And me—I sit with my back against the curve of the jaw, blanket pulled tight, listening to the sand hissing outside. My stomach growls, raw and empty, but it’s the silence between heartbeats that claws at me most. The storm’s fury doesn’t reach us here, and without it, I hear too much. My own breath. My pulse. The rustle of his wings as the young Zmaj warrior moves. The scrape of his claws as he runs a hand over the bone.
The scarred warrior moves to the opening and kneels, broad shoulders blocking what little sand slips through the gap. He pulls his lochaber off his back and rests it across his knees, blade dark with dried blood. His gaze is fixed outward, steady, like he can hold back the storm itself by watching.
I tell myself to look away, to give him the same space the others do. But my eyes refuse the thought because I don’t really want to. I trace the ridges of his scars. Old wounds, healed rough, never hidden. He doesn’t shrink from them. He wears them like armor. I imagine a story that goes with each of them.
My burned arm throbs under the bandage. It will leave scars—scars of my own to mirror his. I lift it, fingers brushing the cloth, remembering the cool touch of his hand binding it tight. He hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t needed to. That touch was enough—rough but careful, the kind of strength that could crush but chose not to.
I wonder if he feels it too—this strange pull that’s been tugging at me since the canyon fight. That weight in his silence when his gaze lingers too long.
I shift, then stand and close the distance between us. I crouch next to him and clear my throat, the words dry before they even leave.
“You didn’t have to…” I trail off, unsure what I mean. Save me? Bind me? Carry the watch while I slept? All of it. None of it.
His eyes flick to me and then, slowly, he inclines his head. The same steady nod he gave at dawn, but heavier now, loaded with meaning I can’t quite name.
Heat crawls up my neck. My stomach twists in a way that has nothing to do with hunger. I clutch the blanket tighter, heart beating too fast for the stillness around us.
“We’ll be buried in here before the storm ends,” Joran groans, dragging a hand down his face.
The younger Zmaj snaps at him, sharp words I can’t catch. Harlan only rocks harder, whispering faster. Their fear presses close, thick as the bone walls. I look at him—scarred, silent, unmoving—and I feel something else. Not safety. Not exactly. But steadiness.
And for the first time, I wonder if what keeps me breathing in this storm is nothing more than my own stubbornness.
Outside, the storm screams, rattling the skull like a drum, but in here the sound thins to a low, steady moan. The warrior doesn’t say anything more, so I settle into staring out with him. He doesn’t look over or give any sign of admonishment, which is all I can go on. He seems to accept me here at his side. Besides, if nothing else, it feels right.
I stare until my eyes ache from looking too long into the dark. Every creak of bone, every whisper of sand spilling through the sockets makes my skin prickle.
Joran has gone quiet, his curses burning out into weary mutters. Harlan rocks with his head bowed, prayers slowing to hoarse fragments. Even the younger Zmaj has settled, crouched low with his wings folded tight, though his eyes keep darting toward the back of the skull as if something waits there.
I try to close mine, but the bone at my back is too cold. My arm throbs beneath the bandage. My chest won’t stop tightening. And every time I almost drift, I feel it—the scarred warrior’s presence. Not looming, not pressing, but a steady anchor. A weight against the storm, against the fear.
Then I hear something.
Not the storm. Not the rasp of sand or the breath of the others. A scrape. Slow. Deliberate. Bone on stone.
My eyes snap open. The sound comes again, faint but closer this time. A shift in the shadows deep in the skull’s hollow.
I freeze, breath caught. For a moment I tell myself it’s only sand spilling, or bone settling under its own weight. But the sound doesn’t match. Too slow. Too measured.
The younger Zmaj stiffens, wings twitching. His eyes flash toward the same darkness I’m staring into. He heard it too. Joran stirs, grumbling, but the scarred warrior is already moving—silent, deliberate, rising from his post at the mouth of the skull. Lochaber in hand. His black eyes glint as they catch mine.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.
The scrape comes again, louder this time. Not sand. Not storm. Something alive. Something waiting.
