My throat goes dry. My knife feels small, fragile in my grip.
And in the hush between heartbeats, I realize—we aren’t alone in here.
14
KARA
The scrape echoes again, low and deliberate, dragging across the bone.
We all freeze.
Joran mutters something rough under his breath, but his voice cracks. He shoves his back harder against the wall as if bone will protect him from whatever’s coming from deeper in. Harlan whimpers, hands clamped over his ears, prayers spilling fast and broken, more plea than faith.
The younger Zmaj bristles, wings twitching, his eyes fixed on the hollow where the sound came from. His jaw tightens, teeth bared, a hiss shivering past them.
“It is here,” he whispers. “Something is here.”
My skin prickles all over, like ants crawling beneath it. My knife feels too small in my hand, blade slick from how tightly I’m gripping it. Fear coils in my gut, sharp and hot, but I can’t move. I can’t look away from that darkness, as if the hollow itself might blink back at me.
And then I feel him.
The scarred warrior is still at his post near the mouth of the skull, but facing inside. His lochaber in one clawed hand, ready and steady. His gaze doesn’t flicker. It’s fixed, sharp as flint, aimed at the hollow. He heard it too. He knows.
Our eyes catch across the dim. My pulse stutters. The steadiness in his black gaze cuts through the panic trying to crawl up my throat. It roots me in place, anchors me like nothing else could.
“It’s the storm. Just the storm. Bones settling, that’s all,” Joran swears. His laugh comes out high and thin, brittle as glass.
“No,” the younger Zmaj growls, eyes still locked on the hollow. “That sound was alive.”
Harlan rocks harder, mumbling, “Deliver us, deliver us, deliver us.”
The scrape fades. Silence pours in heavy, thicker than before. Only the storm outside fills the gaps, rattling sand through the sockets, whistling shrill through the cracks.
I want to breathe relief. I want to tell myself Joran is right, that the skull is just shifting under the gale. But the warrior’s gaze hasn’t moved. He’s still watching, muscles taut under the scars that stripe his chest and arms, his whole body coiled like a bowstring.
If he isn’t convinced, then neither am I.
My stomach twists. Fear claws sharp, but under it, something else sparks. If he can sit steady in the face of that scrape, so can I. I force my breath slowly, matching it to his—inhale, exhale, steady.
The silence holds. No more scrape. No hiss. No shift in the shadows.
Time crawls.
The storm outside hasn’t eased. If anything, it’s grown harsher, battering the skull in rolling waves, the sound deep and resonant, like being trapped inside a drum. Every gust rattles the walls, a groan shuddering through the ancient bone that makes my teeth ache.
We sit in silence except for the storm. No one wants to talk. No one wants to name what we all heard.
My stomach knots with hunger. The scrap of dried meat I chew doesn’t help—bitter, tough, tasteless. Harlan pushes his portion away after barely touching it, eyes sunken, lips still moving in quiet prayers. Joran takes both scraps, muttering about needing strength, though he doesn’t sound like he believes himself. The younger Zmaj doesn’t eat at all. He crouches near the hollow, eyes narrowed, wings twitching at every shift of sand.
I can’t stop glancing at the scarred warrior.
He hasn’t moved much since the scrape, though he’s bent his knees slightly, dropping to a ready crouch. His posture never slackens, not even when the rest of us fold into ourselves. His black eyes flick between the storm outside and the hollow behind us, sharp, measuring, unreadable.
I should look away. Staring at him feels dangerous, like touching fire. But I can’t stop.
The wound around my arm burns faintly under the pressure of the cloth. His hands did that—hands that could’ve crushed the bone in my wrist without effort, but instead wound the fabricwith care. His silence is unsettling, but more and more, it also steadies.
I shift closer without meaning to, blanket drawn tight, knees brushing the curve of his leg where we sit crowding together. Heat surges up my throat at the contact. He doesn’t look at me, but he also doesn’t move away, only shifts the lochaber across his lap, the movement slow and deliberate.
