For a moment, my breath catches. I swear his arm brushes mine, the faint scrape of scales against fabric, and I feel it like a jolt under my skin.
“She’s the reason we’re sitting in this cursed skull. Chasing after glowing fruit, stirring up things better left buried,” Joran grumbles, breaking the silence. His eyes are on me, sharp and mean. “It’s the reckless ones who doom the rest of us.”
My face burns. I want to snap back, but before the words can rise, the scarred warrior turns his head. His gaze locks on Joran. Nothing else—no words, no sound. Just that weight, black and fathomless.
Joran’s curses wither in his throat. He slumps back against the wall, still muttering, but quieter, his eyes sliding away. My pulse hammers. Not from Joran’s words, but from the way they were silenced. Not by me. By him.
A dangerous, forbidden thrill curls low in my chest. For once, someone chose my side. Without needing to be asked.
I can’t sit still anymore. The scrape still echoes in my head, sharper than the storm outside. Every nerve feels stretched tight, itching to move. Before I can stop myself, I rise. My knife feels small in my hand, but better than nothing.
“What are you doing?” Joran hisses. His voice cracks like he’s trying to keep it low and fails. “Sit down before you?—”
I cut him a sharp glare, hoping it’s enough to silence him, and for once, he shuts his mouth.
I step toward the hollow at the back of the skull. The air is cooler, thicker, carrying the faint smell of rot and wet sand. The shadows cling harder, shifting with the flicker of storm-light through the sockets.
Footsteps follow me. Slow. Heavy. My chest tightens, but when I glance back, it isn’t Joran or the younger Zmaj.
It’s him.
The scarred warrior moves without much sound, but his presence fills the space. He doesn’t take the lead, nor does he pull me back. Instead, he shadows close enough that I feel the brush of air when his wings shift.
I swallow hard, forcing my feet forward.
The hollow narrows quickly, the curve of bone sweeping low overhead until I have to duck. My free hand skims the wall. The surface is slick with a fine layer of grit, cold against my skin. Then my fingers catch on something.
Grooves.
Deep gouges cut into the bone, ragged and sharp. Not smooth like erosion. Not cracks from age. Something clawed this. Recently. The edges crumble under my touch, the grit still loose.
My stomach flips. My breath rushes out too fast, fogging in the cold air.
Movement flickers at the edge of my vision. I whip my head around, knife up—but nothing. Only shadows stretching where the light doesn’t reach.
I press my palm against the gouges, forcing my hand steady, forcing myself to face it. Fresh. This isn’t in my head.
He crouches beside me. His body moves like a shadow, scars catching faint light, claws tracing the gouges without touching. His black eyes follow the marks, narrowing. And then, finally, he speaks.
“Fresh.”
The word rolls low from his chest, deep and certain. It lands heavier than a speech. My pulse hammers, my mouth dry, but I nod, as if I’ve earned something by standing here with him in the dark.
For once, I don’t feel small.
We retreat from the hollow, step by step, the storm’s wail filling the silence we leave behind. My chest aches from holding my breath, my fingers locked so tight around the knife that my knuckles throb.
The others stare as we return. Joran’s eyes are wide, his mouth twisting like he wants to spit another curse but can’t find the words. Harlan mutters louder, rocking again. The younger Zmaj’s gaze darts between me and the scarred warrior, suspicion sharp as claws.
I don’t say anything. I don’t need to. The word he spoke still echoes in me—fresh. The truth is carved in the gouges on the bone. Something else is in here.
The scarred warrior takes his place again at the skull’s opening. He doesn’t sit this time. He stands, with the lochaber across his chest, weight balanced, his black eyes fixed not outside, into the storm, but back toward the hollow.
I sink down near him, pulling the blanket close, my knife still clutched in my hand. My arm burns under the bandage, but I don’t let it show. If he won’t falter, neither will I.
The storm rages harder, shrieking through the skull’s crown. Sand hisses in steady streams down the walls, piling higher, edging toward our boots. The sound drills into my bones, a constant scream that frays the edges of my mind.
And then—something beneath it.
