But when I turn, the scarred warrior is awake. Still watching the hollow. His eyes find mine across the dim, and the flicker of hope stutters in my throat.
He doesn’t believe it’s over. And suddenly, neither do I.
The storm’s scream dulls, but the silence it leaves behind is worse. Joran stretches, groaning, his face gray with exhaustion.
“See? Told you. Nothing but wind and bones creaking. We’ll walk out of here once it clears. Back to camp. Back to real shelter.” His words stumble over themselves, too eager, like he’s convincing himself as much as us.
Harlan nods quickly, desperate. His lips twitch with prayers of thanks, though he hasn’t stopped rocking. He grips his beads so tight the cord cuts into his fingers.
The younger Zmaj doesn’t join them. He crouches by the wall, shoulders tight, wings twitching like they’re ready to snap open. His eyes flick from the hollow to the scarred warrior and back again. Not hope—never hope. He knows better.
So do I.
The air feels wrong. Sand trickles in thin streams, piling higher around our boots. My chest aches with every inhale; part of me isscreaming to believe Joran, to feel the relief, but the wrongness presses harder than hunger, harder than exhaustion.
I look at him.
The scarred warrior hasn’t sat down. He hasn’t slept. He shifts his weight, broad shoulders rolling once, and lifts the lochaber across his chest. The blade catches a flicker of pale light slipping into our shelter. Not flashy, not loud—just ready. Always ready.
The sight sends a prickle through me, sharp and cold.
If he doesn’t trust this quiet, then I shouldn’t either.
I pull my blanket tighter, fingers fisting in the rough weave, and feel my stomach twist. Part of me wants to laugh at Joran, to call him blind, but another part aches to cling to the lie he’s selling. To let myself believe it’s only storm and bone, that we’ll walk free when the sand settles.
But every time I meet the warrior’s eyes, I see the truth reflected back. He knows something is coming. I see it in every inch of him, sense it in the air myself.
The hollow feels smaller by the minute.
Four of us pressed shoulder to shoulder, knees drawn tight, every breath shared. The air is hot and dry. Every shift and sigh is magnified, grating against raw nerves. Sand rasps in through the cracks, coating us in grit. It gets everywhere—under nails, between teeth—and rubs skin raw.
“Couldn’t have found a worse hole. Bones and sand. Damn lizards,” Joran mutters, shoving at the sand with his boot, muttering a curse.
The younger Zmaj’s head snaps up, wings flaring half-open in a sharp snap. His nostrils flare, his pupils narrowing to slits.
“Mind your tongue.”
“Or what?” Joran spits, too loud in the close dark. “You’ll flap at me? Scare me with your stories? You’d all be nothing without?—”
“Enough.”
The scarred warrior’s voice cuts through, low and rough as stone grinding. Not the first time I’ve heard it, but rare enough that every syllable feels carved from silence. He doesn’t waste words, not when a single one carries the weight of command.
Joran shuts his mouth. His eyes still burn, but he looks down, gnawing his lip like a child caught out.
My heart stutters.
I can’t stop stealing glances. His scars look sharper in the shifting light, shadows carving hard lines across his jaw and throat. His eyes flick from Joran to the mouth of the hollow, never lingering, never soft, yet the weight of them presses against me all the same.
I pull my blanket tighter, hiding the shiver that isn’t from cold. My bandaged arm throbs, a dull ache, but it’s nothing compared to the twist in my chest.
I want him to look at me. To see me, not just as another burden to shield, but as someone worth standing at his side.
I catch myself before the thought fully blooms, clenching my teeth to bite it down. Foolish. Dangerous. He’s Zmaj, scarred and silent, carrying weight I can’t even begin to name. And I’m just… Kara.
Still, when his gaze sweeps past again, I sit straighter, trying not to flinch against the grit, trying to look like I’m not afraid. Trying to be someone he’ll remember. And inside the cramped dark, I can feel the ground shifting—not the sand beneath us, but the space between him and me.
The storm gnaws at the skull like it wants to rip us out piece by piece. Wind picks up, shrieking through the cracks, rising to a pitch that makes my teeth ache. Sand pours in steady streams, pooling at our boots, crawling higher every time I blink.
