Behind us, Joran curses again, kicking at the sand as if it’s insulted him personally. Harlan mutters louder, his prayers crowding the air. The younger Zmaj shifts restlessly, his wingsscraping bone. They’re all noise, all motion, but none of it matters.
What matters is the weight of his gaze. The way his hand lingers on the haft of his lochaber, ready to rise the instant danger returns. The way, in his stillness, he’s carved out a space that feels like safety.
The storm might be easing, but the world outside hasn’t changed. Hunger will gnaw us down to nothing. Predators will hunt the weak. The desert will grind us into bones just like these.
But for the first time, I truly believe I’m not facing it alone.
The others shift restlessly, but I stay still. Afraid that if I move, the moment might shatter.
The scarred warrior adjusts the strap across his chest, the lochaber settling against his back. His gaze flicks once more across the hollow, then back to me. For a heartbeat, it feels like there’s no storm, no bones, no others pressed too close in the dark—only the space between us, taut as a drawn bowstring.
Something twists low in my belly. Not hunger, not fear—something I don’t want to name. Something I can’t stop wanting.
He inclines his head, the barest gesture, and my chest tightens. I want to ask what it means. I want to demand the words he won’t say. But I bite them back, because the look in his eyes says enough. He sees me. He claims me without speaking. And, God help me, part of me wants to be his.
A cough shatters the stillness.
“Enough waiting. Storm’s easing. Time to get out of this damn grave,” Joran curses, and kicks at the drift piling around his boots.
The spell breaks. Harlan clutches his beads tighter, whispering something about mercy. The younger Zmaj straightens, wings twitching as he eyes the jagged crack of light ahead.
The scarred warrior turns toward the hollow’s mouth. His hand brushes my shoulder as he passes. Not rough, not even guiding—just there. Heat spreads across my skin from that one, simple contact. I clutch my blanket tighter, heart tripping as I rise to follow.
Sand crunches beneath our boots as we squeeze through the narrow opening. The wind doesn’t hit like before—it’s weaker, more a rasp than a scream. Still sharp, still stinging, but survivable.
And the world… the world has changed.
The canyon we knew is gone. Dunes roll where flat stone had been, piled high against walls stripped bare. Landmarks erased, paths swallowed. In their place, the storm has carved new shapes—ridges sharp as blades, hollows deep enough to swallow men whole.
The sky hangs heavy, pale with grit. Light filters thin(?),painting everything in muted gold. The air smells different too, metallic and raw, like the desert’s skin has been torn open.
Harlan makes a choked sound and drops to his knees, pressing his forehead into the sand. Joran just stares, jaw tight, eyes wide with something that isn’t quite fear and isn’t quite wonder. The younger Zmaj stands tense, wings half-furled, his tail lashing low against the sand.
I stand with the scarred warrior at my side. His hand brushes the haft of his weapon, his gaze sweeping the dunes, sharp and certain. The sight eases the twisting inside of me.
The world may have shifted under us, but with him here, I feel like I can stand on it anyway.
The scarred warrior moves ahead, his shoulders broad against the dim light. His lochaber rests across his back, the blade gleaming when the grit thins enough for the sun to pierce through. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t speak, but he places each step with the certainty of someone who knows I’ll follow.
And I do.
The wind gusts, and grit stings my cheeks. I stagger, nearly losing my footing, until his arm sweeps back without thought. He doesn’t touch me—just angles his body, breaking the gust, giving me a pocket of calm to steady myself. A small thing. Maybe nothing. Yet it sends a flush of heat through me stronger than the desert sun.
He doesn’t even pause, just keeps moving. But I can’t shake it. His constant awareness of me. Not coddling, not dismissing—simply… there.
The others trail behind in various states of misery. Joran curses every third step, muttering about sand in his boots, sand in his teeth, sand grinding his skin raw. Harlan stumbles more often than he walks, clutching the beads at his wrist and whispering prayers between gasps. The younger Zmaj keeps pace better, but even his wings sag with exhaustion.
I should be every bit as spent. And my legs do burn, my arm aches under its bandage, and hunger pulls my attention. Yet somehow, I feel lighter than I should. Like his presence bears weight for me. And that thought frightens me more than the storm ever could.
Because what happens if I let myself lean on him too much? What happens if he steps away?
The sand crunches underfoot, gritty and sharp, dragging me out of my head. I glance down, noticing how the drifts don’t lie smooth. They ripple, thin lines running across the surface as though something dragged itself through before us. My stomach tightens, and I glance at him.
He doesn’t slow or break stride, but I see the way his tail shifts, the tip twitching once against the sand. He’s noticed too. He notices everything.
I push my chin higher, refusing to falter. If he can keep walking into this remade desert without hesitation, then so can I.
Still, my pulse trips when his gaze sweeps back, landing on me for the briefest breath before sliding away again. Black, fathomless eyes, like polished stone. No words, no reassurance, yet somehow it feels like one.
