My heart kicks harder, betraying me.
I try to fix my attention on the horizon, on the ragged ridges barely visible through the grit. But the truth curls hot in my chest. I want him to look again. I want him to see me, not just as someone surviving beside him but as someone worth standing with. Worth keeping.
The thought terrifies me. I shove it down, deeper than hunger, deeper than fear.
The dunes shift beneath our feet, rolling ridges groaning as the wind slides grit from their peaks. For a dizzy moment, it feels like the ground itself wants to swallow us.
And then Joran stumbles hard, his curse sharp enough to echo off the sand. He lurches sideways, boots skidding, and I spin toward him just as he disappears into a hollow carved beneath the drift. His scream tears the air raw.
“Joran!” Harlan shouts, stumbling forward. His voice cracks into panic, high and useless.
The younger Zmaj spreads his wings with a snap, grit spiraling around us, and lunges toward the hollow.
“Idiot!” he snarls, half to Joran, half to the storm.
I’m already moving. My boots skid in the shifting sand as I drop to my knees at the edge. The drift has collapsed into a shallow pit, its sides crumbling and sliding. Joran lies twisted at the bottom, his leg bent wrong—so wrong it makes my stomach twist. Bone presses sharp beneath the skin, the sight of it enough to make bile sting the back of my throat.
He thrashes, cursing, spitting sand. His eyes roll wild with terror, his hands clawing at the empty air.
“I’ve got you,” I say, the words rushing out before I think. My voice sounds thin, trembling, but I force it steady. I reach for him—hesitate, then press my hand to his shoulder, trying to still his thrashing. “Stop moving. You’ll make it worse.”
“Worse?” His laugh is a broken bark. “It’s already ruined! Damn sand, damn bones—get me out!”
Harlan hovers at my back, muttering prayers louder, like they’ll stitch the bone together by sheer force of sound. The younger Zmaj crouches low, wings folded tight, eyes flicking between Joran’s twisted leg and the scarred warrior who looms above us all.
Because he’s there, of course. Silent, steady, black eyes fixed on the injury. He doesn’t flinch at the sight. Doesn’t rush forward. He watches, measuring.
I meet his gaze, heart pounding, waiting for him to speak, to decide, but he doesn’t. He leaves it hanging there—for me. My hands tremble as I slide one beneath Joran’s arm.
“Help me,” I snap, more to myself than anyone else.
The younger Zmaj moves quickly, bracing the other side, and together we haul him half upright. Joran screams, the sound raw enough to scrape my bones, and I grit my teeth against it.
The scarred warrior shifts at last, stepping forward. Not to comfort, not to scold—acting on my request. He crouches low, his massive shadow falling over all of us, and his hands move with slow, deliberate care.
He takes one of the blankets and uses his claws to tear long strips, efficient and sure. He binds Joran’s leg tight above the break. Each tug draws another curse, another scream, but he doesn’t pause or falter.
I can barely breathe; my chest is squeezed tight. When his arm brushes mine as he knots the bandage, something inside me calms. He looks up, both of us knowing that Joran will never walk like this.
Joran’s breath comes in ragged bursts, each one punctuated by a hiss of pain. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the grit-stung chill, sliding down through the dust caked to his skin. He clutches at me, fingers digging into my arm like claws, his eyes wide and wild.
“Don’t let him—” he pants, jerking his chin toward the scarred warrior, “don’t let him touch me. Lizard’ll finish what the sand started.”
His words burn hotter than the sun, but I don’t shake him off. I can’t. I press my hand over his, calming him.
“Seriously? He’s binding it so you don’t bleed inside yourself, idiot,” I mutter, but my voice is softer than I mean it to be.
Joran’s curses crumble into groans as the scarred warrior tightens the last knot, the makeshift splint holding the leg straighter. The Zmaj’s face doesn’t change, not even when the man’s spit lands near his wrist. He just ties the cloth, pulls once to test its hold, and sits back on his heels.
The younger Zmaj crouches low on the other side, his nostrils flaring, wings twitching in irritation. He mutters something in his own tongue, sharp consonants like snapped stone. His gaze flicks from the bound leg to the dunes ahead, then back again. He doesn’t need to say it aloud—the truth is pressing down on all of us.
Harlan drops to his knees, beads rattling, his muttered prayers rising faster, louder, almost frantic now.
“Mercy, mercy, mercy,” he chants, rocking as though the rhythm itself will hold the bone in place.
I shift back, sand grating beneath my boots, my stomach tight with more than hunger. The splint will keep Joran alive, but alive isn’t the same as moving. Alive isn’t the same as surviving out here, where every step counts.
I glance at the scarred warrior. He doesn’t speak. He might not waste words, but the weight in his eyes says enough. We can’t carry Joran and keep searching for food. We can’t do both.
