“You can,” the younger Zmaj growls. “You will.”
The silence that follows is worse than shouting. Sand whispers over itself in the dunes, the wind moaning like a distant voice.
I look at Joran, pale and sweating. At Harlan, shaking and whispering prayers he doesn’t believe. Then at the younger Zmaj, defiant, strong despite his restless twitching. And finally at him.
The scarred warrior.
He hasn’t spoken once. When his eyes meet mine, everything in me settles, locking into the rightness of the decision. This is what he wanted me to see all along—that I had to choose. That I could choose. My throat is tight, but I nod.
“Take them back. Keep them alive.”
The younger Zmaj grunts, sharp and short, then crouches to haul Joran up by the good arm. Joran curses, screams, but the Zmaj’s grip is iron. Harlan scrambles to follow, torn between fear and obedience.
I step back as they pass, sand sliding around my boots. My chest aches as their shapes blur into the haze, each step dragging them farther until they’re gone.
The silence after is crushing. Only the wind remains. And him.
The scarred warrior turns his head, his gaze heavy on me. My heart kicks against my ribs. Alone. It’s just us now.
And somehow, despite the hunger clawing my stomach and the ache in my arm, that thought doesn’t terrify me.
It thrills.
18
KARA
My boots crunch over the sand in a steady rhythm. It’s the only sound for miles. No rushing wind, no storm to drown out our breathing, just the empty hush of dunes reshaped by the storm. The silence presses heavy, broken only when the sand shifts beneath us with a whispering sigh.
Every step hurts. My legs burn, my throat is raw, and my empty stomach is a throbbing ache. Hunger is no longer gnawing—it’s become a sharp emptiness, biting with every breath. My head swims, each blink too long, and I have to force myself forward.
He walks ahead of me, his stride even, deliberate, as if the desert itself bows to his pace. The scarred warrior doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t falter. The lochaber rests across his back like it belongs there, a natural extension of his body. His scars catch the thin light, pale ridges stark against crimson scales, every mark a story of survival carved into him.
I trip on loose sand, nearly pitching forward. Shame floods me hot, but before I can curse, I realize—he’s slowed. Just half a pace, almost nothing. Enough for me to find my footing withoutfalling behind. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t acknowledge it. Just adjusts, quiet as breath.
My throat tightens.
It’s not the first time. He’s been doing it since we left the skull—subtle shifts, small pauses, changes in stride so smooth I barely noticed them until now. He matches me without making it obvious. Without making me feel weak.
The realization lands heavy, sharp enough that I stumble again, this time from the weight inside my chest.
It’s not just that I want him to think well of me. That I want to prove myself in front of him. It’s more than that—deeper, more dangerous.
It’s that I need him.
The thought slices through me like a blade. I’ve never needed anyone’s approval. Not Amara’s, not Rosalind’s, not the humans who’ve dismissed me as “the girl” too many times to count. I’ve lived on the edges, unseen, ignored. I’ve always told myself it didn’t matter.
But his gaze—his silence—matters more than I can stand.
I drag in a breath, my lungs stinging with grit. My eyes burn, but I refuse to let tears rise. I won’t break, not here, not in front of him.
Ahead, the dunes swell like waves frozen in motion, crests sharp and ridges jagged from where the storm carved them. The horizon is a blur of reds and pale tans, the light thin through lingering dust. I squint, forcing myself to focus outward instead of inward.
But my eyes drift to him.
The breadth of his shoulders. The steady swing of his arms. The way the scars ladder down his back, each one a mark he carries without shame. Every detail of him presses into me, insistent as hunger, until I can’t look anywhere else.
And suddenly the emptiness inside isn’t just hunger. It’s something else, something sharper, twisting through me in a way that frightens me more than thirst ever could.
