There’s no one to laugh if I’m wrong. No one to dismiss me. The choice is mine.
My stomach growls hard, hollow enough to hurt. I pull one of the pods free. Its skin is translucent, trembling faintly, sweet sap glistening along the seam. It looks like salvation. But it also looks like a trap.
I glance at him. He watches, black eyes unblinking, steady as stones. He won’t decide for me. He’s waiting—for me to stand, or to fall.
The pod is cold in my hand. My blade flashes once in the dim light.
I cut.
The skin splits, spilling thick, glowing pulp into my palm. The sweet, sharp scent floods the air, rich enough to make my mouth water. I swallow hard, lifting my gaze back to him.
His head tilts once, the faintest nod. Permission. Or faith.
I raise the pod to my lips.
And taste.
20
KARA
The pulp is cold against my tongue, sweet at first, then sharp. My throat works once, twice, each swallow layered with fear. I wait for the burn. For the hiss of poison. For my veins to light with fire the way they did when the predator’s venom laced my skin.
Nothing.
The sweetness lingers, thick and cloying, but no pain follows. No fire. My stomach clenches, waiting for revolt, but it only growls harder, hungry, desperate.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My knees go weak.
Behind me, Joran would’ve cracked some curse or laughed bitterly. Harlan would’ve prayed louder. The younger Zmaj would’ve muttered about signs and omens. But they’re not here. It’s only me and him.
The scarred warrior’s eyes are locked on me, steady, black, searching. Not impatient, not fearful. Just watching, as if he’d tear the canyon apart himself if the fruit betrayed me. I lick thelast of the pulp from my fingers. My chest still heaves, but relief threads through the fading terror.
“It’s safe,” I rasp, voice low, almost breaking. “It’s… food.”
For the first time, his jaw eases, just a fraction. A breath I didn’t hear him take escapes, slow, controlled. He reaches for one of the pods, claws careful as he cuts it open. He doesn’t taste it—he doesn’t need to. He trusts me.
The weight of that nearly undoes me.
My pulse races faster than when I’d thought I was about to die. Not from the fruit. From him. From the trust and from the way his silence wraps around me tighter than any words.
“Here,” I whisper, pushing the pouch toward him. My hand brushes his. Not by accident this time. I let it linger, the rough coolness of his scales a brand against my skin.
His gaze dips to where we touch, then lifts to mine. For a heartbeat the storm, the hunger, the desert surrounding us—all of it fades. It’s only his eyes on mine, black and endless, holding me still.
I should pull back. I don’t.
The pod has a faint glow, reflecting the clouded light of the moon, its pulp glistening like spilled starlight. My chest aches with how much I want this moment to last, to stretch until the suns rise and the storm dies and the world finally allows something good.
But it won’t. It never does.
A low groan rattles through the canyon, deep enough to vibrate in my teeth. Not storm. Not wind. Something else.
I freeze. His hand tenses over mine. His head turns toward the sound, eyes narrowing, sharp again. The sweetness turns bitter on my tongue.
We’re not alone.
Every muscle in my body is strung tight. The wind groans through the canyon, low and hollow, but nothing moves in the graveyard below. Ribs stretch upward like broken towers, pale arcs against the storm haze. No shifting shadows. No scrape of scales.
