I stiffen, breath catching in my throat. The wind mutters, but this noise doesn’t belong to wind or shifting sand. It’s closer and definitely intentional.
The scarred warrior doesn’t pull his hand from mine yet. He stills completely, every muscle going sharp. His eyes flick past me, down toward the ribcage graveyard. The grip over my knuckles tightens once—just once—before he lets go and reaches for his lochaber.
The sudden absence of his touch is a hollow ache.
I look around. The ribs loom pale in the gloom, curving like the skeleton of a god. Nothing moves. The canyon looks as empty as it has since we stopped, but the sound comes again. A faint scraping of something dragging against bone. My heart stutters.
“It’s—” My voice breaks too sharp. I lower it to a whisper. “It’s close.”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His lochaber slides free with a low rasp, the blade catching the last glow of the pods in my lap. His shoulders shift, broad, coiled, ready.
I clutch the pouch tight, sticky fingers trembling. The sweetness in my mouth curdles bitter with fear. The graveyard stretches as far as I can see. Ribs and skulls jutting in chaotic arches, shadowed hollows yawning between them. I can’t tell where the sound comes from.
And then I see it. For a breath, only a flicker—a darker shape sliding between pale bone, low to the ground, too fluid for stone or wind. My stomach drops.
The younger Zmaj had been right. This place isn’t empty.
I glance over and see his jaw flex, eyes narrowing to slits, but he doesn’t strike or shout. He simply watches, lochaber poised, body angled between me and the hollow. Protecting.
The thing shifts again, deeper this time, a sighing scrape that sets the ribs vibrating. The canyon seems to hold its breath.
I can’t move. Can’t breathe. My knife is in my hand, but it feels small, laughable, against whatever prowls beneath those bones. His presence anchors me, silent and solid. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t falter. Just waits, steady as the desert itself.
The scrape fades into stillness. For a long, long moment, there’s nothing. Then—a sound. A low hiss, drawn out and deliberate, echoing through the hollow like a promise. My heart slams against my ribs.
He shifts closer, the cool brush of his scales barely grazing my sleeve, and lowers his head just enough that his breath stirs my hair. His voice rumbles low, barely more than a whisper, rough as stone dragged through sand.
“Not alone.”
The words sink deep, colder than the hiss.
21
KARA
Not alone.
The words hang heavier than the storm.
I clutch the pouch against my chest. The desert below stretches pale and silent, ribs jutting like broken towers. Nothing moves. Nothing breathes, but his voice rings in my ears, low and rough. I know better than to doubt it.
My knife feels useless in my hand, small and thin compared to the lochaber resting across his knees. He doesn’t lower it. Doesn’t blink. He stares into the hollow as though he can see what the shadows hide.
I try. My eyes burn, searching until spots dance across my vision. Nothing. Only stillness.
A bitter laugh whispers in my memory—Joran, scoffing at creaking bones, at wind and sand. I want to cling to that lie. Gods, I do. But Joran isn’t here. The scarred warrior is, and he doesn’t speak lightly.
The scrape echoes in my head, sharp as claws dragging stone.
I edge closer without thinking. I press against him, needing the steadiness of his body, the silence of his watch. He doesn’t move away.
His shoulder is solid against mine, cool scales rough under my sleeve. The weight of him steadies the shaking in my chest, though my breath still trembles. My fingers curl tight around the hilt of my knife, but it’s his presence that anchors me, not the blade.
The wind moans, pouring grit through the canyon, but here on this ledge it feels like another world entirely. A world with only two truths: something hunts us… and he will not let it take me.
His eyes flick down, the briefest glance at where our shoulders press together. Then he looks back out across the canyon, lochaber ready, body steady as carved stone. I follow his gaze, even though fear claws at my throat. If he’s not turning away, neither will I.
The silence stretches until my ears ring with it. My pulse hammers so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. And still, I lean closer.
