A groan ripples through the graveyard, deeper than before. Not wind or sand. Something alive. The ribs tremble, sand and dust sifting from their pale arches.
My breath catches. My fingers tighten around the knife until the hilt digs into my palm. Beside me, he shifts—not in fear, but in readiness. The lochaber lifts, gleaming faint in the sunlight, angling toward the bones.
I keep searching and see only emptiness—sand trickling, shadows stretching. Then I see it.
A shape coils low between the ribs. Massive. Its scales shimmer faintly, mottled to blend with bone and sand. It moves with a slow, deliberate weight, dragging its bulk around the curve of a shattered skull.
My stomach flips.
The sound is worse than the sight—the scrape of its belly across stone, claws gouging furrows into the sand. A predator. Huge. Patient. Hunting.
My throat works, but no words come. Fear floods hot through my chest, but I don’t shrink back. I can’t. If I show weakness now, if I cower, I’ll lose everything I’ve fought to prove.
My grip steadies on the knife. I lean forward, ready. And then I feel him look at me.
I turn my head, pulse stuttering when our eyes meet. His gaze isn’t scornful or sharp with doubt. It’s dark and unyielding, but—approving. He sees the knife clutched in my hand, the way I haven’t stepped back, and the slightest hint of a smile forms on his lips.
It’s enough to light something fierce inside me.
I look back at the creature, heart pounding harder for two reasons. Fear, yes, but also the heat of being seen—not as a child, not as a burden. As someone he trusts to stand at his side.
The creature slides deeper between the bones, its bulk vanishing into shadow. The ribs groan with its passing. The storm outside muffles to a distant hum, but here the air is sharp, alive with tension. I breathe in shallow pulls, the smell of sand and sap thick on my tongue. My shoulders press harder into his. If he’s not flinching, neither will I.
“Maybe it can’t climb.” The words slip out, thin and trembling, more prayer than thought.
He doesn’t nod or agree. His lochaber stays raised, steady as stone. His silence is answer enough that he doesn’t believe it.
The scrape comes again. Lower this time, deliberate, circling. I swallow hard and force myself to look. Between the ribs, the shadow coils, then slips away, blending too well with bone and sand. Gone. Then back again, on the other side. Hunting.
My chest aches with every shallow breath. I shift closer, shoulder pressed full into his now, my arm brushing the hard line of his scales. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move away. The heat in my blood twists tighter—not just fear, not just the scrape in the hollow, but the solid weight of him at my side. I don’t know what terrifies me more—that the creature is circling, or that I want his hand to cover mine again.
The wind blows harder against the canyon walls, becoming a muffled roar. But here, inside this moment, it’s quiet. Every scrape of claw below seems magnified, every shift of bone a threat.
I adjust my grip on the knife. He notices—I know he does, because his eyes flick down to it, then back to me. No dismissal, no mocking, only the barest tilt of his head, a silent acknowledgment.
Approval.
The knot in my chest eases a fraction. My pulse races, but I square my shoulders and hold my ground. If he sees me as someone worth standing beside, then I won’t falter.
The scrape fades again. Nothing moves. The silence stretches, sharp as a blade. Waiting.
I hate the waiting more than the storm, more than hunger. Every heartbeat feels borrowed, every breath stolen. But I don’t look away from the hollow. I won’t.
His tail flicks once against the stone, the only motion he allows. Stillness radiates from him, heavy and unshakable. I lean into it, drawing strength from the steadiness of his presence. The silence sings with tension, alive, unbearable.
Then a low rumble echoes through the ribs—closer this time. The bones groan as if remembering the weight of flesh. My stomach flips. My fingers clutch his arm before I can stop myself.
His scales are cool under my touch, smooth and solid. He doesn’t look at me, not breaking his watch, but he doesn’t shake me off, either. I hold on tighter.
The scrape comes again. Deeper. Heavier. Not drifting away this time, but closer. My stomach knots tight. Below us, the graveyard stirs. Bones that had seemed eternal—silent, unmoving—groan against one another. The skull we sheltered in shifts with a low grind, sand spilling from its sockets in pale streams.
My fingers tighten around his arm before I can stop myself. Shame burns my cheeks, but he doesn’t pull away. He plants his feet wider, keeping that same unshakable steadiness I’ve come to crave.
I can’t see the thing. It’s out there, I know it, but where?
Then the shadows move.
At first it’s only a ripple, darker than dark, sliding between the ribs. Then it peels itself loose, vast and coiled, as if the bones themselves have decided to rise.
