The scarred Zmaj lowers his head and turns away without another word, as if the matter is settled. The crowd parts around him instinctively, like sand before a storm.
And me—I feel the weight of a hundred eyes on me, but this time I don’t shrink. Let them watch. Let them doubt. I will prove them wrong.
The crowd dissolves, but the heat in my chest doesn’t fade. My fists stay tight at my sides, nails digging crescents in my palms. If they want to dismiss me, keep me invisible, I’ll have to burn brighter.
I look for the warrior, but he hasn’t waited. The scarred Zmaj is already striding toward the canyon’s mouth. No command, no gesture—just the certainty of someone who knows the rest will follow whether they want to or not. And they do. Amara snaps for two men to go, and one of the younger Zmaj falls in, wings twitching like he can’t sit still.
I refuse to trail behind, so I lengthen my stride and rush ahead, falling in at his side, my heart pounding with the daring of it.
“Why?” The question rasps out before I can swallow it. “Why speak for me?”
He doesn’t look down or break his stride. For a sick moment, I think he didn’t even hear, but then his eyes flick to mine—black, deep, fathomless—and the weight of them crushes the rest of mywords. Whatever I thought I’d demand withers on my tongue. He looks forward again, silent.
Heat floods my neck. If he thinks that will stop me, he’s wrong. I lift my chin higher, breath sharp in the cold air. Fine. Don’t explain. I’ll prove with every step that I deserve this.
Behind us, one of the humans mutters, “She’ll only slow us down.”
The words scrape across my raw nerves, but I keep walking. I won’t give them the satisfaction of a stumble.
The canyon walls rise quick, shutting out the campfires behind us. Stone presses close on either side, cold shadows pooling between jagged cliffs. The ground shifts from loose sand to black stone veined with green that glimmers like glass under the distant suns.
An hour or more into our hunt, a plant sprouts from a crack in the wall—tall and spindly, leaves almost see-through. I slow, fascinated—until one of the men ahead lashes out with his boot. The stalk snaps. Sap oozes from the break, hissing when it hits the rock.
He curses and jerks back, wiping at his ankle. The stink of scorched fabric rises sharply.
“Crap,” I say before I can stop myself.
He spins, anger flashing, ready to spit something back—but his eyes slide past me to the Zmaj at my side. The warrior hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, but his presence alone pushes back against the man’s temper. The insult dies unsaid.
A flicker of satisfaction curls low in my chest. Not fear—pride. For once, someone has heard me, even if it’s only because of theshadow at my side. Above us, a cry echoes, long and low. I crane my head back. A shape circles high, wings stretched wide, bronze scales flashing as it tilts. My skin prickles.
“Something is watching,” I whisper.
The men laugh—bitter, nervous. The younger Zmaj at the rear stiffens, wings half-furled. He knows.
The canyon narrows, forcing us into single file. My calves burn, lungs ache from the climb, but I press forward, matching the scarred warrior’s stride no matter how my body screams.
We march for what must be hours. The scarred Zmaj leads, choosing at every intersection with a quiet certainty that makes me wonder if he knows the way—if he has some destination in mind. We go until the canyon floor dips, stone giving way to packed sandy earth darkened by damp. The air changes with it—cooler, carrying a tang that prickles the back of my throat. Metallic, like rust scraped on stone. For a moment I think it’s just the rock, until I hear it.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Water.
The sound threads through the group like a spark. The men exchange glances and quicken their pace. Even the Zmaj lengthens his stride. The younger one snaps his wings out half-wide, excitement in every twitch.
We round a bend, and there it is—a thin stream trickling down the cliff face, silver against the black stone. It threads through cracks into a shallow basin carved by time and thirst.
The men break into a run.
They fall to their knees before the water like worshipers at an altar, scooping with both hands, gulping before it even pools properly. The young Zmaj plunges his face against the stream itself, water running down his chin.
Relief ripples through them—greedy and raw. I don’t move. Something feels wrong. I can’t put my finger on what, but something is off. Dangerous.
I crouch, scanning the ground where the earth softens into mud around the pool. At first I think it’s only the press of their boots—but no. These marks are older, deeper. Not boots at all.
Tracks.
Three long gouges rake forward, splayed like talons, pressed deep enough to leave furrows. My hand trembles as I press it against one. Twice my span—maybe more. Whatever left them was massive, heavy enough that the ground remembers.
