I straighten. He folds his wings back, giving the barest of nods—the same he gave when I failed the watch at dawn, the same that’s steadied me more than any words could. A simple dip of his chin that somehow feels like trust.
We resume walking. My steps drag, but I match his pace. Every time the sun scorches too hot or the sand shifts, he’s close—always within a step, always steady, always watchful.
And though the desert stretches endless and empty, I don’t feel lost. Not while he’s beside me.
By the time the suns dip low, the desert has wrung me dry. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. My feet ache so deep it feels like my shins splinter with every step. Still, I keep moving until the scarred warrior slows.
He scans the horizon, eyes narrowing against the dying light. His head tilts once toward a scatter of boulders half-buried in the sand—shelter, of a kind.
Relief surges so hard my knees nearly buckle. I bite it back, forcing my steps, because I won’t collapse in front of him. Not when he hasn’t faltered once.
We slip into the shadow of the rocks. The wind dulls, caught by the stone, and for the first time since the canyon, the world feels still. He lowers the bundle of meat to the sand with a heavy thud. The stink rises thick and metallic, but it smells less like terror and more like promise—like survival.
I sag against a rock, chest heaving. My whole body hums with exhaustion, but inside that hum is something else—something sharp and hot every time my gaze passes over him.
He doesn’t sprawl or sag the way I do. He crouches, claws dragging a shallow circle in the sand—a boundary, the start of a fire ring. No wasted motion.
I push myself upright, shame heating my cheeks at how quickly I’d wanted to give in. My legs tremble, but I kneel beside him, fumbling with flint and steel from my pouch. My fingers are clumsy, the sparks weak.
Before frustration can claw at me, he reaches out. His larger hand closes over mine, guiding the strike. Sparks leap, catching the dry brush. Flame flickers to life, small but real, licking up from the sand.
Heat blooms against my face—and not just from the fire. His hand lingers longer than necessary, claws curved carefully against my skin. I don’t pull away.
The fire crackles, catching the tinder. Shadows deepen around us, pooling thick beyond the circle of light. The wind moans faintly through the rocks, carrying the endless hush of sand. I lean closer to the flame, holding my bandaged arm near the warmth, trying to ease the ache.
He notices. He always notices. His gaze sweeps over me, scars sharp in the firelight, eyes dark and steady. There’s no softness in them, but there is attention—so complete it feels like he’s reading me line by line.
My throat tightens. I should look away, but I can’t. The silence stretches, alive and charged, until my skin prickles.
This moment doesn’t feel like mere survival anymore. It feels like something else—like the pause before a secret is told, or a vow made.
The fire settles into a steady burn, shadows leaping high across the rocks. I pull my knees close, wrapping the blanket tighter, but it’s not the cold that makes me curl in on myself—it’s the storm inside my chest.
He sits across from me, massive frame haloed by firelight, lochaber propped within easy reach. His scars gleam like molten silver where the light catches. He doesn’t fidget, doesn’t shift, doesn’t fill the silence with needless words. He justis.Somehow, that steadiness makes my pulse race faster than fear ever did.
My mouth goes dry. I want to ask—his name, his scars, why he spoke my name like a vow when I faltered on the cliff. The questions knot my tongue, pressing for release.
“Tell me—” I start, voice too soft, too raw.
A sharp crack splits the night. Both our heads snap up. My heart leaps into my throat. The fire spits sparks as if startled, casting quick, darting light.
He moves—crouched low, weapon in hand before I’ve drawn a breath. The weight of his readiness presses against me, and for a terrible heartbeat I expect another fight, another shadow rising from the dark.
But nothing comes. Just the wind shifting across the sand, moving loose stones. A chunk tumbles off the outcropping, bouncing once before sinking into the sand. Silence follows, heavy and complete.
“Only rocks,” I exhale shakily, pressing a hand to my chest.
He doesn’t relax right away. His gaze lingers outward until he’s satisfied nothing waits there. Then, slowly, he lowers the lochaber. His eyes meet mine across the fire—black and burning—and the silence between us hums like a plucked string.
The words I almost spoke hover on my lips, pressing, heavy and insistent. He tilts his head just slightly, horns catching the firelight, as if he knows what I want but won’t offer it—not until I ask, not until I push past the fear of hearing the answer.
My fingers curl tight around the edge of the blanket. My breath shivers.
Next time, I promise myself. Next time, I’ll ask.
The fire pops, sparks spiraling upward, and the night closes tighter around us.
32
