KARA
The fire hisses low, its light spilling unevenly across the rocks. Beyond the flickering flames, the desert stretches endlessly—dark and unknowable. But here, in this circle of warmth, the world narrows to just him and me.
He sits across from me, lochaber at his side, wings folded tight, the fire painting harsh shadows across his scarred scales. He hasn’t moved since the stone fell. His stillness should feel cold, distant, but instead, it’s warm and comfortable.
My throat tightens. The words I swallowed earlier still press against my tongue. My chest aches with them. Every time his gaze flicks to mine—steady and black as the deep of night—my pulse skips. I grip the edge of my thin blanket until my fingers ache.
“You called me Kara.” My voice sounds too soft, too small, but the sound carries in the quiet.
His eyes shift to me fully, catching me in their weight, but he doesn’t speak.
“You know my name,” I say, breath shaking, “but I don’t know yours.”
The fire pops, a spark spiraling upward and fading into the night. He leans slightly forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. Firelight dances along the scars on his jaw. For a long, unbroken silence, he looks at me—not like he’s searching for words, but like he’s measuring me, deciding if I’m strong enough to hear them.
My stomach knots. I want to look away, but I don’t. I hold his gaze because I need this. I need something real, something that belongs only to him and me. At last, his lips part. The sound is low, rough—more growl than word.
“Drazan.”
The name hangs between us, heavy as a vow.
Something twists deep in my gut, fierce and sharp. His name. His truth. Not just warrior, not just shadow—but Drazan.
“Drazan,” I whisper.
His eyes narrow slightly, but not in anger. His nostrils flare, wings flex once—slow, deliberate. The sound of my voice wrapping around his name changes the air between us, making it thicker, hotter, more dangerous than any fight.
“Tell me…” I swallow hard, pulse hammering in my throat. My voice falters, but I push on. “The scars. How?”
For the first time, his gaze drops. Not long, not weak—just once, like the question cuts sharper than any blade. When his eyes rise again, they burn hotter than the fire itself.
“Tomorrow,” he rumbles.
Not refusal. A promise. His name lingers on my lips with a burning sensation I can’t stop repeating in my head.
Drazan.
The syllables are rough, heavy, made for a growl—his growl. The sound of it still vibrates in my chest, even though he’s silent now, watching me from across the fire.
I want to say it again, out loud, just to feel it on my tongue—to hear the way it shifts the air between us. His name makes him real. Not just the scarred warrior who’s shielded me, not just the Zmaj who stepped in when no one else did. Not a stranger.
Drazan.
My pulse stutters each time I whisper it in my thoughts. The name fits him the way his hand fits mine—unexpectedly, inevitably.
He doesn’t fidget under my gaze or look away. He lets me look, lets me trace the ridges of his scars, the breadth of his shoulders, the scars across his wings—and know that this name belongs to all of it.
The fire pops. Shadows dance across his face, softening nothing, only sharpening what was already carved there by pain and survival. My chest aches with the thought of asking again—about the scars, about what carved him down to this hardened shape—but his promise echoes in my ears.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow isn’t far away, yet it feels like forever.
I realize my blanket has slipped low on my shoulder. I pull it up, tugging it tighter, cheeks heating—not because of the night chill,but because of the way his eyes linger. They aren’t hungry, not the way the men back at camp looked at a woman. His gaze is deeper, heavier, like he sees more than I’ve ever let anyone see.
My throat tightens, but I don’t shy away. Not this time. I straighten, letting the firelight trace me too. Not beautiful the way other women might be—not perfect. But I want him to see me. To know me the way I want to know him.
“Drazan,” I whisper again, the sound almost stolen by the wind.
