He shifts, rising in one smooth motion, replacing the blanket over me as he exits. His shadow stretches across me as he gathers the beast’s hide bundle. The scent of musk and sand clings to him as he moves, filling my nose with the heady odor of him. His scars catch the first pale gleam of dawn. I push up, brushing grit from my arms, moving stiff but determined.
“We should eat before we walk,” I say.
He inclines his head once, then crouches and, with quick efficiency, carves strips of meat, arranging them on a flat piece of stone. I busy myself building a small pile of dried brush, hands trembling more from nerves than effort. The intimacy of the morning lingers—raw and fragile.
When I fumble for my flint, he places his clawed hand over mine, and I look up. He shakes his head, a faint smile playing across his lips. I shrug, and he leans over the kindling I built in thecenter of the rocks. He takes a deep breath, then exhales sharply. A ball of flame roils from his mouth and catches the tinder.
“Show off,” I murmur, half-laughing.
The faint smile becomes real, and my heart lifts, speeding up. Smoke curls upward as he sets a thin stone with the meat over the heat. The smell rises—strong, rich, overwhelming after so much hunger. My mouth waters, and for a moment I forget everything but the crackle of flame and the promise of food.
Then my gaze drifts back to him. To the scars carved across his chest and side, made starker by dawn’s gray. Rows of them, ragged, uneven—some crossing in jagged arcs, others smooth as if polished by time.
I’ve seen them before. Touched them. But in the quiet morning, they demand more. My hand curls in my lap. My heart pounds. I want to ask. I need to ask. And he promised.
He glances up then, meeting my stare across the fire. His eyes narrow, unreadable. For a long beat, neither of us speaks. Then his jaw shifts, and he says in that low rumble,
“You would know.”
The words aren’t quite a question—more an acknowledgment. An opening. My throat tightens. I nod once, unable to speak.
The fire crackles low, fat spitting from the meat and popping into the air. Smoke drifts toward the pale horizon, carrying the scent of survival. He sits across from me, crouched low, wings half-folded against his back, lochaber laid within reach, though no danger prowls this morning.
For a long time, he says nothing—just watches the flames, the light flickering across the planes of his face, his scars carvingdeeper shadows. I want to fill the silence, to tell him he doesn’t have to—but something in the way he holds himself stills my tongue.
At last, he speaks.
“Zmelja.” One word, ground out rough as stone, but it shivers through me.
My eyes snap to his, wide. “The sand worms?”
He nods once, slow, deliberate.
“It took me. Teeth like rows of blades, closing around. Dragging me down.” His claws flex, curling against his thighs as if memory alone can pull him back into the pit. “I was… gone. I fought, but my claws… it was too late.”
My breath snags. The scars—the endless lines across his chest and side—come alive in my mind. Not battle wounds from other Zmaj. Not accidents. Teeth. A monster trying to devour him whole. His gaze doesn’t waver from mine.
“My brother leapt onto the beast, driving steel into it over and over. It thrashed, rolled. Nearly crushed us both. But he fought until it let go.” His jaw tightens, the tendons standing out in sharp cords. “He saved me.”
The fire pops. I can’t look away.
“And the scars…” My voice breaks before I can finish.
“Are what it left behind.” His tone is flat, but not empty. Heavy. Full of everything he won’t say.
I shiver—not from the morning chill, but from the picture his words paint: him, torn and broken, carved open by rows of teeth.Blood in the sand. His brother standing against something no Zmaj should dare face.
“But you lived,” I whisper.
He inclines his head, eyes black and fathomless.
“I lived. Because he was stronger. Because he was there.” His voice roughens, like gravel dragged across stone. “And I carry it. Every scar, a mark of his strength. Of my weakness.”
My heart twists. I shake my head hard, words tumbling before I can stop them.
“No. That’s not weakness. You survived something that should’ve killed you. You—” My throat closes, heat stinging my eyes. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
His gaze sharpens, pinning me in place. For a moment, I think he’ll argue—that he’ll throw my words back like stones. But he doesn’t. He only watches, firelight flickering in his dark eyes. Slowly, deliberately, he presses his palm against his chest, over the ragged map of scars.
