“March,” the scarred Zmaj says.
The two men look at each other, then at him. I expect them to argue, but the warrior’s presence—his quiet resolve—stops further conversation. He begins walking, and I hurry to keep pace.
We march until the suns bleed down behind the cliffs and the light dies. Every step is heavier than the last, but no one dares suggest stopping until the stars are out and the canyon is black as a cave.
The crazy thing is how cold it gets. As the suns drop, so does the temperature, which is not something I’m used to. It’s clear the Zmaj aren’t either. Both of them move sluggishly. Their shoulders slump and heads bow, but the scarred one doesn’t give a hint of stopping.
At last there is a hollow in the canyon wall, narrow stone walls close on either side. We slip inside, and the two men coax a small fire to life, its smoke carried away by the low, whispering wind. We huddle around, desperate for warmth, for light, for the illusion of safety.
“Watches,” someone mutters, dragging a hand over his face. “We’ll do shifts.”
They begin to draw lots while complaints flare, but everyone’s too exhausted to fight. I don’t wait to be assigned.
“I’ll take one,” I say.
The scoff comes sharp and predictable.
“Go to sleep, girl.”
The heat rushes to my cheeks, but before I can snap back, he stirs.
The scarred Zmaj rises, silent. He moves to the edge of the firelight and sits with his lochaber balanced across his knees. His gaze sweeps the canyon’s mouth, then the cliffs above, every line of him coiled and ready. No one questions him. No one dares. I grab my blanket and stand up before my courage falters. The shadows lick over the jagged scars on his face.
“I said I’d take a watch,” I whisper, more defiance than request.
For a long beat, he doesn’t answer. My heart beats faster, blood rushes to my head, and I tighten my hands into balled fists, nails digging into my palms. His head tilts, just enough for one black eye to catch mine. Then, silently, he shifts, making space beside him against the stone.
Acknowledgment.
I sit. The rock is cold at my back. The air colder still. The fire pops and crackles behind us, but here, on the edge of camp, it feels like the dark could swallow us whole.
He doesn’t speak. Not once. His eyes scan the cliffs, the canyon mouth, the shadows. He is utterly still, a carved thing of scarred stone.
And yet I feel him. My nerves prickle with it. Every heartbeat feels louder when he’s this close.
I steal a glance at him. The scars gleam white against crimson-tinged scales, jagged ridges carved into his jaw, down his throat, across the thick muscle of his chest. They should make him lookmonstrous. Instead they make him…unshakable. Alive in ways the others aren’t.
“Do you think it will come back?” My voice is barely more thana breath.
His jaw shifts, the faint scrape of teeth. “Yes.”
The word cuts like a blade, clean and sure. No false comfort. No soft lie. My throat tightens, but I lift my chin.
“Then we’ll be ready.”
For a moment, his eyes find mine. Deep, endless black, catching every flicker of firelight. My chest stutters, t sparking low in my stomach.
He looks away. Back to the dark, back to the silence. But his nearness hums through me, steady and strong.
I force myself to stay still, trying to mirror his composure. My fingers curl against the blanket, the rough weave scratching my palms. If I close my eyes, I’ll miss something. And worse—I’ll lose this moment, this strange, fragile tether between us.
I don’t know what he’s thinking. I haven’t heard him say more than a handful of words since we left the tunnels. But when his gaze caught mine, I felt it—something sharp, something real. I wonder if he sees me the way everyone else refuses to, not a child, not a burden, but someone who belongs here. Someone who’s survived just as much as the rest of them.
The fire cracks. A shower of sparks drifts upward, swallowed by the black canyon sky. The silence stretches, thick as the dark around us. I should feel small, exposed, waiting for something to strike from the canyon’s mouth. Instead, what I feel most is him.
Every breath, every shift of muscle at my side is magnified. He doesn’t move much—just enough to tilt his head when a twig cracks in the fire, just enough to test the weight of the lochaber across his knees. A predator at rest, but never unwound.
My fingers drum restlessly on the blanket. I want to ask him why he spoke for me earlier, why he didn’t leave me behind when the men sneered. The question burns at the back of my throat. But I don’t ask, not because I don’t want to know, but because I don’t want to hear that it was out of pity.
