Instead, I whisper, “You don’t sleep?”
His gaze doesn’t shift. “No.”
Just that. No explanation, no exposition, but somehow it tells me more than an entire story would.
“You watch over the others.” I say it like a fact, not a question.
A pause. His jaw flexes. “Yes.”
Something twists in my chest. Not pride. Not relief. Something hotter, sharper. The others may sneer, may dismiss me, but he—he carries their safety without asking for thanks. Without a word of complaint. And he accepts me.
The fire pops. I flinch, then hate myself for it. His head doesn’t turn, but I feel it—that subtle awareness, like his attention sharpens on me for a breath before drifting back to the dark. I settle deeper into the blanket, pulse quick.
The night isn’t still. Somewhere beyond the cliffs, a long cry rises, low and mournful. It scrapes against my spine like claws. The men stir, one muttering in his sleep. I freeze, throat tight.
His hand tightens on the lochaber’s haft. Slow. Measured. Not fear—readiness. He leans forward, gaze locked on the opening to our shelter. The cry fades into silence again.
“What was that?” My whisper trembles despite me.
His answer is rough, quiet. “Not close.”
Not safe, either. He doesn’t say that, but I hear it anyway.
We sit in silence after that, listening to the hiss of wind over stone and the faint groans of exhausted men shifting in their sleep. My nerves hum so sharply I feel I’ll split apart. And then I realize I don’t want to move. Not yet. Not away from this strange stillness where his presence shields me as much as the fire.
The night stretches long.
At some point, my head tips sideways, just enough that my shoulder brushes the edge of his arm. Heat jolts through me. I snap upright again, cheeks blazing. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even glance down. But his grip on the lochaber shifts, just a fraction tighter, like the touch jolted through him too.
We don’t speak of it. We won’t, but the space between us feels different. A subtle yet undeniable change that I can’t even begin to understand.
4
KARA
Ijerk awake, heart thudding, the dreamless dark shattering into pale gray dawn.
The fire is nothing but ash and a few stubborn embers. Cold gnaws at my bones. My blanket has slipped half off my shoulder, but that isn’t what wakes me. It’s the sound of people muttering and moving about.
The two humans stir near the ashes, stamping their feet, rubbing stiff arms, cursing under their breath. The younger Zmaj paces restlessly, wings twitching, muttering about finding prey, though his voice cracks, thin with exhaustion.
I turn—and find him exactly where he was.
The scarred warrior remains at my side, lochaber still across his knees, gaze fixed on the canyon’s mouth. He doesn’t seem to have moved all through the long hours of the night. His scars catch the faint dawn light, white ridges carved deep into crimson scales, as if the night itself couldn’t wear him down.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I’d promised to share the watch. Instead, I dozed off like a child curled in a blanket while hecarried the silence for both of us. Shame burns, bitter and hot. I shift, opening my mouth to stammer something—an apology, an excuse, anything.
His eyes flick to me. Just for a breath. And then, instead of scorn, he dips his chin once. A single, steady nod. The heat in my chest twists, changing shape. No longer shame, but something else I can’t name. Gratitude. Relief. A weight loosening that I hadn’t known I was holding.
“I’d eat shoe leather,” one of the humans groans, clutching his belly.
The other mutters, “We won’t last another day like this.”
My stomach growls, sharp and hollow. I press my hand against it, trying to hide the sound, but it doesn’t matter—they’re right. Water keeps us moving, but it won’t fill the ache clawing inside. The younger Zmaj paces harder, restless energy scraping at the edges of his control.
“There must be prey here. I’ll find it while you humans sit and whine.”
“Then I’ll look too. There has to be something out here we can eat,” I say, rising before I can lose my nerve.
