“You’ll find supper in the rocks?” one of the men scoffs.
“Better than starving where we sit,” I snap back, fists tight at my sides.
Before they can argue further, the scarred Zmaj rises. Smooth and silent, lochaber sliding into place across his back. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. But when his gaze shifts toward the jagged line of cacti glowing faint blue against the canyon wall, my breath catches.
He starts walking. My pulse jumps. That single nod still echoes inside me, stronger than any word he could have spoken. I pull out my knife and follow.
It isn’t long before the ground shifts. Softer, sandy, but mixed with dirt. The air smells different, too—sharp, almost metallic, the kind of scent that makes the back of my throat prickle. And then I see them better.
Cacti unlike anything I’ve known crowd against the canyon wall, their spines long and thin, glowing faint blue. Drops of sap bead at the tips, falling in slow drips that hiss and smoke when they hit the stone below. The pods bulging along their stalks swell fat and translucent, pulsing with faint light as though something alive beats inside.
My stomach twists hard. Food. Maybe.
One of the men whistles low under his breath. “Looks like fruit.”
The other mutters, “Or poison.”
Hunger sharpens both their voices. They hover a few paces back, torn between need and fear, eyes flicking to me as though waiting to see what I’ll do. The younger Zmaj strides forward a few steps, wings twitching as he leans in close to the tallest stalk.
“Prey or food—it makes no difference. I’ll take it.”
But he doesn’t touch. His nostrils flare, and his jaw tightens as if he senses what I do—danger. I swallow hard and step closer.
The scarred warrior says nothing. Not that that’s new. He’s barely said a word since we left camp. He stands half in shadow, lochaber across his back, eyes fixed not on the fruit but on the canyon itself. Watching. Waiting.
My grip tightens on the knife. If we want to eat, someone has to try. And no one else will.
I move forward, every step crunching softly against grit. The glow from the cactus spines washes faint blue across my skin. Hunger drives me, but something else coils in my chest too—wariness, sharp and tight, like I’m walking into a trap and just waiting for it to spring.
I crouch by the lowest stalk. Up close, the thing towers over me, spines as tall as my head, each one trembling as if alive. The pod bulging from the stalk pulses faintly, as though some hidden heart beats inside. Sweet sap oozes down the skin in slow rivulets, dripping to the ground where it hits stone with a hiss that curls smoke into the air.
My knife wavers. I tell myself it’s only fruit, but my gut knots hard. Then I realize what’s missing.
Sound. All the sounds have stopped. No insect buzz, no skittering claws, no wings stirring the stillness. Not even the humans behind me muttering. All I hear is the faint hiss of sap and the pounding of my own pulse. The silence presses in, thick enough to smother.
I press my palm into the soft ground. My fingers brush sand aside to reveal grooves. Long, shallow furrows dragged deep across the ground, as if something heavy slid its belly here. The gouges are claw marks. Sharp. Hooked. Fresh enough that grains of grit still crumble at the edges.
My breath catches sharply in my throat. Then—scrape.
A low, deliberate drag of scales against stone. Not close enough to see, but close enough that my body knows before my mindprocesses it. A predator. Hunting. The sound slides from shadow to shadow, circling.
My muscles lock tight, knife clutched in a white-knuckled grip. I don’t dare breathe too loud. My eyes flick to the canyon walls, to the cactus stalks swaying faintly. No shape, no movement, but the scrape comes again—closer this time, and slower, as if whatever stalks us savors the waiting.
Behind me, one of the humans shifts, boots grinding sand and grit.
“We shouldn’t—” His voice cracks thinly. He stops when I glance over my shoulder, the warning in my stare sharper than words.
And then my gaze snags on him.
The scarred Zmaj hasn’t moved. Still as carved stone, lochaber slung across his back. His eyes are narrowed, black as obsidian, locked on the shadow where the sound coils. He knows. He’s seen it, but he doesn’t step in. Doesn’t draw steel.
He waits. For me.
The message is clear, even without a word. Stand or fall. Prove what I am or be swallowed whole. Heat flares through my veins, burning away the edge of fear. My grip steadies. My chest rises, slow, deliberate, and I turn back to the cactus with every nerve singing like a plucked string.
The scrape comes again. Louder. Closer.
And I know I’m not just reaching for food anymore.
