29
LIA
Isit on the edge of a woven mat near a small fire, hands wrapped around a cup of warm tea I barely remember accepting. The heat seeps into my palms, grounding, but my thoughts keep drifting back to the ship lifting free of the sand—to the way the ground finally went still beneath my feet.
Rakkh moves through the camp with quiet efficiency, checking in without hovering. A word here. A nod there. No declarations. No explanations—just presence. The Zmaj accept it without question, the way they do when something has already been decided already.
When he returns to me, he does not sit right away. He crouches instead, lowering himself so his eyes are level with mine.
“You should eat,” he says softly.
“I will,” I promise, though my stomach still feels like it is vibrating with leftover adrenaline. I tip the cup slightly, then set it aside. “In a minute.”
He studies my face for a long moment, the firelight catching the ridges of his horns, the faint scars along his jaw. There isno impatience in his gaze. Only concern—and something else. Something cautious.
“You did not collapse,” he says, almost to himself.
I huff out a quiet laugh. “Is that the bar?”
“For today,” he replies. One corner of his mouth lifts. It is not a smile exactly, but it warms me anyway.
Silence stretches between us—not awkward, just full. I am acutely aware of how close he is, the way the dancing firelight sparkles off his scales, the way my body seems to lean toward him without conscious permission.
“Rakkh,” I say quietly.
“Yes.”
“I keep waiting for it to hit me. That moment where I realize how badly this could have gone.” I swallow. “Or how much it might still cost.”
His brow ridges draw together slightly. He reaches out, not fast or urgent, and brushes his knuckles against the back of my hand. There is a question in that touch.
I turn my hand over and lace my fingers with his. It feels right in a way that makes my chest ache.
“It will cost,” he says honestly. “Anything worth keeping does.”
I meet his gaze. “And you are still here.”
His grip tightens just a fraction. “I told you. I chose you.”
The words hit differently out here, under the open sky, with witnesses nearby and no ship humming beneath our feet. Thereis no crisis forcing the truth out of him now. No urgency demanding it. Just choice.
Heat blooms low in my belly, surprising me with its intensity. I draw a slow breath, trying, and failing, not to lean closer.
“I do not know what tomorrow looks like,” I admit.
“Neither do I,” he says. Then, quieter, “But tonight, you are safe.”
His thumb strokes once across my knuckles. A small, intimate motion that sends a shiver through me.
Around us, the camp continues to wind down. Someone laughs softly; a fire pops. Life, stubborn and persistent, carries on. Rakkh shifts, rising to his feet. For a heartbeat, disappointment flares until he offers me his hand.
“Come,” he says. “You need rest. And so do I.”
I take his hand without hesitation. As he helps me up, his grip lingers, not pulling me forward, not rushing me away. Just steady. Certain. Whatever comes next can wait until morning.
Tonight, it is enough to walk beside him through the firelight, back toward the quiet edge of camp, where the world finally feels survivable.
Rakkh leads me to the far edge of camp, where the dunes rise just enough to break the wind and the fires thin into scattered embers. His tent sits apart from the others—not exactly isolated, but intentionally distant. Close enough that we are not alone. Far enough that the world does not press in.
