“I think…” My voice shakes despite my best effort. “I think we are getting close.”
Rakkh steps beside me, his shadow falling over my hands. I shove the piece of metal into my pocket.
“We move,” he says. “And we move fast.”
The metal shard feels as if it is burning a hole in my pocket. I feel its weight with every step—even though it barely weighs anything at all. My suspicion of what it is is what is heavy.
Wrong metal. Wrong shape. Wrong world.
The dunes deepen, swallowing the last traces of twilight. The twin moons rise higher, painting the sand in a faint, eerie glow. Shadows stretch long as we travel. The wind dies completely, and even the insects are silent.
Tajss is watching.
The knowledge crawls up my spine with cold fingers.
Rakkh keeps us moving, fast but controlled. His body is always between me and the shifting sands. Always listening. Always scanning. His wings twitch at the smallest noise. Tomas stumbles for the third time. Rakkh turns, softly growling.
“Stop dragging your feet.”
“I’m—trying,” Tomas pants. “Sand. Hard. To?—”
Rakkh’s gaze snaps to me, as if checking whether the human’s weakness endangers me. Something pulls tight in my chest when I realize he is not worried about Tomas—he is worried Tomas will slow me down.
“We need shelter to rest,” Travnyk murmurs, scanning the dunes. His tusks gleam in the moonlight as he points toward a cluster of jutting rock formations rising like ancient ribs from the sand. “There.”
“Move.” Rakkh nods once, decisive.
We cross the last stretch with quick steps, and the wind stirs again—warm, gritty, carrying the faintest echo of that predator scent. It is still following. My pulse jumps.
By the time we reach the rocks, the moonlight floods the narrow alcove with slanted silver light. There is only one real shelter—a hollow beneath an overhanging slab of stone. Wide enough for one person. My throat tightens. Tomas sees it and groans.
“That’s… all we have? We can take turns sleeping out here, I guess.”
“No,” Rakkh’s voice is iron.
He steps into the alcove first, testing the space, the shadows, the scent. Then he turns, wings half-spread, and his gaze locks onto me with a force that nearly knocks me backward.
“You,” he says, “will sleep inside.”
“What? No. Tomas should—” My breath stutters.
“Tomas is slow,” he says simply. “And noisy. And careless.”
Tomas sputters. Travnyk snorts a quiet laugh. Rakkh’s stare stays fixed on me.
“You are the smallest. The cold will hit you first.” Then, lower, rougher. “I will not allow that.”
Something hot flares in my cheeks. I cross my arms to steady myself.
“You do not get to ‘allow’ things with me?—”
“Yes.” He steps closer. “I do.”
4
LIA
The words strike hard because it is not dominance or arrogance. It is fear. Fear for me.
