“A trail,” I say, crouching. “But not an animal’s.”
Rakkh kneels beside me. His thigh brushes my shoulder and I nearly lose the ability to breathe. He touches the drag-mark lightly.
“Metal,” he says. “Something heavy. Pulled through the sand.”
“Exactly. This is not erosion. Something was dragged… or something crawled… or something crashed.”
Tomas makes a sound like he might vomit. Travnyk says nothing as he lowers his head, thoughtful. Rakkh speaks last, voice molten and quiet.
“We follow.”
I swallow, hard, because I have a good idea what lies down this trail. Not exactly. But enough to understand that whatever is ahead is not natural. Not Tajss. Not meant to be here.
The metal piece in my pocket feels heavier, as if it is gaining weight with every step.
We take a step forward. Then another. And the dunes ahead tremble—subtle, faint, like something deep under the sand is turning in its sleep.
Rakkh’s arm brushes mine. His voice dips low.
“Stay very close, Lia.”
I do. Gods help me, I do.
6
LIA
The trail stretches ahead like a wound carved into the desert. The sand is too smooth. It looks deliberate, and it seems as if even the wind avoids it—like it is afraid to erase what happened here.
Stop. I am letting my imagination run wild.
I rein it in, quit anthropomorphizing sand and wind. My overreactive creative mind sometimes gets the best of me. Jolie enjoys it, but Calista does not—she is the more serious of the two.
Rakkh stays close enough that his shadow folds over mine, blocking the moons every few steps. I should find that irritating or distracting, but Gods help me, I do not.
The others follow in tight formation, Tomas muttering under his breath about how we should turn back, Travnyk silent as death. The wind rises—slow at first, then prickling sharp across my cheeks, carrying that metallic tang that teases my senses.
“We should be careful,” I say quietly. “This path… whatever made it… it is recent.”
“How recent?” Tomas asks, voice thin.
I crouch, brushing my fingers over the smooth channel. I am not a tracker, but I do know Tajss—how the ground flows, how the sand drifts, and how it shapes the ecosystem.
“Hours. Maybe less,” I say—educated, but still a guess.
Rakkh lowers beside me in one fluid motion, our knees almost touching. His presence is a furnace, radiating out in a steady wave.
“Something was dragged,” he murmurs. “Heavy. Burdened.”
“The sick carok,” I whisper. “The plants. If something crashed… and it is leaking… this might be the path toward the source of the contamination.”
Rakkh’s voice deepens. “Or something dragged a body.”
A chill spiders down my spine. Tomas swears softly. Travnyk exhales through his tusks, a low, raspy sound. I stand quickly, needing movement to break the moment. The air feels thick—too thick—like the night has gone still on purpose.
“We need to keep going,” I say. “Before the wind covers it.”
But the wind does not move at all. Rakkh’s wings twitch. His brow furrows.
