“Sleep now, Jillian. Don’t fight it so hard. You’ll see. The song isn’t an enemy. It’s a home.”
He leaves.
And I sit there,trembling.
Not from fear.
From fury.
I wait.
I breathe.
The song grows louder—cycling through highs and lows like a tide against my skull. But I count.
Four, five, six. Breathe.
My arms ache. My lips crack from dehydration. But Ilisten. Beneath the song, I find the rhythm. The patterns. The gaps.
It wants control—but it’s not flawless.
Itwantsme to believe it’s inevitable.
But I know better.
And somewhere out there—he’s coming.
I just have to hold on long enough.
CHAPTER 32
MAUG
She’s not there.
The ridge is empty.
Wind cuts sideways, dragging dust over rock like skin peeling from bone. Her scent lingers—just barely—sweet and sharp andalive. But there’s no firelight, no echo of her footsteps where she was supposed to be.
I kneel.
The ground’s been disturbed.
Not by animal tracks. Not by a slip or stumble.
Drag marks.
Two sets. One hers—light, fast, urgent. The other—slower, wider. Heavy.
Booted.
I lean closer. My claws trace the indentation left behind where her foot twisted. She tried to fight. I see the arc of it, the way her heel dug in, left a crescent in the soil. She kicked. Hard.
But she didn’t win.
The trail ends abruptly where the rocks slope downward. There’s a scrape of metal on stone. A land hauler. Standard issue for mid-distance recoveries. The bastards didn’t just intercept her.
Theyhuntedher.
