The desert stretches around us in every direction, twin suns dropping low, the light shifting from harsh white to something deeper, more dangerous. Long shadows stretch across the sand, turning the terrain uneven, harder to read.
Better for ambush.
The others know it too. Their formation tightens, movements more deliberate. No one speaks or wastes energy. Behind us, the place where the hunter fell disappears. Swallowed by drifting sand like it never happened.
I feel the echo of it. The way it looked at us. Tracked us. Marked us. I push the thought down. Now is not the time.
Ahead, Drazan moves at the front of the group. He doesn’t look back. But I sense that he’s aware, especially of Kael and of me. Of everything that just happened. You don’t carry something like that for years and just walk away from it.
The space between them hasn’t closed, but it hasn’t widened. It’s just… there. Waiting to be addressed. Like one of those sand snakes—hidden, but ready to explode without warning.
Kael’s steps falter, barely, but I don’t miss it. I stop with him, turning enough to face him. One hand comes up to steady his chest before he can push through it.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Stop.”
His jaw tightens automatically.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” I answer, just as quietly. His wings twitch, a faint rustle of irritation and instinct.
For a second, I think he’s going to argue. Then he exhales. He lets himself lean into the rock outcrop beside us.
The group slows, not stopping completely, but adjusting around us. No one complains or calls it out. They’re watching and assessing, but they’re adapting.
I move my hands over him without hesitation. I check the binding at his side. The fabric is soaked again.
“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath.
“You are injured as well,” he says.
I blink, caught off guard.
“What?”
“Your hand.”
I look down and see blood. It takes a second to realize it’s mine, not his. The skin is torn where I grabbed the filament earlier. I hadn’t even felt it.
“It’s nothing,” I say automatically, and he narrows his eyes.
“It is not nothing,” he says, low, in more of a commanding tone than he’s used with me. I recognize it as concern, and that warms my heart.
“I’ve had worse,” I say, softer now. “Right now you’re the priority.”
He studies me for a long second, like he’s trying to understand.
“No,” he says softly, but with absolute certainty.
“No?” I repeat, my breath catching.
“You are not less because I am injured,” he says. “We are not… ranked.”
The last word comes slower, like he’s reaching for it. Like it doesn’t quite fit what he means, but he’s not sure what word does. Something in my chest tightens.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say gently.
“I know,” he answers.
