I drive forward and down, one step carrying us across the slope, the next taking us into it. Sand cascades under me in a rushing sheet. She jerks in my arms, trying to twist, trying to brace, but I lock her tighter against me, angling her head into my chest to keep the falling sand out of her face.
“Hold.”
The word tears out, rough. Used too little. Not enough.
The surface drops away.
For one suspended instant the world is nothing but heat and sunlight and movement, all of it breaking apart around us.
Then we plunge.
Sand closes over my shoulders. Over my back. Over us.
Darkness returns, but not the cold clean darkness of the ship. This is grain, pressure, and the living weight of a world I know. The dune takes us in and I move through it the way I was made to move across it, cutting a path where none exists, one arm locked around her, the other driving and pulling through the packed layers below the collapse.
She bucks against me once in panic.
I tighten my grip.
“Still.”
She does not obey. Of course she does not. Her body stays rigid, fighting for orientation, for breath, for understanding. Sand shifts around us in whispering slides. Above, vibrations hammer the surface. The others are moving, searching, trying to track where we went.
Too late.
I angle deeper, then sideways, using the old paths of pressure and slope. Beneath the surface, dunes are not uniform. They remember wind. They remember weight. There are channels if you know how to find them. I know.
Her breathing is fast against my chest, sharp and uneven. Fear. Effort. Confinement. I adjust her higher instinctively, keeping her face turned into the pocket of air close to my throat and jaw, shielding what I can from the sand.
Protect.
Remove.
Now.
The vibrations above spread out. Less concentrated. Confusion. They did not expect this. Good. I keep moving.
The dune grows cooler as we angle away from the surface. Sand drags along my shoulders and thighs, flowing around us, resisting and yielding in turn.
Her hand finds my arm suddenly, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt. Not a strike. Not a threat. Anchoring.
The thought hits and vanishes in the same breath.
I push harder.
Another span of movement. Another angled descent. Then the pressure changes. The sand loosens. Air widens.
I break through into a hollow beneath the far side of the dune, half formed by wind, half by old erosion. Dim light filters through thin places above. Enough to see. Enough to breathe.
I stop long enough to set her on her feet.
She stumbles the instant I release enough of my weight for her to stand on her own. I catch her before she hits the wall of packed sand behind us, my hand flattening against the small of her back to keep her upright.
She jerks away from the touch as if burned.
Good. Alive. Responsive.
Her gaze flies over me. Horns. Shoulders. Scars. Damaged wings, still tucked tight from the passage through the dune. Her chest rises and falls too fast. Sand clings to her face, her lashes, the strands of hair stuck to her cheek.
