“I know.”
The words come out quiet, not loud or sharp, but heavy. I look at the damage and the way his body never fully relaxes even when he’s moving. At the way he listens to things I can’t hear. At the way he avoided something I didn’t even know existed.
And I don’t dismiss it. I don’t agree, but I don’t ignore it either. I glance back over my shoulder then forward.
“My people are looking for me,” I say slowly.
“Yes.”
“Something else is looking for you.”
“Yes.”
I let out a slow breath.
“And we’re trying to avoid both.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. Because I understand exactly what that means. And the dunes don’t feel empty at all.
7
LEENA
The silence doesn’t bother me anymore, not because it’s comfortable, but because it’s predictable.
He moves. I follow. He adjusts. I adapt. It’s a pattern, not a good one or one I’ve chosen, but one I understand.
The dunes stretch ahead in long, rolling lines. The light grows harsher. The heat presses down with a weight that makes every step feel heavier than the last. My legs feel it most. My balance is better than it was, but the constant adjustment to every shift of sand, every uneven slope, is adding up.
He doesn’t slow. Unlike me, Zmaj are built for this, but I do notice something. He doesn’t push me past my limits. Every time my pace falters—even slightly—he adjusts. Not enough to call attention to it, just enough.
“Stop,” I say, suddenly, the word cutting clean.
He halts immediately. Not questioning, not resisting, he just stops, which throws me off. I step up beside him, breathing harder than I want him to notice.
“We need to talk.”
He turns his head slightly. Listening. Waiting. He doesn’t argue or dismiss me. He waits, quietly, though his eyes continue to scan around us. I file that away.
“Walking blind isn’t working for me,” I say. “You know what’s out here. I don’t.”
No response, which I expected, but I push anyway.
“What are you avoiding?”
He’s silent for a moment. Seconds tick past. He scans, looking up and around. Then his eyes return to mine.
“Track.”
A single word with the same lack of explanation. I resist the urge to snap, instead focusing on trying a different approach.
“How do they track?”
Silence. His gaze shifts briefly to the sand, then outward, then back to me. Scanning. Measuring. Answering without answering. I exhale slowly.
“Through the ground? Like that thing back there?”
He pauses, scans, then?—
