His gaze drops to my mouth, only for a breath. Enough.
“I heard your pulse change.”
“That is worse than noticing.”
“Yes.”
I look away before heat can reach my face.
“Then hear this. If you mention it, I will use this quiet knife.”
“The smallest blade?”
“The quietest one.”
Something almost moves across his face. Almost. Then the ground whispers. Not beneath us. Ahead.
I feel it through the soles of my boots before I hear anything. A faint tremor runs under the flat, like something enormous turning over in its sleep far below the crust of the world.
Kavor’s hand closes around my wrist. Cool scales. Firm grip. No pain. Every part of me locks still. Not because he touches me. Because he does it before my next step leaves my body.
“Do not move,” Kavor says.
I freeze because his voice leaves no room for pride. Beneath my boot, the sand answers.
8
KAVOR
The sand answers beneath her boot.
Not loudly. That would be easier. A loud threat gives the body permission to move. To fight. To run. To become simple.
This is quiet. A soft settling beneath the red dust. One breath of movement where there should be none. The faintest shift of pressure travels outward from Sera’s weight, like a question asked into the ground, and the ground asks back.
I close my hand around her wrist before her next step lands.
Cool skin. Hard pulse. Too fast. She freezes.
Smart. Pride remains in her body, sharp as a blade held behind her teeth, but she does not move. Better.
I keep my grip firm and painless. If I pull, she may shift weight. If she shifts weight, the sand may break. If the sand breaks, the hollow below may open, and if the hollow opens?—
No. Not yet. Possibility is useful. Panic is not. Sera’s breath stops. Then returns, thinner than before.
“Tell me where to put my weight,” she says.
Not what is it? Not I can do this myself. Not the thousand useless things fear teaches mouths to say. Tell me where to put my weight.
My chest tightens. This female. This starving, sharp-tongued, half-furious human female knows how to survive before she understands the danger.
“Do not lift your foot,” I say.
Her fingers twitch once at her side. “That was not where.”
“It was first.”
A brief flicker crosses her face. Annoyance. That is good. Anger holds her still better than fear.
