Kessa
I blink, think, then blink again.
The green glow at Rhazek’s throat pulses as if in response to my voice. Not the wound where the tracker is. His throat.
It feels like it’s answering. Or calling.
Not touching him is the first smart thing I manage.
Which is irritating because every stupid part of me wants the opposite.
My hands want to grab his ruined armor and drag answers out of him by force.
My body wants to move closer because apparently attraction has terrible timing and no survival training.
My temper wants to shove him off the nearest ridge.
People need me for routes, for counts, for a voice sharp enough to cut panic into pieces they can carry. That kind of need has edges I understand.
That glow responding to my voice is different. I don’t understand it, but instinct tells me it’s different. It means something I don’t understand. It’s not a route answer. It’s not a ration count. It reaches for the softest part of me, the one I thought I had buried under everyone else’s survival.
And underneath the want is fury. He put me on the wrong side of a ledger I didn’t get to see. Not because he wanted to hurt us, which almost makes it worse. Because he decided the cost was acceptable before any of us knew we were being counted.
I know that kind of mercy. Adults use practical words and calm voices while someone waits in a corridor to learn there wasn’t enough.
I force my hands to remain at my sides. Uncurled, appearing relaxed though I am anything but.
The tracker lies broken on the stone. The kedi has vanished with my token. The desert keeps burning because the desert isn’t impressed by my personal crisis.
Seven of us. I count because counting is better than screaming.
Me. Rhazek. The Zmaj, Syin, Renn, Orek. The human runners, Lio and Maro.
That’s all. No Merra to curse him quiet. No Rosalind to make the ugly decision official. No Adran to turn the ugly decision into a committee.
Just us, and one hidden relay under Rhazek’s ribs.
No one else to decide. No one to be responsible for the next, probably stupid decision. I stare at Rhazek’s neck, then his wound, then back to his one good eye.
No one else.
“We need shade,” I say.
Syin gives me a look. “We need to return.”
“No,” I say. I don’t want this. Skies above I don’t, but Syin is making exactly the wrong decision and will run with it if I don’t stop it.
“If the receiver is south, taking this back to the City drags the line home. We don’t know how far the relay can answer.
We don’t know if the dead drop already has the City’s direction. We do not hand it more.”
The words taste like ash because every instinct I have is built around walls, stores, people, routes home. Home is what I understand. Outside is what happens when home fails.
Rhazek watches, his face too controlled and his damaged wing tucked too tight. He’s bleeding again. Naturally.
“Orek,” I say. “Your arm?”
“Useful,” he says.
“That wasn’t the question.”
“It bleeds less than his.”
“Terrible standard, but I’ll take it. Lio, give me the ash packet from your belt. Maro, salt cloth.”
Maro blinks. “Why would I have salt cloth?”
“Because I told you to pack it before we left.”
“Oh. That salt cloth.”
“Every day is a miracle.”
We move under the leaning shade of a broken red stone shelf. Shade is generous phrasing. The suns still slice through every crack. But the rock blocks enough glare to let me look at Rhazek’s wound without my eyes watering.
The green thread under his ribs pulses when I move closer.
I stop.
It stops.
“Damn it all,” I whisper.
Rhazek’s jaw works. “Distance matters.”
“Of course it does.” I press ash and salt cloth together, not touching his skin yet. “The enemy installed romance-based proximity torment. Very thoughtful.”
“It is not romance.”
“I know that,” I snap, far too quickly.
We both know I know that. I hate him. He’s the reason I’m in this mess.
If he hadn’t come… what? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Syin watches every movement. Renn stands at his shoulder. Orek keeps the south line. Lio and Maro stay where I put them, one watching the broken tracker, one watching the ridge where the kedi vanished with my token.
I lift the salt cloth toward Rhazek’s ribs. “I’m going to cover it. If it pulses hard, say so.”
“Yes.”
“If saying so is difficult because your body is busy becoming enemy equipment, grunt.”
His mouth twists into a cross between a grimace and a smile.
“Accurate instructions.”
“One of my many virtues.”
“You hide them well.”
I grunt and glare at him. The green under his ribs warms.
“Do not flirt with the live relay,” Syin snaps.
“I was being hostile,” I say.
“Your hostility is noisy.”
“I can make it noisier,” I say, raising my voice. “And you know what that will do.”
Renn makes the mistake of coughing. Maro turns it into a cough of his own. Lio studies the horizon with the devout focus of a man pretending not to hear anything.
I press salt cloth over the glowing line. Rhazek inhales sharply and his whole body locks like every muscle has become a door bar thrown across old fear. He grits his teeth so hard I hear them grinding, but the pulse fades by half.
I exhale sharply, leaning back to inspect the work.
“There,” I say. “Dampened.”
“Not gone,” Rhazek whispers, clearly in pain.
“Noted. I save optimism for emergencies.”
“This is an emergency.”
“Then we’re already overspending.”
His gaze drops to my hand. I haven’t taken it away from the cloth. My fingers press against his ribs through salt and ash and bandage. I’m not touching skin, but it’s still enough that my pulse is making terrible decisions.
I pull back. The green flickers once. Rhazek looks away first. Good. Let him have a little self-preservation.
Syin crouches by the broken tracker, but doesn’t touch it. He’s annoying, suspicious, and rigid, but not stupid.
“This can no longer send?”
Rhazek shakes his head. “No. But it may have sent enough before we broke it.”
“How much is enough?” Renn asks.
“For coordinates? One clean burst. For proof? More.”
“What proof?” Lio asks.
Rhazek looks at me. I wish he would stop doing that before saying the worst thing in the room.
“Surviving Zmaj,” he says. “Human survivors. Hybrid bloodlines. Epis in play. Active resonance. A living world everyone thought dead.”
Maro whispers, “That seems like a lot.”
“It is,” Rhazek says. “That is why they came.”
Anger surges fresh as if it’s the first time I’ve felt it. He knew this. Or knew it was possible and not only did he come, he held it back. Hands curling into fists I step closer, leaning back so I can glare into his open eye.
“You should have told us the relay could answer.”
“Yes.”
No defense. No careful speech. No explanation or excuses. Just yes. That only makes me angrier.
“I do not forgive you,” I say.
“I did not ask.”
“I know. That’s also infuriating.”
“I can offer information.”
“Great. While you’re at it, here’s an idea. Try not to make it worse.”
He nods, accepting the blade I hand him because at least one of us understands what anger is for.
“The tracker tested blood response, heat response, and proximity response. It did not read your thoughts. It did not learn you. It recorded patterns. Your voice near me. Your hand signals moving the group. Your route choices after each pulse.”
“Recorded,” I repeat.
“Mapped,” he says. “Sampled. Triangulated. Not thought. Not will. The danger is not that the device wants. The danger is that someone who wants will read what it sent.”
That is worse. Worse, but cleaner. I stand and look south.
The route forward is ugly. Broken shelves of red stone. Heat pools. Old white salt lines where water once lied about staying. Plenty of places to hide a dead drop. Plenty of places to lure fools who think broken metal is finished being dangerous.
The pulse under Rhazek’s bandage gives a thin pulse.
Once.
Pause.
Again.
Not toward the tracker.
South.
Toward the receiver.
My mouth dries.
“It has a direction.”
Rhazek rises slowly. “Yes.”
Syin steps in front of him. “You are not leading.”
“No,” Rhazek says. “She is.”
Everyone looks at me. That would be flattering if it didn’t feel like being handed a burning map I don’t want. I’m not the one to take on the weight of our literal world. This isn’t… me.
I blink hard, frustration is trying to break through in tears and I will not cry. I will not. Not in front of these people. Not in front of him.
I take a breath, hold it and tighten my grip on my route slate.
“We follow south,” I say. “Wide spacing. No blood near the wrapped tracker. No one says my name if Rhazek starts glowing like bad festival jewelry. Lio and Maro, you stay behind Orek. Renn, you watch Rhazek’s wing because he won’t.
Syin, you watch everyone because you already do that for recreational reasons. ”
Syin’s expression doesn’t change, which is a tiny mercy that I’ll take. Of all of them he’s the one I expected to argue.
We move.