Chapter 4 Leena
LEENA
Air does not come back all at once.
It hits in sharp, uneven pieces, tearing at my throat as I drag it in. I cough, twisting away from the sand still clinging to my mouth. My lungs fight for something clean that is not there.
He sits me down on ground that shifts under me. Loose. Hot. Unstable. Not the loading site. Not the camp. My balance wavers as the sand gives and settles, forcing me to adjust.
Dark, but not fully.
Light filters through the ceiling, thin and uneven, in pale streaks that make everything look distorted. The space is enclosed. Tight. Curved walls of packed sand closing in on all sides.
Wrong. Everything about this is wrong. My pulse spikes as memory slams back. The ground breaking. The impact. Arms around me. I turn—and stop.
He is there. Not moving. Not looming. Just standing in the space like he belongs to it. A Zmaj.
That is the first thing that registers. The structure is right. The height. The breadth of him, even in the confined space. The shape of his horns, the line of his shoulders—then the rest of it hits. Scars. So many scars.
Not the kind that come from battle and then heal. These overlap. Cross each other. Some old, faded into the skin. Others newer, jagged, uneven. Nothing about them is orderly. Nothing about them is controlled. They look… done to him.
His wings are folded tight against his back. Too tight.
The edges are not clean. One side sits lower than the other, the membrane along it torn in places that never fully healed. When he shifts, just slightly, there is a stiffness to it. A hesitation in the movement, like something there does not work the way it should.
Damage. Long-term. My stomach twists.
He looks like something that survived being broken. And yet he stands balanced. Centered. Every line of him controlled.
And he is watching me.
Not the way someone looks at a threat. Not the way someone looks at prey. Tracking every movement I make.
I force myself to breathe slower, pushing past the instinct to run before I understand what I am dealing with.
“Who are you?”
My voice comes out rough. Shaking.
He does not answer. Does not react to the question at all. His gaze does not shift. Does not flick away. Does not soften. It holds focused in a way that makes my skin tingle.
I brush sand away, buying time to figure out what to do or say. It sticks to everything, skin, clothes, hair, and it grinds with every movement.
He does not move closer, but then he does not need to. The space is already too small. I take a careful step back, testing the ground beneath me, orienting myself.
His head tilts a fraction. Tracking. Measuring. Something about the movement catches. Not the motion itself. The way it is done. Controlled. Efficient. No wasted energy. Familiar. The thought flickers before I can stop it.
I have seen—no. Not him. But something like that.
The way someone stands when they are ready for anything. The way attention does not drift. Does not break. I frown, the feeling slipping out of reach before I can grab hold of it.
It does not matter. What matters right now is that he took me from the staging ground, right from the middle of everything. I take a breath and hold it to steady myself, squaring my shoulders.
“Where are we?”
No answer. Only that same fixed attention. Like I am the only thing in the space that matters. A slow, uncomfortable realization starts to settle. He has not attacked me. Has not threatened me. Has not even stepped closer. But he has not looked away either. Not once.
I do not move. Standing still tells me more than rushing does.
He has not attacked. Has not closed the distance. Has not done anything except watch me like he is waiting for something I have not figured out yet. That is information.
I shift my weight, testing the ground. The sand gives slightly, then settles. Unstable, but not enough to throw me off balance if I move carefully. Good.
I angle my body just enough to widen my view without turning my back on him. The slope behind him is the only way out. Everything else is too enclosed. So that is the path.
I look at it once. Then I step. Not fast. Not trying to run. Just moving. He reacts immediately. Not moving toward me, but across my path.
One smooth shift and he is no longer where he was. He is where I need to be. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just… there.
I stop. My pulse spikes, sharp and immediate.
I had not even committed to the step. I keep my expression neutral, forcing the reaction down before it shows.
“Okay,” I murmur, barely audible.
I adjust to a different angle. This time I move to the side, widening the arc instead of going straight for the slope. Testing. He moves again. Same result. No contact. No aggression. Just positioning and blocking the path before I reach it.
I exhale slowly, steadying my breathing. This is not instinct, and it is not random. He is deliberately controlling space. I turn my attention to him, studying him the way he has been studying me.
“Let me try something,” I say quietly.
Then I move again. Faster, not a full run, but enough to force a real response. He shifts instantly, stepping into my path with that same precise economy of movement. I pull up short, too close.
Close enough that I can see the faint lines around his eyes. The way the scars pull when he moves. The uneven tension along one side of his torso. The faint hitch in his breathing as he settles into position. He is constantly compensating and still faster than I am. I take a step back.
Space. I need space to think. He does not follow. Does not close the distance I just created. He adjusts again, placing himself between me and the slope. I study that for a second. Then I say, more certain now:
“You are not going to let me leave.”
The words hang there. He does not speak or answer right away. He does not need to because the space already has. Still, after a beat,
“Not safe.”
Same tone. Same certainty. I let out a slow breath, pressing my lips together as I study him.
“That is not your decision,” I say.
No reaction. Or maybe there is one, and I just do not understand it. I shift my weight again, deliberately slower this time, watching for the smallest change. Nothing. Not until I move.
I take a step, not toward the slope, but toward him. Testing something different. He stills. No retreat or advance, just watching. I close the distance by another fraction.
Close enough that I can see the faint lines around his eyes. The way his focus sharpens, not with aggression, but with something tighter. More controlled.
I stop. He does not move. Good. I tilt my head, studying him the way I would any problem I do not understand yet.
“Listen,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Whatever you think you saw out there—” his gaze shifts for a split second. Past me, above. Tracking something I cannot hear. Then back. “You are wrong.”
Nothing. No argument. No confusion. Just that same fixed attention. I take another step closer. Slow enough that he has time to react if he is going to. He does not, yet.
That flicker of something familiar tugs again. The way he holds himself. The way he does not waste movement. The way everything about him is… contained. I have seen—no. Not him. But something… I cannot put my finger on it so I push it aside.
Focus. I am in trouble here.
I lift my hand. Careful. Controlled. Slow enough to not trigger a defensive reaction.
His entire body stills. He is tense, but not aggressive. It is anticipation. I touch him, lightly, just my fingers against his forearm. For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then everything changes.
Subtle. So subtle I almost miss it.
The tension in his shoulders drops a fraction. The constant readiness eases just enough to feel. His breathing shifts and becomes deeper and slower, like something inside him has been forced into alignment.
I do not move. He does not pull away. He does not react the way I expected. No warning. No recoil. Nothing. I watch his face, searching for something that makes sense.
“Okay…” I murmur.
I pull my hand back slowly. The change reverses instantly. The tension returns. Not sharp. Not aggressive. Just… present again. Like a system resetting.
My pulse ticks up, but not in fear, with understanding. He is not reacting to me. He is reacting to everything else. I am the only thing that changes that. I glance toward the slope then back to him, recalculating.
“You think I am in danger,” I say slowly.
His gaze sharpens with recognition.
“Yes.”
The answer is certain. I stare at him. Of all the things I expected that was not one of them.
“I was not,” I say.
“You were.”
Flat. Absolute. No room for argument. I huff out a breath, something between frustration and disbelief.
“They were not attacking me.”
“Too many.”
“That is not how that works.”
“Too close.”
I drag a hand through my hair, dislodging more sand.
“You do not understand what you saw.”
Silence, but it is not empty, it is held. Something in him presses against the edges of that statement and refuses to move.
I step back. I am not retreating, but creating space. He lets me, watching. Waiting. For what, I do not know, but I am starting to understand something else. This is not random. This is not chaos. There are rules here. His rules, and I am standing inside them.
I let the space settle. Let my breathing even out. Let the rhythm of the place, of him, become something I can read instead of reacting to.
He does not move. He has not once closed the distance or tried to touch me. He just watches. I shift my weight, testing the sand again. It holds.
I angle my body, not toward him, but not fully away. Just widening my stance to give myself room. Then I look at the slope.
It is not a glance this time, it is a choice. If I am getting out of here, it is going to be because I take the moment instead of waiting for one that will not come.
I move. Fast. No hesitation. No testing. Committing to the action.
The first step lands clean. The second digs into the incline, pushing upward. He moves before I finish, and he is there.
The space closes in front of me as he steps across the slope, cutting the path with absolute precision. No wasted motion. Stopping me short.
Sand slides under my foot, forcing me to catch my balance before I lose it completely. My pulse spikes and frustration follows right behind it.
“This is not your decision,” I snap, the control in my voice slipping enough to show teeth. “You do not get to decide where I go.”
No reaction to the words, but his stance shifts slightly, not toward me, but not away.
I let out a breath, sharp and controlled, forcing myself not to push forward again just to prove a point I have already lost.
I have to think. Figure this out.
I take a step back, and he does not follow. Resetting so he is between me and the slope. I study that. The consistency of it. The precision. The complete lack of hesitation.
“You are not guarding this place,” I say slowly. “You are guarding me.”
His gaze sharpens and I see the truth in his gaze. My stomach tightens.
“I did not agree to this,” I say quietly.
No response. Because, clearly, that does not factor into his decision making. I glance at the slope then back at him. Recalculating the distance, the speed, the timing, but no matter how I play it out, he beats me every time.
I step anyway, but not fast. I make my steps measured and deliberate. One final confirmation. He moves before I finish. Not violently or aggressively, just putting himself there. Blocking the path with the same unbreakable certainty.
I do not try to push past him. I stop. Really stop. The truth settles in, cold and solid. I am not getting around him.
I lift my gaze to his and hold it. He does not look away, does not soften or change, but something in the space between us shifts. Something that feels a little too much like inevitability.
I take one slow step back, not retreating, but accepting the situation as it is right now.
He does not follow because he does not need to. He is already where he needs to be. I glance once more toward the slope then back at him, but I do not move again. Because I know exactly what happens if I do.