Chapter 7 Leena
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—
“No.”
I swallow my frustration. This is progress. Small, but it’s real. I’ll take it.
“Then how?” I press.
He tightens his jaw, narrowing his eyes, like the question itself doesn’t fit cleanly into something he can give back.
“Follow,” he says finally.
I frown.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is.”
Flat and certain. Frustration flares again, sharp and immediate, but once again I clamp it down. If I understand anything, it’s that getting angry won’t help. I shift my weight, adjusting my stance in the sand, forcing myself to slow down. Think. I have to think this through.
“You’re not explaining things because you don’t want to,” I say.
No response. I tilt my head and watch him.
“No,” I correct. “That’s not it.”
His gaze flicks back to me. Brief, but focusing on me.
“You can’t explain it,” I say.
He doesn’t confirm it, but also he doesn’t deny it.
Something in his posture shifts. It’s subtle, but enough that it leads me to believe that he’s not unwilling to share and to talk.
I think he’s not able to. Whatever has been done to him has left him restrained.
I let out a quiet breath, recalibrating.
“Okay,” I say. “Fine.”
New approach. I step a little closer—not enough to crowd, but enough to lock his attention onto me.
“What do they want?”
Silence for a long time. We march on, unstopping, his constant scanning. I wait because I see he’s thinking what to say or how to say it. Finally he speaks.
“Me.”
That makes my stomach tighten and cold spread over my back, fighting against the constant heat and pressure of Tajss.
“Why?”
A longer pause. His gaze shifts down, then away, then back. Searching, but not the environment—for the answer.
“Take,” he says.
I wait.
“Hold.”
Another beat.
“Test.”
The words are simple, but not small. I study him. The scars. The way he moves. The way nothing about him fully relaxes. Understanding begins to click into place.
“You weren’t out here,” I say slowly, alone. “You didn’t leave by choice.”
His gaze locks onto mine, hard and focused.
“Taken,” he says, quietly.
Something shifts in my chest. I don’t push it, yet, but the shape of it is there. And for the first time I’m not calculating how to get away from him. I’m trying to understand what he is.
I study him more, not just the way he moves. Not just how he watches everything like it might turn into a threat. The damage. The scars layered over scars. The way nothing about him looks like it healed clean.
“You were taken from here,” I say.
“Yes,” he says, gaze staying on mine. “Ship.”
The answer comes without hesitation or emotion. A fact, plain and simple.
“How long?”
Silence. He looks past me for a second. Not tracking the environment this time. Something else. Something internal.
“Long.”
I exhale slowly. That’s not helpful, but not meaningless either.
“You don’t know,” I translate.
I count the beatings of my heart as I wait for his response. His constant scanning continues. We stride in silence for eight beatings of my heart.
“No.”
“You said ‘ship,’” I press. “What kind of ship?”
“Above.”
His gaze flicks upward.
“You were held off-world.”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
Silence again. His jaw tightens slightly. Strain. The same as before. I stop walking, both because I’m exhausted and I want to figure this out. To understand who it is who’s kidnapped me.
“Not Zmaj,” I say.
“No.”
“Not Urr’ki.”
“No.”
That leaves—I stop. The answer doesn’t matter yet. What matters is what happened to him.
“Held,” I repeat. “And tested.”
“Yes.”
I glance down at his arm without meaning to. At the scars that don’t follow any pattern I recognize. At the places where the skin looks… wrong.
“How?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even try this time, but his shoulders tighten. I don’t push that one further yet. Instead I ask the question that’s been building since he said taken.
“Did they know you were gone?”
His gaze snaps back to mine. Sharp. Anger flares in his eyes.
“They?”
“Your people,” I clarify. “The others. Zmaj.”
“Yes.”
“Did they look for you?”
Silence, but different this time. It’s not strain or confusion; it’s stillness.
Absolute stillness. I hold, watching him and waiting.
The wind shifts across the dunes, dragging sand in thin lines around our feet.
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t break, but I feel it before he says it. That something just changed.
“Did anyone come for you?” I ask, rephrasing the question.
Quiet. Careful. The answer comes just as steady as everything else he’s said.
“No one came.”
No anger. No bitterness. No visible reaction at all. Just another fact, but it hits hard. Harder than it should be, and I don’t know why.
I don’t know him. I shouldn’t be concerned, but I am.
Something tightens in my chest, sharp and unexpected.
Because I know, on some level, what this means.
Not just that he was taken. That he was gone long enough for it to matter.
Long enough that if anyone was going to find him, they would have. And they didn’t.
I swallow, forcing my thoughts back into something useful.
“Things changed here,” I say, more controlled now. “Before we got here. The planet—there was a war. People died. Systems collapsed. They might not have known where to look.”
His gaze doesn’t shift or soften. Doesn’t change at all.
“I know.”
The words are spoken with a finality that isn’t defensive or questioning. They sound more like acceptance. I blink, thrown off by the response.
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“Then you—”
I stop, because there’s nothing else to say to that. He already decided what it meant. A long time ago, or so it seems. I look at the way he stands. At the way nothing in him bends around that truth. And I don’t try to correct it, because I’m not sure I can.
“What’s…” I pause, swallowing before finishing the thought. Do I want to know this? It will change things. I grind my teeth, then shake my head. “What’s your name?”
His head jerks around, eyes locking on me. He stares, in what I can only assume is disbelief. That utter, unbelievable stillness is back. He doesn’t blink. I don’t think he breathes. Then, several heartbeats later, his tail twitches, throwing sand into the air.
“Kaelreth,” he says, barely a whisper.
I nod, and despite myself, a smile forms.
“Leena,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest. “Can’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but…”
I trail off, unsure how to end that. He watches closely. Then a faint smile plays over his lips. He nods slowly as the silence settles between us again, but it’s different. He’s not just the one who took me. He’s not just the one keeping me alive. He’s something else.
Something that was lost and never found. I draw in a slow breath, steadying myself. This isn’t just about getting away from him any longer, and I’m not sure what to do with that.
He turns and we move, not because he tells me to, but because standing still doesn’t change anything.
The dunes stretch out ahead, the light harsher as the suns rise higher. The heat presses in from all sides. My steps are slower, not from uncertainty, but from fatigue. It’s settling in deeper, harder to ignore.
He shifts his pace to compensate. I don’t comment on it. I don’t thank him, but I don’t miss it either.
We crest another rise, the wind dragging sand across the surface in thin, shifting lines that blur the edges of everything. My footing slips and I catch myself, forcing my balance back under control before it turns into something worse, but my leg doesn’t fully recover.
The strain lingers. I take another step.
Then another. The third one falters. Not a fall, just a hitch.
He’s there immediately. His hand closes around my arm, steadying.
Holding me in place until my footing settles again.
I stiffen instinctively, then stop. He’s not forcing anything.
Just… keeping me upright. I exhale slowly.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Not.”
Flat and certain. I almost argue, but then I don’t, because he’s not wrong. I pull my arm back gently, creating a small amount of space.
“I can walk,” I say instead.
He watches me for a second longer, measuring, then releases. We move. Slower and more controlled.
The terrain shifts, the sand firmer in places, looser in others. The wind picks up, carrying heat with it, drying my throat further with every breath. I swallow, trying to ignore it. Trying to push through it, but it doesn’t work.
My pace drops further. Less than before, but enough. He adjusts. Again. I glance at him, irritation flickering before I can stop it.
“I don’t need you to—”
I stop, because I do, and we both know it. Instead, I exhale slowly and shift my focus forward. Keep moving. That’s what matters.
A few more steps. Then I reach for him. Not thinking. No plan. Just—need.
My hand closes around his forearm, and the change hits the same way it did before, but stronger this time. His entire body stills for a fraction of a second, not in resistance, not in tension, but in alignment. His breathing slows and deepens.
The constant edge under his movements eases enough that I feel it through the contact. Through the way his arm shifts under my hand, not pulling away, not reacting, just… stabilizing. I steady myself at the same time.
It’s not just physical. Everything settles. My pulse and breathing, but also the tension that’s been sitting too high since the moment he took me. I don’t pull away and neither does he. We stand for a second longer than necessary.
Connected. Balanced.
Then I let go.
The shift reverses, but it’s not as sharp or as immediate on its return. That underlying readiness. That constant awareness. I watch it happen. Track it. Understand it.
“You need that,” I say quietly.
It’s not a question. His gaze drops briefly to where my hand was. Then back to my face.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t hesitate or try to deny it. I nod once, more to myself than to him.
“Good to know.”
The words are steadier than I feel, because that changes things. Not everything, but enough. I look ahead, then take another step forward. He matches me exactly, side by side. I don’t look at him, because now I understand something.
He keeps me alive. I keep him steady. And neither of us is getting out of this without the other.