Chapter 2 Kara
KARA
The canyon is colder in the morning than it should be.
Tajss is hot—always hot—but in this canyon we’ve settled in, the cool of the nights is extreme.
The suns haven’t climbed high enough to burn the chill from the air yet.
The biting wind knifes down between the cliffs, carrying the sharp scent of stone and ash, making me shiver.
Makeshift tents flap miserably, some collapsing where the knots slipped in the night.
In the distance, a child coughs, and it seems no one has the strength to soothe him.
I close my eyes, resigning myself to another day of hunger and work, when voices rise near the center of camp.
“They came back with nothing,” a woman hisses. “We can’t keep sending hunters out blind.”
“They were too loud,” another snaps. “Scared everything off before they could get close.”
“It wasn’t that. The land is dead.”
I drift closer, hugging my arms tight. The scouting party is limping into camp, shoulders slumped: two humans and a pair of Zmaj, one of them limping, blood caked on his shin.
Their satchels hang nearly empty. One tips out a bundle of strange, waxy fruit.
The skin oozes pale sap that smokes faintly in the firelight.
“Poison,” someone mutters, pulling back.
The air tightens. Hunger presses heavy on all of us, but no one dares touch the fruit lying there, steaming like an accusation. Amara pushes forward, braid swinging, eyes sharp as blades.
“Boil water. Bind that leg. Let’s get the rest of you sitting before you collapse.”
Her voice is iron—steady, holding the whole camp together by sheer will. But even she can’t hide the thinness of her lips, the shadows under her eyes.
Behind me, someone mutters, “We should’ve stayed below. At least there were walls.”
Walls. Damp, dark, air that tasted like mold.
Like it was an option. Idiots. I bite down on the words before they escape.
That insane Shaman awoke a monster that would have killed all of us, but hunger and desperation must make that threat seem less, because the argument spreads like fire wildfire? .
People snap at each other, voices breaking with exhaustion.
Someone kicks sand at the poisonous fruit.
A Zmaj bares his teeth in warning, wings snapping open, and a human spits back that the lizards will eat first while humans starve.
I can’t stand it—the tension, the hopelessness crawling over my skin like ants.
“We need to try again,” I blurt, stepping into the open circle. My voice cracks, going higher than I want, but I force it steady. “There’s food out there—we just have to find it. Water too. We can’t sit here waiting to die.”
Dozens of eyes swing to me. Some flat. Some angry. Most dismissive. I raise my chin higher.
“Send me. I’ll go.”
“What, you think you’ll do better than men twice your size?”
A harsh laugh breaks out, bitter and tired. Heat rushes to my cheeks, but I don’t flinch.
“I think I’ll try harder.”
The mutters ripple like snakes in the grass. No one agrees. No one supports. The air is heavy with dismissal, pressing down until I can barely breathe. Amara cuts the noise with a sharp gesture. Her eyes land on me, sharp enough to pierce skin.
“No. You’ll stay.”
I open my mouth, but the look she gives me stops the words cold. Her gaze is hard, unyielding. She isn’t mocking—she simply doesn’t believe I’m capable. The assembly disperses, the camp moving on without me. Like it always does.
I curl my fists tight, nails biting into my palms, and force my face blank. The cold air stings my throat, but it’s not the wind that makes my chest ache. It’s the weight of all those eyes sliding away, as if I’d never spoken at all.
Amara has already turned, barking new orders about rationing the last of the clean water.
The Zmaj who’d snapped his wings shuts them with a final crack, muttering low to his kin.
The blanket of dismissal settles over me, heavy and suffocating.
I want to scream. I want to shake them, shout that I’ve survived every horror this cursed planet has thrown at us.
But my throat locks, my nails digging until they sting.
“You’ll have to let her try sometime,” a voice cuts across the noise.
The sound isn’t loud, but it carries—calm, steady, like someone who expects to be heard.
Rosalind.
She sits near a fire, back straight, silver-streaked hair glinting in the weak light. She hasn’t risen, hasn’t moved, but every eye flicks to her. Even Amara pauses, jaw working as she considers whether to respond. Rosalind folds her hands in her lap.
“A bird that doesn’t leave the nest never learns to fly. Better she stumble now than later, when the cost will be higher.”
The words aren’t fiery, not like mine, but they cut sharper all the same. My heart thuds. She doesn’t look at me directly, but she doesn’t have to. The weight of her attention feels like a hand between my shoulder blades.
For a moment, I let myself hope. Amara exhales through her nose, the sound sharp as flint striking.
“We’re not raising children to prove themselves out here, Rosalind. We’re trying to keep people alive. If she slows a party down, that’s more bodies dead in the sand.”
Her dismissal hollows my stomach. Then a low sound rolls across the camp. Gravel over stone. Two words.
“She comes.”
The air stills as every head, including mine, swivels to the source.
At the edge of the onlookers, the scarred Zmaj stands. His lochaber rests over his shoulder, the blade catching faint light. Scars mark his body like carved stone, jagged and cruel, but it’s his voice that chills me—rough, deep, the sound of rockslides and thunder.
Murmurs ripple. No one expected him to speak. Some of the humans draw back instinctively, as though his words themselves carry danger. Amara’s eyes narrow.
“You would take her?”
His gaze sweeps the crowd once, then settles on her.
“She comes,” he repeats, steady as stone.
It isn’t a request. It’s a verdict.
Silence hangs heavy. My pulse hammers in my ears. I don’t know if he’s doing this for me or if I’m just another burden he’s decided to shoulder, but it doesn’t matter.
Someone—finally—speaks up for me.
Amara studies him, jaw tight. For a heartbeat, I think she’ll snap even at him, forbid it just to prove she can. But then her eyes flick to the wounded, the tired, the fruit still smoking in the dirt.
“Fine,” she says at last, clipped. “But if she slows you down, you leave her behind.”
Her stare pins me like a knife. I force my chin high, even though my insides quake.
“I won’t slow anyone down.”
The murmurs start again—some scoffing, some uneasy—but I don’t care. For the first time, I’ve been given a chance.
The scarred Zmaj lowers his head and turns away without another word, as if the matter is settled. The crowd parts around him instinctively, like sand before a storm.
And me—I feel the weight of a hundred eyes on me, but this time I don’t shrink. Let them watch. Let them doubt. I will prove them wrong.
The crowd dissolves, but the heat in my chest doesn’t fade. My fists stay tight at my sides, nails digging crescents in my palms. If they want to dismiss me, keep me invisible, I’ll have to burn brighter.
I look for the warrior, but he hasn’t waited.
The scarred Zmaj is already striding toward the canyon’s mouth.
No command, no gesture—just the certainty of someone who knows the rest will follow whether they want to or not.
And they do. Amara snaps for two men to go, and one of the younger Zmaj falls in, wings twitching like he can’t sit still.
I refuse to trail behind, so I lengthen my stride and rush ahead, falling in at his side, my heart pounding with the daring of it.
“Why?” The question rasps out before I can swallow it. “Why speak for me?”
He doesn’t look down or break his stride. For a sick moment, I think he didn’t even hear, but then his eyes flick to mine—black, deep, fathomless—and the weight of them crushes the rest of my words. Whatever I thought I’d demand withers on my tongue. He looks forward again, silent.
Heat floods my neck. If he thinks that will stop me, he’s wrong. I lift my chin higher, breath sharp in the cold air. Fine. Don’t explain. I’ll prove with every step that I deserve this.
Behind us, one of the humans mutters, “She’ll only slow us down.”
The words scrape across my raw nerves, but I keep walking. I won’t give them the satisfaction of a stumble.
The canyon walls rise quick, shutting out the campfires behind us. Stone presses close on either side, cold shadows pooling between jagged cliffs. The ground shifts from loose sand to black stone veined with green that glimmers like glass under the distant suns.
An hour or more into our hunt, a plant sprouts from a crack in the wall—tall and spindly, leaves almost see-through. I slow, fascinated—until one of the men ahead lashes out with his boot. The stalk snaps. Sap oozes from the break, hissing when it hits the rock.
He curses and jerks back, wiping at his ankle. The stink of scorched fabric rises sharply.
“Crap,” I say before I can stop myself.
He spins, anger flashing, ready to spit something back—but his eyes slide past me to the Zmaj at my side. The warrior hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, but his presence alone pushes back against the man’s temper. The insult dies unsaid.
A flicker of satisfaction curls low in my chest. Not fear—pride.
For once, someone has heard me, even if it’s only because of the shadow at my side.
Above us, a cry echoes, long and low. I crane my head back.
A shape circles high, wings stretched wide, bronze scales flashing as it tilts. My skin prickles.
“Something is watching,” I whisper.
The men laugh—bitter, nervous. The younger Zmaj at the rear stiffens, wings half-furled. He knows.
The canyon narrows, forcing us into single file. My calves burn, lungs ache from the climb, but I press forward, matching the scarred warrior’s stride no matter how my body screams.
We march for what must be hours. The scarred Zmaj leads, choosing at every intersection with a quiet certainty that makes me wonder if he knows the way—if he has some destination in mind.
We go until the canyon floor dips, stone giving way to packed sandy earth darkened by damp.
The air changes with it—cooler, carrying a tang that prickles the back of my throat.
Metallic, like rust scraped on stone. For a moment I think it’s just the rock, until I hear it.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Water.
The sound threads through the group like a spark. The men exchange glances and quicken their pace. Even the Zmaj lengthens his stride. The younger one snaps his wings out half-wide, excitement in every twitch.
We round a bend, and there it is—a thin stream trickling down the cliff face, silver against the black stone. It threads through cracks into a shallow basin carved by time and thirst.
The men break into a run.
They fall to their knees before the water like worshipers at an altar, scooping with both hands, gulping before it even pools properly. The young Zmaj plunges his face against the stream itself, water running down his chin.
Relief ripples through them—greedy and raw. I don’t move. Something feels wrong. I can’t put my finger on what, but something is off. Dangerous.
I crouch, scanning the ground where the earth softens into mud around the pool. At first I think it’s only the press of their boots—but no. These marks are older, deeper. Not boots at all.
Tracks.
Three long gouges rake forward, splayed like talons, pressed deep enough to leave furrows. My hand trembles as I press it against one. Twice my span—maybe more. Whatever left them was massive, heavy enough that the ground remembers.
And the edges glisten wet. Fresh. My stomach clenches.
“Wait,” I call, louder than I mean to. The canyon throws my voice back at me in a dozen echoes. “Something’s been here.”
No one listens. Of course they don’t. The men keep drinking, gulping like animals. One laughs, the sound cracked and desperate.
I grit my teeth—not with shame this time, but with urgency. They don’t see it: the way the earth is torn, the way the marks drag forward but don’t return. Whatever drank here isn’t gone.
A shadow falls over me.
I don’t need to look to know who it is. His presence settles heavy, steady, as the scarred Zmaj crouches beside me. The scars across his face catch the faint light, white ridges carved deep into crimson scales. His eyes study the mud, unreadable, his breath slow and rasping.
Then a single grunt, low as stone grinding: “Not safe.”
The words ripple through the clearing like a thrown rock. The men hesitate mid-drink, water dripping from their hands. The younger Zmaj jerks upright, wings snapping half-open, his eyes cutting to the sky.
I keep my gaze on the mud, my mind racing. The prints go in but not out. The weight pressed so deep the edges crumble.
Above, a cry rolls long and low. Not the sharp call of desert birds, not the chatter of scavenger flocks. This sound is deeper. Older. Hungry.
My head snaps back.
A shape drifts across the cliff top, huge wings stretched wide. Bronze scales catch what little light reaches this depth, flashing once before it tilts and vanishes into shadow.
Every hair on my arms lifts.
I rise slowly, brushing mud from my fingers. Around me, the men shift uneasily, their earlier bravado curdling in their throats. One mutters under his breath, but no one dares laugh now.
The scarred Zmaj straightens too, lochaber sliding across his back. He doesn’t speak again. He doesn’t need to. His silence carries more weight than their mutters ever could.
I look back at the tracks one last time. The water darkens, rippling where the stream strikes the pool. Not much, barely a skinful—but enough to keep us alive. Enough to keep us here long enough for whatever left those marks to return.
My throat aches, dry as cracked stone, but I don’t kneel. I don’t drink. I can’t take my eyes off the ridges in the mud, the faint gleam of claws, the echo of wings above.
The others only see water.
But I see a deeper truth: Tajss doesn’t give without taking. And this gift comes with teeth.