Chapter 4 Kara
KARA
Ijerk awake, heart thudding, the dreamless dark shattering into pale gray dawn.
The fire is nothing but ash and a few stubborn embers. Cold gnaws at my bones. My blanket has slipped half off my shoulder, but that isn’t what wakes me. It’s the sound of people muttering and moving about.
The two humans stir near the ashes, stamping their feet, rubbing stiff arms, cursing under their breath. The younger Zmaj paces restlessly, wings twitching, muttering about finding prey, though his voice cracks, thin with exhaustion.
I turn—and find him exactly where he was.
The scarred warrior remains at my side, lochaber still across his knees, gaze fixed on the canyon’s mouth.
He doesn’t seem to have moved all through the long hours of the night.
His scars catch the faint dawn light, white ridges carved deep into crimson scales, as if the night itself couldn’t wear him down.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I’d promised to share the watch. Instead, I dozed off like a child curled in a blanket while he carried the silence for both of us. Shame burns, bitter and hot. I shift, opening my mouth to stammer something—an apology, an excuse, anything.
His eyes flick to me. Just for a breath. And then, instead of scorn, he dips his chin once. A single, steady nod. The heat in my chest twists, changing shape. No longer shame, but something else I can’t name. Gratitude. Relief. A weight loosening that I hadn’t known I was holding.
“I’d eat shoe leather,” one of the humans groans, clutching his belly.
The other mutters, “We won’t last another day like this.”
My stomach growls, sharp and hollow. I press my hand against it, trying to hide the sound, but it doesn’t matter—they’re right. Water keeps us moving, but it won’t fill the ache clawing inside. The younger Zmaj paces harder, restless energy scraping at the edges of his control.
“There must be prey here. I’ll find it while you humans sit and whine.”
“Then I’ll look too. There has to be something out here we can eat,” I say, rising before I can lose my nerve.
“You’ll find supper in the rocks?” one of the men scoffs.
“Better than starving where we sit,” I snap back, fists tight at my sides.
Before they can argue further, the scarred Zmaj rises. Smooth and silent, lochaber sliding into place across his back. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. But when his gaze shifts toward the jagged line of cacti glowing faint blue against the canyon wall, my breath catches.
He starts walking. My pulse jumps. That single nod still echoes inside me, stronger than any word he could have spoken. I pull out my knife and follow.
It isn’t long before the ground shifts. Softer, sandy, but mixed with dirt. The air smells different, too—sharp, almost metallic, the kind of scent that makes the back of my throat prickle. And then I see them better.
Cacti unlike anything I’ve known crowd against the canyon wall, their spines long and thin, glowing faint blue.
Drops of sap bead at the tips, falling in slow drips that hiss and smoke when they hit the stone below.
The pods bulging along their stalks swell fat and translucent, pulsing with faint light as though something alive beats inside.
My stomach twists hard. Food. Maybe.
One of the men whistles low under his breath. “Looks like fruit.”
The other mutters, “Or poison.”
Hunger sharpens both their voices. They hover a few paces back, torn between need and fear, eyes flicking to me as though waiting to see what I’ll do. The younger Zmaj strides forward a few steps, wings twitching as he leans in close to the tallest stalk.
“Prey or food—it makes no difference. I’ll take it.”
But he doesn’t touch. His nostrils flare, and his jaw tightens as if he senses what I do—danger. I swallow hard and step closer.
The scarred warrior says nothing. Not that that’s new. He’s barely said a word since we left camp. He stands half in shadow, lochaber across his back, eyes fixed not on the fruit but on the canyon itself. Watching. Waiting.
My grip tightens on the knife. If we want to eat, someone has to try. And no one else will.
I move forward, every step crunching softly against grit. The glow from the cactus spines washes faint blue across my skin. Hunger drives me, but something else coils in my chest too—wariness, sharp and tight, like I’m walking into a trap and just waiting for it to spring.
I crouch by the lowest stalk. Up close, the thing towers over me, spines as tall as my head, each one trembling as if alive.
The pod bulging from the stalk pulses faintly, as though some hidden heart beats inside.
Sweet sap oozes down the skin in slow rivulets, dripping to the ground where it hits stone with a hiss that curls smoke into the air.
My knife wavers. I tell myself it’s only fruit, but my gut knots hard. Then I realize what’s missing.
Sound. All the sounds have stopped. No insect buzz, no skittering claws, no wings stirring the stillness. Not even the humans behind me muttering. All I hear is the faint hiss of sap and the pounding of my own pulse. The silence presses in, thick enough to smother.
I press my palm into the soft ground. My fingers brush sand aside to reveal grooves. Long, shallow furrows dragged deep across the ground, as if something heavy slid its belly here. The gouges are claw marks. Sharp. Hooked. Fresh enough that grains of grit still crumble at the edges.
My breath catches sharply in my throat. Then—scrape.
A low, deliberate drag of scales against stone. Not close enough to see, but close enough that my body knows before my mind processes it. A predator. Hunting. The sound slides from shadow to shadow, circling.
My muscles lock tight, knife clutched in a white-knuckled grip. I don’t dare breathe too loud. My eyes flick to the canyon walls, to the cactus stalks swaying faintly. No shape, no movement, but the scrape comes again—closer this time, and slower, as if whatever stalks us savors the waiting.
Behind me, one of the humans shifts, boots grinding sand and grit.
“We shouldn’t—” His voice cracks thinly. He stops when I glance over my shoulder, the warning in my stare sharper than words.
And then my gaze snags on him.
The scarred Zmaj hasn’t moved. Still as carved stone, lochaber slung across his back. His eyes are narrowed, black as obsidian, locked on the shadow where the sound coils. He knows. He’s seen it, but he doesn’t step in. Doesn’t draw steel.
He waits. For me.
The message is clear, even without a word. Stand or fall. Prove what I am or be swallowed whole. Heat flares through my veins, burning away the edge of fear. My grip steadies. My chest rises, slow, deliberate, and I turn back to the cactus with every nerve singing like a plucked string.
The scrape comes again. Louder. Closer.
And I know I’m not just reaching for food anymore.
Every muscle in my body coils tight. Knife ready. Breath shallow.
The cactus pods glow faint blue around me, their pulsing light beating like a second heart. Shadows shift between the stalks. I squint, searching, every nerve stretched so tight I swear I’ll split in two.
A hiss slices through the stillness.
Then it erupts.
The creature bursts from behind the cactus with shocking speed, a blur of bronze scales and clawed limbs. Six legs hammer the stone, belly low and armored. Its eyes gleam a sickly yellow, slit pupils snapping straight to me.
I stumble back a step, jerking my knife up. Almost too late—its jaws gape wide, needle fangs dripping venom that hisses before it even touches stone.
It spits.
A glob of burning green liquid splatters the ground where I stood a heartbeat ago. Rock sizzles, spitting smoke. My stomach lurches—if that had hit my skin…
The beast lunges, claws raking. I throw myself sideways, roll hard and come up slashing. My knife slices across one leg, shallow but enough to draw a screech.
The sound curdles the air.
It whirls, faster than it should be able to with a body that heavy. Fangs snap at me, hot venom splattering my sleeve. Cloth hisses, burning away. My skin sears where the droplets land, sharp fire racing up my arm.
I scream, not in pain or fear, but in fury, as I drive the knife again. This time I strike the soft seam between armored plates. The blade sinks shallowly, tearing loose when the creature thrashes. Blood, dark and oily, splatters across the stone.
The beast shrieks, enraged, and slams me with its forelimb. The blow sends me sprawling. Rocks gouge into my hip. My knife skitters from my grip.
No. Not like this.
I claw for the blade, fingers closing just as the monster rears back. Its throat swells, venom bubbling thick between its fangs. It’s going to spit, going to melt me down to nothing.
I lunge forward with a raw cry, knife in both hands. Pain burns my arm, venom eating fire through my veins, but I don’t care. I stab, again and again, teeth bared in defiance. I will not fold.
The blade cuts shallow grooves across its armored jaw. Not enough. Never enough. The beast rears higher, shadow blotting out the faint light of the cactus pods.
This is it.
And then—movement blurs at the edge of my vision.
The scarred Zmaj explodes into motion. One moment still, the next a storm.
He brings the lochaber down in a sweeping arc. The blade cleaves straight through the beast’s neck. Venom sprays wide, sizzling on stone, smoking in the air. I throw myself aside, coughing as the stink burns my throat.
The creature collapses with a wet crash. Its body twitches once, claws scraping futilely against the rock, then goes limp. The only sound left is the hiss of venom eating into the ground and the ragged thunder of my breathing.
I press a hand against the burn lacing my arm, teeth clenched. My chest heaves, my legs shake, but I’m still standing. And when I drag my gaze up, he’s there.
The scarred warrior stands over the carcass, lochaber dripping dark blood. His chest rises and falls evenly, not strained, as if cleaving down monsters is nothing but routine. His eyes meet mine, black and fathomless, and hold.
Not scorn. Not pity. Something heavier. My breath hitches.
I had it—I want to say—or I almost had it—but my voice won’t come. Only the pounding echo of my heart in my ears, and the truth that I’d be dead without him. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t mock but looks at me long enough that my skin burns hotter than the venom.
Then he cleans the blade with a slow, deliberate scrape against stone.
My arm burns. I pull the tattered remains of my sleeve back and hiss. The skin is raw and red, already swelling in a jagged line where the venom splattered. It throbs like fire crawling under my flesh. My fingers tremble—I tell myself not from fear—but from the sheer, blistering ache.
I crouch, knife still clutched in my good hand, unwilling to let it go. My eyes drag back to the beast sprawled across the rocks. Six legs. Scaled hide. Mouth full of fangs still dripping venom. Its sheer size makes my stomach twist.
I fought that. I stood my ground. Yet without him, I’d be nothing more than bones melting into this stone.
My throat tightens. I hate the thought of it—of needing to be saved. Of having been one heartbeat too slow. Feet crunch against grit. I look up.
The scarred Zmaj crouches in front of me, blade cleaned and set aside.
His presence fills the space, heavy as the earth itself.
He doesn’t ask permission. Doesn’t say anything.
His large hand closes gently around my wrist, turning my arm to study the wound.
His touch is rough, calloused, but careful.
I bite down on a gasp as fire shoots through my veins.
His black eyes flick up to mine. They hold, steady and unreadable, but there’s no dismissal and no contempt. Only sharp focus—and something heavier under it, something that makes my pulse trip.
He traces the burn with one claw, not touching raw skin, just hovering close as if gauging how deep the venom sank. Then he releases me and pulls a cloth from his belt pouch, ripping it into a strip with his teeth. The motion is primal, efficient.
When he binds my arm, the pressure sends fresh lances of pain through me. I choke back a sob, clenching my jaw. He tilts his head, watching, but he says nothing. The silence between us isn’t empty. It thrums, taut as a bowstring.
The weight of his presence seeps into me. The way his scars catch the light refuses to let me look away. My chest tightens, my skin prickles, and something inside me shifts. An attraction I don’t want to name, but it’s there.
I swallow hard, dragging my gaze away, forcing air into my lungs. My pride snarls against the truth. I had it. I almost had it, but my body knows the truth my mouth refuses to speak; I’d be dead without him. I know it, and he knows it, too.
Yet he doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t scold. He ties the cloth tight, checks it once with a firm squeeze, then lets my arm go. The absence of his touch somehow burns hotter than the venom.
I flex my fingers, the ache radiating up my arm, and finally meet his eyes again. For a heartbeat, I swear the air between us hums—alive, electric, undeniable.
Then he rises, retrieving his lochaber in one smooth motion. Without a word, he turns back toward the canyon’s edge, as if nothing has changed at all. But something has. I feel it thrumming through me with every pulse of my blood.