Chapter 9 Kara
KARA
Sand and blood sprays across me.
I throw myself sideways, blanket ripping from my shoulders as a horn crashes down where I was. Stone splinters, grit searing my cheek. The stink of blood floods the shelter, thick and choking.
A hiss rattles the air. A beast is inside.
Six clawed limbs slam against the stone floor, its scaled body writhing halfway through the gap. Its horns scrape sparks from the walls as it forces itself deeper, eyes glowing a sickly yellow. Venom streams from its fangs, dripping onto the ground.
Joran screams. Harlan yanks him back, both of them cramming into the farthest corner. The younger Zmaj snarls, wings snapping wide, claws raised, but the space is too tight—he can’t launch himself without crushing us all.
The scarred warrior doesn’t hesitate. He moves like he was waiting for this exact moment.
His lochaber arcs down in a vicious sweep, biting deep into the beast’s neck. Blood sprays hot across the stone, sizzling where it hits sand. The creature screeches, twisting against the blade, its claws raking sparks as they gouge the wall.
I lunge forward before I can think. Knife tight in my hand, I stab at the joint of its leg where scales thin. The blade sinks, shallow but true. The beast jerks, a shrill hiss spilling from its throat.
The scarred warrior doesn’t glance at me, but his stance shifts, enough to keep the lochaber braced while leaving room for me. As if he expected me there.
The creature thrashes, its head snapping low. Fangs slam against stone, inches from my face, venom splattering across the rock with a hiss. My burned arm flares white-hot as droplets strike my bandage. Pain lances deep, but I don’t stop.
I drive the knife in again, screaming wordless fury, ripping the blade free as the beast jerks sideways. My arm burns, my lungs sear, but I keep stabbing.
The younger Zmaj roars, finally surging forward. His claws rake down the beast’s flank, tearing scales loose in ragged strips. Blood gushes, slick and dark. The creature lashes out, tail slamming against the wall, the whole spire shuddering under the impact.
Sand pours in. The storm howls louder, as if it’s feeding the fight.
The scarred warrior twists his lochaber free and slams it down again, this time hooking the blade behind the beast’s horn. With a brutal wrench, he yanks its head sideways, exposing its throat.
“Now!” he growls.
I move without hesitation, driving my knife into the soft seam where neck meets jaw. The blade sinks to the hilt. The beast convulses, shrieking, claws tearing furrows into the stone floor.
And then the lochaber falls.
The scarred warrior cleaves the blade through its exposed throat. The shriek cuts off in a wet gurgle. The creature collapses heavily into the shelter, body twitching once before it slumps still.
Silence.
Only the storm remains, shrieking outside, sand whipping past and finding its way inside.
I slump back against the stone, chest heaving, clutching the knife in a shaking hand. Blood slicks my blade, my fingers, the front of my tunic. My breaths come ragged, sharp, but I’m alive. Alive because we fought together.
The scarred warrior stands over the carcass, lochaber dripping dark blood. His chest rises steadily, not frantic. His eyes flick to me, holding for a beat too long.
Not pity. Not dismissal. Something heavier.
Heat surges up my throat. I drag my gaze away, pressing my hand to my burning arm. My knife in the other is trembling, but steady enough to cut again if I must.
Joran makes a broken sound from the corner.
“Gods save us,” he whispers, his face pale as chalk. Harlan presses a hand over his mouth, his own eyes wide, wet with fear.
The younger Zmaj crouches near the carcass, his claws dripping with blood. His chest heaves, wings trembling. He glares at me first, then at the scarred warrior, fury sparking behind his eyes, but he doesn’t speak.
The storm shrieks on.
I shift my weight, knife still ready, gaze locked on the gap the carcass no longer fills. The storm drives grit in steady streams. Beyond the haze, shapes still move.
We killed one, but not all.
The scarred warrior seems to sense it too. He plants his lochaber against the stone, scars catching the dim light, his dark eyes never leaving the storm.
The fight isn’t over. Not even close.
The beast lies half across the floor, its scaled bulk steaming in the cool draft that cuts through us. Blood pools black in the dim light, thick and sticky, seeping into the grit. The stink is overwhelming—metal and venom and something sharp, almost electric, that makes the back of my throat burn.
I can’t tear my eyes from it. My arm shakes harder, my burned skin screaming under the bandage, but I won’t let go. If I do, it will feel too much like surrender.
My chest heaves with ragged breaths. The fight lasted only moments, but it’s carved itself into me, raw and permanent.
I still hear the shriek of its fangs snapping inches from my face.
Still feel the way the scarred Zmaj’s presence filled the gap beside me, lochaber rising and falling in arcs of brutal precision.
We killed it together. I killed it too.
But the victory tastes like ash. Because outside, the storm shrieks louder than ever. And in the gaps between the gusts, I hear the scrape of claws and the guttural hiss of more predators circling.
We aren’t safe. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Joran whimpers in the corner, his back pressed flat against the wall.
“Gods save us,” he repeats, over and over, his voice a cracked litany.
“Shut it,” Harlan snarls, but his own face is pale, his eyes wide and wild. His hands twist in the fabric of his cloak like he’s trying to wring a prayer out of it.
The younger Zmaj crouches near the carcass, claws dripping dark blood, wings trembling with restrained violence.
His chest heaves like he’s run a league, his gaze sharp and angry.
He doesn’t look at the dead beast for long.
His glare slides straight to me, hot and sharp, then flicks to the scarred warrior standing steady at the gap.
Something dangerous burns in his eyes. Not just anger. Jealousy.
I press harder against the stone, forcing myself to breathe. My burned arm throbs with each heartbeat, but worse is the tight pull in my chest every time I risk a glance at him—the scarred warrior.
He hasn’t moved from his post by the entrance. His lochaber drips blood steady onto the stone, his stance unshaken, his gaze locked into the storm. He doesn’t flinch at the howling wind, the tearing sand, the shadows sliding outside. He is still. Solid.
A wall I want to lean against.
Heat rises under my skin, sharp and unwanted. My mouth is dry, my heart hammering too hard. I don’t know if it’s the fight, the storm, or him. Maybe all of it.
The younger Zmaj’s growl rumbles low, dragging my attention back.
“We can’t stay boxed in,” he snaps, voice sharp with frustration. “They’ll keep testing until they break through.”
“You want to go out there?” Joran asks, snapping his head up. His laugh is high and broken. “You’re mad.”
“Better mad than prey.” The younger Zmaj’s claws scrape sparks from the stone as he gestures with one hand.
The scarred warrior doesn’t turn or speak, but one subtle shift of his shoulders, one flicker of those black eyes, holds the younger Zmaj still. That silence says more than any order could.
I clutch my knife tighter until my fingers ache.
The storm presses against the shelter in waves, sand tears through the cracks, assaulting exposed skin, piling into small drifts at our feet.
My lungs burn with each breath of grit, but it isn’t the storm that makes my skin prickle.
It’s the weight of the scarred warrior’s silence.
And then his gaze flicks to me, just for a heartbeat, and something hot twists low in my stomach. My chest tightens. My breath stumbles. Not pity. Not dismissal. Not even command. Something better, more. Darker.
My cheeks burn. I look away quickly, clutching my bandaged arm. My skin pulses under the cloth, venom burn throbbing in rhythm with my heartbeat. I can’t stop trembling, though I tell myself it’s only exhaustion.
The beast’s blood drips thick, each drop echoing in my ears.
Joran mutters, Harlan’s lips move in frantic prayer, the younger Zmaj bristles like a caged predator.
But all I feel is him—looming at the gap, scars catching the dim light, eyes unreadable, presence filling the cramped space like a second heartbeat.
We’re alive. For now. But the storm isn’t passing.