Chapter 11 Kara
KARA
The stone walls tremble against each blast of wind, grit pouring through cracks like water through a sieve. My teeth grind on sand. My throat rasps raw with every breath. The carcass wedged across the gap bulges inward, scales shuddering under the weight pressing from outside.
A sound rises beneath the shriek of the storm—a low, bone-deep rumble. Each time it comes, the stone seems to flinch.
“We can’t stay,” Joran rasps. His face is streaked brown with sweat and grit. He spits into the sand and coughs until his whole body shakes. “The gods-cursed rock’s coming down.”
“Stay still,” Harlan mutters, eyes squeezed shut, voice quick and frantic. “Stillness will save us. Shelter will save us.”
His prayers tumble faster, louder, as if he can drown the storm out with sheer desperation. The younger Zmaj snaps his wings against the stone, restless energy clawing at the tight space.
“He’s right. The walls are cracking.” His eyes dart to the scarred warrior, sharp, demanding. “We can’t rot in here like prey waiting for slaughter.”
The scarred Zmaj hasn’t moved. His lochaber rests steady against his shoulder, eyes locked on the carcass that shudders harder with every gust. He’s like the rocks, except somehow steadier.
Stronger. His scars tell the story of having survived worse than this, though I have no idea what those stories are.
I want to know. If we survive.
Suddenly the carcass tears.
A seam splits down its flank, grit pouring through like blood. The storm bellows through, blasting against us—a wall of sound and fury. The chamber shakes so hard I think it’ll crush us into rubble.
Harlan screams, folding over himself, prayer breaking into a sob.
The scarred warrior rises.
Not slow. Not hesitant. One moment crouched, the next braced tall, wings flaring to block the worst of the sand pouring through the gap. His head turns, just enough for his black eyes to catch mine.
Move.
No words. No gesture. Yet the meaning slams into me with all the force of the storm.
He hooks one arm around my waist and pulls me toward the gap. My feet stumble, legs weak, but his grip is steady. Behind us Joran curses, Harlan whimpers, the younger Zmaj snarls—but they follow. They have no choice.
The scarred warrior drives us into the storm.
Sand swallows me whole. It rips at my blanket, claws at my eyes, scours every inch of exposed skin, and shoves grit down my throat until I’m choking. The world is a tan-gray blur—no up or down, no sky or ground. The wind howls so loud it devours thought.
I cling to the scarred warrior, broad shoulders cutting a path through the chaos. Without him, I’d be lost in a heartbeat.
Behind me, Joran hacks curses between coughs, every word ripped away by the wind. Harlan’s voice is gone entirely, just muffled sobs swallowed by the storm. The younger Zmaj shouts something, his words lost in the gale, his wings snapping open only to be battered back down.
We run blind, feet sinking in shifting sand, grit cutting skin, lungs screaming. Every step feels like it’ll be the one that swallows me whole.
The storm isn’t just around us—it’s inside us. Grinding us down, filling every hollow with grit until there’s nothing left but dust.
And through it all, the scarred warrior doesn’t slow. Doesn’t falter. His hand on me is the only thing real, the only thing solid in a world that’s been swallowed by sand.