Chapter 14 Kara
KARA
The scrape echoes again, low and deliberate, dragging across the bone.
We all freeze.
Joran mutters something rough under his breath, but his voice cracks. He shoves his back harder against the wall as if bone will protect him from whatever’s coming from deeper in. Harlan whimpers, hands clamped over his ears, prayers spilling fast and broken, more plea than faith.
The younger Zmaj bristles, wings twitching, his eyes fixed on the hollow where the sound came from. His jaw tightens, teeth bared, a hiss shivering past them.
“It is here,” he whispers. “Something is here.”
My skin prickles all over, like ants crawling beneath it. My knife feels too small in my hand, blade slick from how tightly I’m gripping it. Fear coils in my gut, sharp and hot, but I can’t move. I can’t look away from that darkness, as if the hollow itself might blink back at me.
And then I feel him.
The scarred warrior is still at his post near the mouth of the skull, but facing inside. His lochaber in one clawed hand, ready and steady. His gaze doesn’t flicker. It’s fixed, sharp as flint, aimed at the hollow. He heard it too. He knows.
Our eyes catch across the dim. My pulse stutters. The steadiness in his black gaze cuts through the panic trying to crawl up my throat. It roots me in place, anchors me like nothing else could.
“It’s the storm. Just the storm. Bones settling, that’s all,” Joran swears. His laugh comes out high and thin, brittle as glass.
“No,” the younger Zmaj growls, eyes still locked on the hollow. “That sound was alive.”
Harlan rocks harder, mumbling, “Deliver us, deliver us, deliver us.”
The scrape fades. Silence pours in heavy, thicker than before. Only the storm outside fills the gaps, rattling sand through the sockets, whistling shrill through the cracks.
I want to breathe relief. I want to tell myself Joran is right, that the skull is just shifting under the gale. But the warrior’s gaze hasn’t moved. He’s still watching, muscles taut under the scars that stripe his chest and arms, his whole body coiled like a bowstring.
If he isn’t convinced, then neither am I.
My stomach twists. Fear claws sharp, but under it, something else sparks. If he can sit steady in the face of that scrape, so can I. I force my breath slowly, matching it to his—inhale, exhale, steady.
The silence holds. No more scrape. No hiss. No shift in the shadows.
Time crawls.
The storm outside hasn’t eased. If anything, it’s grown harsher, battering the skull in rolling waves, the sound deep and resonant, like being trapped inside a drum. Every gust rattles the walls, a groan shuddering through the ancient bone that makes my teeth ache.
We sit in silence except for the storm. No one wants to talk. No one wants to name what we all heard.
My stomach knots with hunger. The scrap of dried meat I chew doesn’t help—bitter, tough, tasteless.
Harlan pushes his portion away after barely touching it, eyes sunken, lips still moving in quiet prayers.
Joran takes both scraps, muttering about needing strength, though he doesn’t sound like he believes himself.
The younger Zmaj doesn’t eat at all. He crouches near the hollow, eyes narrowed, wings twitching at every shift of sand.
I can’t stop glancing at the scarred warrior.
He hasn’t moved much since the scrape, though he’s bent his knees slightly, dropping to a ready crouch. His posture never slackens, not even when the rest of us fold into ourselves. His black eyes flick between the storm outside and the hollow behind us, sharp, measuring, unreadable.
I should look away. Staring at him feels dangerous, like touching fire. But I can’t stop.
The wound around my arm burns faintly under the pressure of the cloth. His hands did that—hands that could’ve crushed the bone in my wrist without effort, but instead wound the fabric with care. His silence is unsettling, but more and more, it also steadies.
I shift closer without meaning to, blanket drawn tight, knees brushing the curve of his leg where we sit crowding together. Heat surges up my throat at the contact. He doesn’t look at me, but he also doesn’t move away, only shifts the lochaber across his lap, the movement slow and deliberate.
For a moment, my breath catches. I swear his arm brushes mine, the faint scrape of scales against fabric, and I feel it like a jolt under my skin.
“She’s the reason we’re sitting in this cursed skull. Chasing after glowing fruit, stirring up things better left buried,” Joran grumbles, breaking the silence. His eyes are on me, sharp and mean. “It’s the reckless ones who doom the rest of us.”
My face burns. I want to snap back, but before the words can rise, the scarred warrior turns his head. His gaze locks on Joran. Nothing else—no words, no sound. Just that weight, black and fathomless.
Joran’s curses wither in his throat. He slumps back against the wall, still muttering, but quieter, his eyes sliding away. My pulse hammers. Not from Joran’s words, but from the way they were silenced. Not by me. By him.
A dangerous, forbidden thrill curls low in my chest. For once, someone chose my side. Without needing to be asked.
I can’t sit still anymore. The scrape still echoes in my head, sharper than the storm outside. Every nerve feels stretched tight, itching to move. Before I can stop myself, I rise. My knife feels small in my hand, but better than nothing.
“What are you doing?” Joran hisses. His voice cracks like he’s trying to keep it low and fails. “Sit down before you—”
I cut him a sharp glare, hoping it’s enough to silence him, and for once, he shuts his mouth.
I step toward the hollow at the back of the skull. The air is cooler, thicker, carrying the faint smell of rot and wet sand. The shadows cling harder, shifting with the flicker of storm-light through the sockets.
Footsteps follow me. Slow. Heavy. My chest tightens, but when I glance back, it isn’t Joran or the younger Zmaj.
It’s him.
The scarred warrior moves without much sound, but his presence fills the space. He doesn’t take the lead, nor does he pull me back. Instead, he shadows close enough that I feel the brush of air when his wings shift.
I swallow hard, forcing my feet forward.
The hollow narrows quickly, the curve of bone sweeping low overhead until I have to duck. My free hand skims the wall. The surface is slick with a fine layer of grit, cold against my skin. Then my fingers catch on something.
Grooves.
Deep gouges cut into the bone, ragged and sharp. Not smooth like erosion. Not cracks from age. Something clawed this. Recently. The edges crumble under my touch, the grit still loose.
My stomach flips. My breath rushes out too fast, fogging in the cold air.
Movement flickers at the edge of my vision. I whip my head around, knife up—but nothing. Only shadows stretching where the light doesn’t reach.
I press my palm against the gouges, forcing my hand steady, forcing myself to face it. Fresh. This isn’t in my head.
He crouches beside me. His body moves like a shadow, scars catching faint light, claws tracing the gouges without touching. His black eyes follow the marks, narrowing. And then, finally, he speaks.
“Fresh.”
The word rolls low from his chest, deep and certain. It lands heavier than a speech. My pulse hammers, my mouth dry, but I nod, as if I’ve earned something by standing here with him in the dark.
For once, I don’t feel small.
We retreat from the hollow, step by step, the storm’s wail filling the silence we leave behind. My chest aches from holding my breath, my fingers locked so tight around the knife that my knuckles throb.
The others stare as we return. Joran’s eyes are wide, his mouth twisting like he wants to spit another curse but can’t find the words. Harlan mutters louder, rocking again. The younger Zmaj’s gaze darts between me and the scarred warrior, suspicion sharp as claws.
I don’t say anything. I don’t need to. The word he spoke still echoes in me—fresh. The truth is carved in the gouges on the bone. Something else is in here.
The scarred warrior takes his place again at the skull’s opening. He doesn’t sit this time. He stands, with the lochaber across his chest, weight balanced, his black eyes fixed not outside, into the storm, but back toward the hollow.
I sink down near him, pulling the blanket close, my knife still clutched in my hand. My arm burns under the bandage, but I don’t let it show. If he won’t falter, neither will I.
The storm rages harder, shrieking through the skull’s crown. Sand hisses in steady streams down the walls, piling higher, edging toward our boots. The sound drills into my bones, a constant scream that frays the edges of my mind.
And then—something beneath it.
A scrape. Not faint this time. Louder. Closer.
The younger Zmaj jerks upright, wings snapping wide before he folds them tight again. His eyes flare, sharp with fear. Joran curses, shoving back against the wall. Harlan lets out a low moan, curling into himself.
I freeze, blood roaring in my ears.
The sound comes again. A slow drag of claw against bone. And then—worse—a hiss. Wet. Thick. Too deep to be wind.
I turn, knife trembling in my grip. The shadows at the far (end of the) hollow shift.
My breath knots in my throat. For a heartbeat, I swear I see them—two shapes, faintly gleaming, like eyes catching what little light seeps through the storm. Watching.
The scarred warrior moves. One step forward, lochaber angled, his body cutting between me and the dark.
His arm brushes mine as he settles into place. A deliberate touch, not accidental.
The hiss fades. Silence crashes down again. The storm shrieks.
But I know—we all know. We aren’t alone.