Chapter 17 #2
I try to fix my attention on the horizon, on the ragged ridges barely visible through the grit. But the truth curls hot in my chest. I want him to look again. I want him to see me, not just as someone surviving beside him but as someone worth standing with. Worth keeping.
The thought terrifies me. I shove it down, deeper than hunger, deeper than fear.
The dunes shift beneath our feet, rolling ridges groaning as the wind slides grit from their peaks. For a dizzy moment, it feels like the ground itself wants to swallow us.
And then Joran stumbles hard, his curse sharp enough to echo off the sand. He lurches sideways, boots skidding, and I spin toward him just as he disappears into a hollow carved beneath the drift. His scream tears the air raw.
“Joran!” Harlan shouts, stumbling forward. His voice cracks into panic, high and useless.
The younger Zmaj spreads his wings with a snap, grit spiraling around us, and lunges toward the hollow.
“Idiot!” he snarls, half to Joran, half to the storm.
I’m already moving. My boots skid in the shifting sand as I drop to my knees at the edge.
The drift has collapsed into a shallow pit, its sides crumbling and sliding.
Joran lies twisted at the bottom, his leg bent wrong—so wrong it makes my stomach twist. Bone presses sharp beneath the skin, the sight of it enough to make bile sting the back of my throat.
He thrashes, cursing, spitting sand. His eyes roll wild with terror, his hands clawing at the empty air.
“I’ve got you,” I say, the words rushing out before I think. My voice sounds thin, trembling, but I force it steady. I reach for him—hesitate, then press my hand to his shoulder, trying to still his thrashing. “Stop moving. You’ll make it worse.”
“Worse?” His laugh is a broken bark. “It’s already ruined! Damn sand, damn bones—get me out!”
Harlan hovers at my back, muttering prayers louder, like they’ll stitch the bone together by sheer force of sound. The younger Zmaj crouches low, wings folded tight, eyes flicking between Joran’s twisted leg and the scarred warrior who looms above us all.
Because he’s there, of course. Silent, steady, black eyes fixed on the injury. He doesn’t flinch at the sight. Doesn’t rush forward. He watches, measuring.
I meet his gaze, heart pounding, waiting for him to speak, to decide, but he doesn’t. He leaves it hanging there—for me. My hands tremble as I slide one beneath Joran’s arm.
“Help me,” I snap, more to myself than anyone else.
The younger Zmaj moves quickly, bracing the other side, and together we haul him half upright. Joran screams, the sound raw enough to scrape my bones, and I grit my teeth against it.
The scarred warrior shifts at last, stepping forward. Not to comfort, not to scold—acting on my request. He crouches low, his massive shadow falling over all of us, and his hands move with slow, deliberate care.
He takes one of the blankets and uses his claws to tear long strips, efficient and sure. He binds Joran’s leg tight above the break. Each tug draws another curse, another scream, but he doesn’t pause or falter.
I can barely breathe; my chest is squeezed tight. When his arm brushes mine as he knots the bandage, something inside me calms. He looks up, both of us knowing that Joran will never walk like this.
Joran’s breath comes in ragged bursts, each one punctuated by a hiss of pain. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the grit-stung chill, sliding down through the dust caked to his skin. He clutches at me, fingers digging into my arm like claws, his eyes wide and wild.
“Don’t let him—” he pants, jerking his chin toward the scarred warrior, “don’t let him touch me. Lizard’ll finish what the sand started.”
His words burn hotter than the sun, but I don’t shake him off. I can’t. I press my hand over his, calming him.
“Seriously? He’s binding it so you don’t bleed inside yourself, idiot,” I mutter, but my voice is softer than I mean it to be.
Joran’s curses crumble into groans as the scarred warrior tightens the last knot, the makeshift splint holding the leg straighter. The Zmaj’s face doesn’t change, not even when the man’s spit lands near his wrist. He just ties the cloth, pulls once to test its hold, and sits back on his heels.
The younger Zmaj crouches low on the other side, his nostrils flaring, wings twitching in irritation.
He mutters something in his own tongue, sharp consonants like snapped stone.
His gaze flicks from the bound leg to the dunes ahead, then back again.
He doesn’t need to say it aloud—the truth is pressing down on all of us.
Harlan drops to his knees, beads rattling, his muttered prayers rising faster, louder, almost frantic now.
“Mercy, mercy, mercy,” he chants, rocking as though the rhythm itself will hold the bone in place.
I shift back, sand grating beneath my boots, my stomach tight with more than hunger. The splint will keep Joran alive, but alive isn’t the same as moving. Alive isn’t the same as surviving out here, where every step counts.
I glance at the scarred warrior. He doesn’t speak. He might not waste words, but the weight in his eyes says enough. We can’t carry Joran and keep searching for food. We can’t do both.
My throat closes. The truth feels like a knife.
The wind moans across the dunes, carrying grit that stings my eyes. Or maybe it isn’t the wind—maybe it’s just me, blinking too hard against what’s right in front of me.
Joran keeps muttering curses through his teeth, though each one weakens, slipping into groans. His face has gone gray beneath the dust, lips cracked, jaw tight with pain he can’t spit out fast enough to ease.
Harlan hovers, wringing his beads so hard I half expect the cord to snap. His prayers falter and restart, tumbling over themselves. He looks at me once, his eyes wide, desperate, like I have an answer he’s too afraid to speak.
I wish I did, but I don’t.
The younger Zmaj stands, restless, tail lashing behind him.
His wings twitch like they want to spread, to carry him up and away from this mess, but he stays crouched low, jaw clenched.
His gaze flicks to me for the briefest second.
Waiting. Measuring. As if he knows the choice is mine to make, even if no one says it aloud.
And the scarred warrior—he doesn’t move. He’s still crouched by Joran, his lochaber slung across his back, his scarred face unreadable. He doesn’t need to speak. The truth sits there between us, heavy as stone.
I wrap my arms around myself, fingers digging into the rough weave of my blanket. The bandaged arm aches, a dull throb, but it isn’t pain that knots my stomach—it’s the weight of knowing what comes next.
We can’t drag him with us. We can barely drag ourselves.
And food—water—something to keep the rest of the survivors alive waits out there. If we go back now, empty-handed, we’ve lost everything. If we stay here, he dies. If we move forward with him, we all die.
My eyes sting harder. I want someone else to say it, to take the words from me, but when I look around—Harlan muttering, the younger Zmaj scowling, Joran groaning—it isn’t their eyes I find an answer.
It’s his.
The scarred warrior’s gaze pins mine, steady, relentless, as if he can see straight through me. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t let me look away. He just waits.
For me.
For my choice.
My chest clenches so tight it feels like I might split. Because in that silence, I know—I can’t run from it anymore. Joran lets out another ragged cry as the splint shifts, sweat rolling down his temples. He grabs at me again, wild-eyed.
“We can’t go on. We go back. All of us. Now!”
Harlan nods too fast, clutching his beads so tight his knuckles go white.
“He’s right—we can’t leave him. We turn back, we find the others, we wait for rescue. Tajss won’t—” His voice cracks and falters, the words breaking like dry twigs.
“Rescue?” The younger Zmaj’s laugh is sharp, humorless. His wings flare wide before folding tight again. “There is no rescue. Only strength or death. Dragging him with us means death for all of you.”
His tail lashes the sand, punctuating every word.
“Shut your scaled mouth,” Joran snarls, spittle flying. “You’d leave us to rot? You think you’re better?”
The younger Zmaj steps forward, crouching so close his eyes flash like black fire.
“Better? No. But faster. Stronger. Alive.” His voice drops, almost a growl. “You want mercy? Mercy is I take you back before the desert eats you whole.”
“Stop!” My shout tears out of me before I can stop it, my throat raw. My pulse hammers as all three faces swing toward me—the younger Zmaj’s fierce, Joran’s desperate, Harlan’s pleading. And beyond them, the scarred warrior, still and silent, eyes fixed on me.
I force air into my lungs, my hands trembling against the blanket.
“We can’t carry him. We can’t all go back. If we do, everyone at camp starves. But if we leave him here, he dies.” The words taste like ash. “So… so we split.”
Joran barks a laugh, ugly and sharp. “Split? You think I’ll let you abandon me?”
“You don’t have a choice,” the younger Zmaj snaps. His wings twitch again, restless, but his voice steadies, turning deliberate. “I’ll take them. Him and the weakling who clings to beads. We’ll limp back. You two go on. Find food. If you fail, we’re in trouble anyway.”
Harlan gasps, his beads slipping between his fingers. “No, no, I can’t—I don’t—”
“You can,” the younger Zmaj growls. “You will.”
The silence that follows is worse than shouting. Sand whispers over itself in the dunes, the wind moaning like a distant voice.
I look at Joran, pale and sweating. At Harlan, shaking and whispering prayers he doesn’t believe. Then at the younger Zmaj, defiant, strong despite his restless twitching. And finally at him.
The scarred warrior.
He hasn’t spoken once. When his eyes meet mine, everything in me settles, locking into the rightness of the decision. This is what he wanted me to see all along—that I had to choose. That I could choose. My throat is tight, but I nod.
“Take them back. Keep them alive.”
The younger Zmaj grunts, sharp and short, then crouches to haul Joran up by the good arm. Joran curses, screams, but the Zmaj’s grip is iron. Harlan scrambles to follow, torn between fear and obedience.
I step back as they pass, sand sliding around my boots. My chest aches as their shapes blur into the haze, each step dragging them farther until they’re gone.
The silence after is crushing. Only the wind remains. And him.
The scarred warrior turns his head, his gaze heavy on me. My heart kicks against my ribs. Alone. It’s just us now.
And somehow, despite the hunger clawing my stomach and the ache in my arm, that thought doesn’t terrify me.
It thrills.