Sarven’s Oath (Barbarians of the Dust #3)

Chapter 1

GOLDEN RETRIEVERS OF THE APOCALYPSE (WITH MORE ABS)

MIKAELA

If I squint hard enough, the central fire almost looks like a fireplace.

Almost.

If I pretend the cave walls are exposed brick instead of sun-baked rock, and I angle myself just right so the piles of sand-dusted bones near the cooking area drop out of sight, I can imagine I’m back in my tiny apartment kitchen on Earth.

Maybe it’s winter. Maybe a real pot of soup is simmering on a proper stove. Maybe there’s coffee.

And maybe the sky is green and unicorns herd themselves past my window on their way to the subway.

“That looks like it’s…” Pam trails off, brow furrowing as she eyes the stew I’m cooking.

She’s perched on the rounded boulder that’s somehow become her personal throne in our makeshift kitchen nook.

She moves slowly, carefully, fingers weaving her blonde hair into a loose braid while she hums under her breath.

It’s an absentminded tune with no real melody, but three Drakav have edged closer, pretending to check the firestones so they can stand there and listen.

Pam, even here on a desert planet, with constant headaches and a side of fever dreams, still gives off warmth. Gentle, unselfconscious kindness that somehow survived being lied to by aliens and dumped on a world made of sand.

“It’s fine,” I say, which is a bald-faced lie.

The stew bubbles in the stone pot, thick and…alarming. The firebloom petals I added for “flavor” have turned everything into an aggressive, radioactive orange that screams food poisoning, not dinner. The surface burps with a wet pop as another bubble breaks.

I brace my feet and heft the communal ladle again.

It’s carved from a single massive bone, polished smooth by years of use.

It’s beautiful. It’s also ridiculously heavy.

The handle is as thick as a pickaxe handle and clearly meant for a seven-foot warrior grip.

I’ve got to use both hands just to stir without sloshing lava-orange stew everywhere.

I nudge a chunk of meat, watch it sink, then rise again.

By the time I finish cooking dinner, I’m going to need a wrist brace. Maybe a personal massage therapist. I make a mental note to find a smaller bone and carve myself a spoon that doesn’t require upper-body training to operate.

I look back down at the bubbling pot. “It just needs…something.”

“A miracle?” Erika suggests without looking up. “Its key ingredient is a giant iguana.”

She’s kneeling nearby, dark hair yanked back in a no-nonsense ponytail as she crushes dried gourd flesh in a shallow stone bowl.

Where Pam is quiet sunshine, Erika is cold realism.

Between the three of us, we form a sort of balanced ecosystem: optimism, practicality, and me, the stubborn weed trying to turn alien lizard into comfort food.

“Maybe add some of those herbs Jacqui found last week?” she adds.

“Those made Tina throw up for an hour.”

Erika wrinkles her nose. “Right. Not those, then.”

To my left, there’s a low, rough sound. One of the Drakav forces a single word out of his throat. He grimaces, the simple act of forcing a word through his vocal cords clearly painful. My Xyma earbud pulses warm against my skin, and the familiar artificial translation curls into my ear.

“Hot,” the cool, genderless voice whispers.

I glance over. The male has stepped between Alex and a rogue firestone that popped out of the main blaze.

The thing is glowing and dangerous, like a tiny piece of a dragon’s fire.

The Drakav warrior doesn’t shove her; he just extends one massive hand behind her back, fingers spread wide, palm hovering a good three inches from her spine.

He steers Alex with the air pressure of his palm alone, looking terrified that if he actually touches her, the world will explode.

Behind him, several other Drakav very pointedly do not stare. They pretend to check spears, to weave more sleeping mats, to patrol. It doesn’t matter. Their attention is as obvious as heat.

They’ve learned that direct staring makes most of us twitchy, so now they watch us without watching us. Or they think they do. The result is a cave full of men who absolutely are not looking…while their entire focus is on us.

The central fire throws gold and red across everything.

In the middle of it all, Kol sits on his low stone seat, expression unreadable.

His shoulders seem loose, but there’s something in the way he holds himself.

The absolute stillness of a hawk on a high branch, seeing everything that moves below.

He doesn’t move much. He doesn’t have to. The air seems to move around him.

My gaze slides his way without my permission. The instant it does, his eyes find mine.

It’s unnerving how fast that happens. As if he hears my attention, like I whispered his name.

I jerk my chin away, a nervous chill going down my spine.

Every time. It’s like that every time.

Haroth, at least, is easier to handle. He crouches in front of Tina the way an eager Labrador might, broad shoulders hunched, ears perked up, eyes hopeful.

He carefully nudges a jagged piece of quartz toward her with one clawed fingertip.

I don’t need the mindspace translation to guess what he’s saying: Shiny. Pretty. For you.

Ever since they learned about wedding rings, some of the unbonded males have decided rocks are the pinnacle of romantic gifts. Apparently, that’s all they took away from an entire cultural explanation. I’ve shoved three sparkly “proposals” out of my sleeping area this morning alone.

To their credit, at least, the other biological instincts are kept more discreet.

Mostly. Rumor has it Tharn’s new impressive “ridge” is a hot topic in the mindspace, but the rest of the Drakav are still smooth and sealed from the waist down.

Nothing showing, just an expanse of golden skin. Thank God.

Perfectly respectful. Perfectly hidden.

And I am definitely not thinking about what’s behind that smooth stretch of skin.

At all.

It’s a lot to process without caffeine. There is no coffee here, obviously. The universe has a sense of humor, and it is cruel.

“That’s the third time today one of them has actually spoken out loud,” Erika murmurs, scattering the crushed gourd into a storage pouch.

“It’s sweet,” Pam says quietly. She keeps braiding, fingers steady, her voice soft as she watches Alex and the male by the fire. “They know it hurts them to talk, but they still do it when they’re worried about us. I just wish they weren’t so scared of these.”

She taps lightly on the earbud tucked beneath her pale hair.

“To them, it’s not tech.” I shrug, rolling my shoulders. The ladle’s weight is starting to dig into my palms. “It’s magic. Dangerous magic. I can’t blame them for being suspicious.”

Erika huffs, the corner of her mouth quirking. “A certain group of people on a certain blue planet wouldn’t be stranded on a desert ball if they’d been a little more suspicious of strange, beautiful aliens who turned up out of nowhere.”

She’s not wrong.

We were the plebs who trusted the strange, beautiful aliens. The Xyma. We believed what they said, stepped onto their ship, and signed up for their job program with wide eyes and hope.

Now we’re here. In a cave that smells like smoke and hot stone, with constant headaches and fevers and dreams too vivid to feel like our own.

The Xyma are somewhere in the sky. Or not.

We don’t know. What we do know is sand, and heat, and the way the Drakav watch us like they’re afraid and mesmerized at the same time.

My head gives a small throb at the thought, and I wince. Pam notices.

“How’s your head?” she asks gently.

“Fine.” I make my voice light. “The fever’s not as bad today.”

I do not mention the dreams.

The fever-dreams that leave me waking up breathless, skin too tight, heart slamming as if I’ve been chased. Dreams full of heat that have nothing to do with the planet’s blazing sun. Dreams with red eyes watching me from the shadows and large hands cupping the back of my neck and pulling me in.

Just fever dreams, I tell myself. That’s all they are.

Nothing to do with the very real Drakav hunter who has been watching me for weeks.

“Same here,” Erika says. “Headache’s kind of background noise now. But I could live without the weird dreams.”

I concentrate very hard on pushing the ladle through the thick broth to keep the stew from burning. My cheeks feel hot. Good thing my skin hides most of it. “Weird dreams are totally normal for alien planet sickness,” I say. “Textbook symptom.”

“I dreamed about my grandmother’s kitchen,” Pam murmurs. Her eyes go distant, a smile softening her mouth. “She was making her apple pie. I could smell the cinnamon.”

“I dreamed about a beach.” Erika snorts. “Waves, sand, sun. Don’t know why my brain is so stuck on sand, like we don’t have enough of that already.”

They both look at me, waiting.

My mind offers up images I absolutely do not want to say out loud: a dark corridor, my back pressed against warm stone, a larger body caging mine without touching, breath hot against my throat. Red eyes tracking every twitch of my mouth.

“I…don’t really remember mine,” I lie. The flush in my cheeks creeps higher, no matter how I will it down.

No one needs to know I’ve been dreaming about a certain hunter with crimson eyes and a scar that goes down the side of his face. About the way he moves through the caves like he’s part of the darkness. About careful, clawed hands and the quiet way he watches me as if I’m the only thing in the cave.

Absolutely not sharing that.

“Speaking of dreams,” Pam says, her smile returning, brighter now. “There’s a Drakav that’s been looking over here.”

I narrow my eyes. “And what does that have to do with dreams?” But her grin widens, and I know exactly where this is heading. I point the thick end of the ladle at her. “Don’t.”