Chapter 13
AMY
My stomach is trying to eat itself.
It’s past hunger—gone straight to the teeth-gritting, stomach-acid-hissing phase. We’re down to one ration pack between us, and I’ve been staring at it for the last ten minutes like it’s going to multiply if I glare hard enough.
It doesn’t.
Darun’s sitting cross-legged near what used to be a wall.
His back’s to the wind, arms folded across that massive chest like he’s sculpted from leftover fury.
The silver glint of the bandages on his shoulder catches the starlight.
Still bleeding, maybe. He hasn’t said a word about it since I patched him up.
I dig into my pack and pull out the last ration. The wrapper crinkles loud in the dead silence, like I just committed a felony. I look over at him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even look.
“Hey,” I say. “You hungry?”
“Don’t be stupid,” he grunts.
“I’m serious.”
“You’re smaller. You eat.”
I arch a brow. “Wow. Generous and insulting in one sentence. Impressive.”
He exhales sharp through his nose. “Just eat.”
I tear the pack open and the smell hits me—salty, synthetic, vaguely nutty. Protein mush. Probably Alzhon-manufactured. It’s the kind of food designed to keep you alive, not happy.
I scoop out a bite with the edge of the wrapper and chew. It’s dry. Chalky. The aftertaste is something like copper and fake lemon. My body groans in grateful agony anyway.
I take another bite, then fold the top down and toss the rest toward him.
It lands beside his boot.
He looks at it like it’s a bomb.
“I said eat,” I tell him. “Unless you’re planning on carrying me the rest of the way when I collapse.”
He doesn’t move.
I sigh. “Fine. If you die of stubbornness, I’m not writing you a nice epitaph.”
That gets a twitch. Then he picks up the wrapper.
“Half?” he asks.
I nod. “I’m not a martyr.”
He eats slowly, like he’s not sure he trusts the food. Or maybe me. But he finishes it. Doesn’t say thank you. The silence is different now. Less survival. More… shared oxygen.
The wind rattles through the depot’s broken ceiling, sending loose wires ticking against metal beams like a half-forgotten lullaby.
I lean back on a crate, arms behind my head.
My spine pops. My hips ache. My skin itches from grit and sweat.
I’ve never been filthier in my life, and I kind of don’t care.
Darun shifts beside me. Not a lot. Just enough for the air to feel warmer.
“So,” I say, “do we rate this as ‘miserable’ or ‘truly fucked’ on the official survival scale?”
“Is that an Earth thing?”
“It’s an Amy thing.”
“Hm.”
“Not helpful.”
He actually snorts. It’s not a laugh. Not yet. But it’s close.
I grin. “C’mon. Live a little. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“I’ve seen the worst.”
The way he says it—flat, unblinking—it should shut me up. But I’m not wired for quiet. Not now. Not when everything outside wants us dead.
“Okay,” I say. “Then this must be the second-worst. Lucky us.”
He shifts again. I think he’s trying not to smile.
I press on. “You ever think about what you’d be doing if you weren’t, you know, a walking tank with a tragic past?”
He gives me a sideways look. “No.”
“Liar.”
“I don’t have time for that shit.”
“Everybody has time for fantasy careers. It’s the universal coping mechanism.”
He sighs. Long-suffering. “Fine. I’d… build ships.”
I blink. “What?”
He shrugs. “Starcraft. Ground vehicles. Whatever. I liked machines. When I was a kid.”
There’s a softness there. Underneath the gravel and growl. I feel it. And it throws me a little.
“That’s…” I hesitate. “Actually kind of perfect.”
He huffs again, but there’s something else behind it this time. Something low and real.
“What about you?” he asks. “Let me guess. News anchor on a glowy desk spouting Alliance talking points?”
I make a gagging noise. “Gods, no. I wanted to be a singer.”
He stares.
“No, seriously,” I say. “Jazz. Old Earth blues. The kind of stuff that makes your chest ache.”
“You?” he says. “Jazz?”
“I had a voice once. Before all this.”
Darun looks at me, really looks. “Why’d you stop?”
I swallow. “Truth felt louder.”
He nods. Like he gets it. Or wants to.
We fall quiet again. But not the tense kind. The kind that wraps around you like a blanket that still smells like someone you used to love.
Eventually, I feel his weight shift beside me. Not away—closer. His shoulder brushes mine.
“You’re insane,” he murmurs.
“Maybe,” I say. “But I’m still alive.”
That gets him.
A short, surprised bark of laughter breaks out of his throat. He catches it too late, like he can’t believe it escaped.
I blink at him. “Was that a laugh?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Takes one to know one.”
We sit like that until the stars tilt above us and the cold sinks into our bones. There’s no fire. No blankets. Just our armor and what warmth we can bleed through stubborn proximity.
Eventually, he sets up a watch near the broken entrance. I curl up a few feet away, tucked in behind a crate, jacket bunched under my head.
I don’t want to sleep. Not really.
But my body doesn’t ask permission anymore.
The dream hits hard and fast—flashes of the canyon, Sira’s scream, fire licking at the sky. Then the noise, deafening. My lungs fill with smoke. I reach for my recorder, but it’s melting. My fingers blister. I scream, and bolt upright with a gasp.
It’s dark.
I’m in the depot.
Darun’s silhouette is posted like a sentry, still as stone, backlit by the dying moonlight filtering through the ceiling.
His tail…
It’s stretched behind him, curled not around his own boots, but looped loosely in my direction. Not touching. But close. Like instinct pulled it toward me.
My heart thunders.
I don’t say anything.
He doesn’t move it.
I settle back onto the floor, heart slowing. Watching the curve of his tail, the slight twitch of his fingers as he listens to the wind. My nightmare’s still buzzing under my skin. But that curl of scaled muscle between us…
It feels like armor.
And I let it stay.