Page 47

The plasma burn had damaged major vessels. The fever burned through my system, fighting the foreign energies of the weapon.

Without proper treatment, infection would claim me within days.

We reached the depression—an ancient tree had fallen, its massive root system torn from the ground, creating a sheltered hollow beneath a tangle of dirt and roots. Not ideal, but better than open forest.

The scent of decay and fungal growth filled my nostrils, overlaid with the mineral tang of exposed soil.

“Rest,” Zara insisted, helping me down with surprising gentleness. “Just for a little while.”

I wanted to protest, to insist we continue, but my body betrayed me. The moment I was horizontal, darkness threatened at the edges of my consciousness.

The fever wrapped around me like a burning blanket, simultaneously hot and cold, making my skin hypersensitive even as my mind grew increasingly fuzzy.

Zara propped my head up, offering water from our stolen canteen. The cool liquid was sweeter than the finest ceremonial wine.

I drank greedily until she pulled it away.

“Slowly,” she cautioned. “Too much at once will make you sick.”

The gesture was so unexpected, so contrary to everything I’d been taught about humans, that I found myself staring at her. Her damaged eyes struggled to focus on my face, the pupils dilating unevenly in the dim light.

Her silver patterns continued steady beneath her skin, more pronounced now than when I’d first seen them in Hammond’s cells.

“Your fever’s getting worse,” she said, her hand cool against my forehead. Through our bond, I felt her concern, her frustration at our limited resources.

“Why?” The question escaped before I could reconsider it.

“Why what?” She tilted her head, fragments of moonlight catching in her hair.

“Why help me? You could move faster alone.” The fever loosened my tongue, asking what pride would normally forbid.

“Your kind would not... waste resources... on the damaged.”

She was silent a moment, considering. I could feel her weighing responses, discarding those that weren’t true.

“Because they turned you into a weapon,” she finally said. “Like they tried to do to me. To Claire.”

Her fingers brushed my bandaged shoulder with unexpected tenderness. “And because you took that shot for me.”

The simple truth of her words struck deeper than any elaborate explanation could have. No strategic advantage claimed.

No debt acknowledged. Just recognition of a shared experience, a connection formed in the crucible of captivity.

I closed my eyes, unable to maintain my warrior’s composure under such unfamiliar kindness. My clan would hardly recognize me now—a broken warrior accepting help from a marked human female, the very embodiment of what we had been taught to fear.

The prophecies that had guided the Shadow Canyon clan for generations suddenly seemed less certain, less absolute.

“My clan...” I started, then stopped, uncertain how to continue. The fever made coherent thought difficult, memories blurring into present reality.

“The Shadow Canyon clan,” she finished, surprising me. “You mentioned them during your fever.”

“They guard the ancient technology, don’t they? That’s why Hammond targeted you.”

I nodded weakly, impressed by her perception despite her damaged vision. “For generations. We protect the sacred sites, the sleeping power.”

My voice grew stronger as I recited the teachings that had shaped my life. “The prophecies warned of marked outsiders who would awaken slumbering chaos.”

A painful laugh escaped me, pulling at the burned tissue across my back. “I was taught to fear you. To kill you on sight.”