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“I don’t talk that much,” Cyclone muttered, clearly already regretting every life decision that led him here.

We moved fast. Or at least,theydid. The other sisters stayed quiet, frightened, clinging together. I kept a close eye on them, but I didn’t hover. Hovering didn’t keep people alive. Moving did.

“You always this mouthy?” Cyclone asked after about an hour of slogging through the vines.

I glanced at him. “You always this sweaty?”

His jaw ticked. Oh, this was gonna befun.

We pushed forward, ducking under low branches. Cyclone took point, clearing the way with precise movements. The guy was a machine—tactical, efficient, and zero-nonsense.

Except when he looked at me.

Then there was something… different.

“We’ll need to make camp soon,” he said quietly, pulling me aside. “The others are fading.”

“You think I can’t see that?” I snapped.

He held up a hand. “I’m not criticizing. I’m looping you in.”

That threw me off just enough to pause.

“You looped in the nun with the stick?”

His eyes flicked to the spear I was still clutching. “You seem like the one most likely to stab me in my sleep. I figured I’d stay on your good side.”

Despite myself, I chuckled—just a little.

He looked pleased with himself.

And for a split second, I forgot where we were. Forgot the danger, the exhaustion, the stench of fear that had clung to me for weeks.

I just saw him.

Cyclone, the name suited him.

And the way he was looking back?

Yeah. I had a bad feeling about this.

Not about the mission.

Abouthim.

2

Cyclone

The jungle felt wrong.

Still. Heavy. Like something holding its breath.

We’d made camp in a small clearing surrounded by thick brush, with Faron taking first watch. I was prepping the perimeter when I heard it—leaves shifting. Not the soft kind from a breeze. This was heavier. Measured.

Movement.

“Faron,” I said low, already moving toward the treeline.