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Ukar harrumphs at the sight, and he’s about to nip the dragon awake when I stomp on his tail to stop him.

“Don’t. He’s wounded. Worse than he’ll admit.”

I crouch beside the dragon. His scales are darker when he slumbers, and it’s beautiful how they gleam under the pale sun, almost like obsidian. He must not have aged during the century that he slept; he doesn’t look much older than me—his scales are symmetrical and vibrant with youth. And his voice—he tries to keep it low and gruff, but when he forgets, it’s a boyish tenor not too different from Oshli’s.

A school of tiny fishes has made a home in the watery crevices of his wing. I scoop them back into the sea with my hands.

His bleeding’s stopped, but apart from that, he doesn’t look much better. I touch one of the cuts on his cheek. Dragons are known to heal quickly. So are demons. But Hokzuh does not seem to have this ability. I wonder if it’s because the two sides of him, dragon and demon, war against each other—even in his blood.

I fan leaves over his face to block out the sun, then set to work. I break up the spindlebeard in my fingers, scaling off the thorns and smashing them with the white petals. I pound the gingerroot with a rock and mash the two ingredients together. Moistening the mixture with fresh water, I carefully rub the paste into Hokzuh’s wings.

His arms twitch in his sleep, and I stay clear of them, mindful of the spikes on his elbows. As I roll him onto his side, I notice the scars along his spine. Some are from small cuts, like the wounds on his face and torso, while others look more serious. I have my own scars—mostly from Adah’s lashings—but none so deep as his.

It makes me wonder about his past. About his nightmares. Whether they haunt his waking hours, as mine do.

Over the next hour, I smear his wounds with the spindlebeard paste. I work quickly, careful not to wake him, but he really is a deep sleeper. Even as I reset his broken wing against a branch, tying it with strips from my skirt, he barely moves. To pass the time, I start singing. Mama’s old lullaby loosens from my throat. I like to think it’s my voice, low and soft, that keeps Hokzuh in the realm of dreams.

Finally, he begins to stir, and I shuffle back as he sits up, letting out a grunt when he sees what I’ve done to his wings.

“Don’t touch it. The stick will help set it straight.” I purse my lips, watching him struggle to stand. His injured wings unbalance him. “How’s the pain?”

“I’ll manage.” Hokzuh doesn’t thank me for tending to his wounds.

When can you fly again? Ukar doesn’t bother hiding our mercenary intentions.

“Not today.” Hokzuh scans the waters. “With these tides, we’ll have to leave before dusk if you want to rescue your sister from the Witch Mother.”

“Demon Witch—”

“Whatever.” Hokzuh knots his black hair behind his nape. “We need to find a boat. Should be one or two for sale in the village.”

“For sale? I figured you’d steal one.”

“I would, but Nakri wouldn’t like that. She enjoys feeding thieves to the crocodiles.”

“What do we do, then? We don’t have any money.”

He reaches into his pocket and reveals the white moonstone King Meguh always wore about his neck. There’s still blood on it.

My eyes go wide. “You—”

“Plucked it off his neck after you murdered him,” Hokzuh says without an ounce of remorse. He swings the chain. “Should fetch good coin. Nakri’s always been soft for gold.” He taps his temple with his knuckles. “Be thankful someone thinks ahead.”

With that, he finds his stride and starts into the jungle.

I rush after him. “How do you know this is her island?”

“Because I’ve traveled most of Tambu, unlike you. I recognized the village.” He waves me along. “Come, Yappang can’t be far. Pick up your feet.”

It’s easy for him to say, when his legs are twice the length of mine. I have to run to keep up with him.

“Thanks, by the way,” he says, abruptly stopping midstride. He waits until I’m at his side. “For whatever you put on my wing.” A pause. “And for the singing. You’ve got a good voice, you know. Maybe when your demon-hunting days are over, you could join a troupe, become a singer.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“Why do you think I’m mocking you?”

The dragon’s gaze becomes piercing. He’s genuinely curious.