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ZARVASH

Pain woke me—worse than any sunburn, worse than sore muscles. My wing throbbed, every movement—even each shallow breath—drove hot pokers deeper into bone. I filed it away. Pain was data. I mapped its limits with every exhale, assigned it numbers, classified it by urgency.

If I let it claim me, I would never get up again.

I forced my focus to the world. The suns beat overhead, heat crawling like ants beneath my scales.

The air was raw-blood metallic, overlayed with something honey-sharp.

The human. The scablands sprawled without mercy; wind ground sand in my teeth and shade melted before I could claim it.

We were flanked by rock spires, boxed in but not unseen.

Our four Ignarath captors were sprawled between us and freedom: careless, sure of their dominance, claws idly raking dust. Golden brown scales caught sunlight, as if daring us to fight.

My tactical brain ticked over. I tracked weapons—knives, teeth, the one with the short sword hanging carelessly.

Distances: six steps to the nearest cover, two Ignarath within easy striking range, the farthest fiddling with a small blade.

Every detail was ammunition.

At my back, warmth pressed against me: human, alive, pulse snapping through the silence.

Vega. I caught her scent—sweat and heat and something that made me stumble.

Every beat of my heart demanded I shift my focus from the enemy to her.

I bit the inside of my cheek as if that might help me regain control.

Now was the worst possible moment for this curse.

A shadow sliced across us. One Ignarath, Kerek, I'd heard the others call him, sauntered close, eyes gleaming predator yellow. He crouched, tongue flicking, gaze sliding over Vega’s shape with greedy calculation.

The urge to eviscerate him stoked fire under my scales.

I counted heartbeats, forced my claws to stay hidden.

“Quiet, female.” He jabbed her shoulder, grinning, too confidant. “Skorai will pay double. You’ll keep him entertained.”

I felt Vega’s tension through our bound wrists, but it was rage, not fear. “I'm going to enjoy killing you,” she spat, lacing it with contempt.

He barked a laugh, scattering dirt in her face, then swaggered away.

Amateur.

If they’d known they were holding Scalvaris's best tactician and a former human soldier, they might have used iron bindings. I flexed my tail; it was tied tight to my thigh, but the knot was rushed, unfinished. I mapped the rope’s pattern blind with my scales, letting muscle memory work where pain tried to sabotage me.

Movement: six paces to my left, an Ignarath raising a canteen; count of three, the sentry would pass behind a pillar, vision blocked.

Vega’s fingers tightened on mine, three quick pulses, pause, three more. Some kind of code. She noticed my subtle shift, or maybe just gambled; I respected both. She was asking for trust, dangerous, but we’d die chained together if I hesitated.

The rope gave. I worked my tail under her bindings next. Every twinge in my wing chiseled another threat of blackout behind my eyes. I squeezed back—go.

“Get them up. Move!” the command snapped. An Ignarath closed in, grabbing for Vega’s arm.

No time left for strategy.

“Now,” I hissed low.

She moved, a sharp headbutt to the Ignarath’s mouth, bone crumpling with a wet crack.

He shrieked, weapon hand flailing. Instinct vaulted us both into motion.

I yanked my tail free, kicked upward, and twisted, positioning my body between the Ignarath and Vega.

Pain convulsed through my wing, a paralyzing bolt, and I nearly buckled.

Not now.

I took shuddering inventory: three Ignarath left: one recovering, one drawing steel, one fumbling for his weapon.

I swept low, feigning a drop, then snapped my claws across the closest one’s calf, severing ligaments.

He collapsed; I rolled, putting the broken body between me and the others, using every advantage.

Vega wasn't waiting. She moved with human unpredictability—duck, jab, elbow, stone to temple.

Messy, glorious.

A blade swung past my face. I barely saw it, senses blurring as something flared deep within me. For half a second, scent and movement tangled, Vega’s blood and heat dragging my feral instincts to the surface. I almost turned toward her, to shield rather than strike. I caught myself.

Focus!

The largest Ignarath charged. My left wing screamed as I tried to launch myself into the air, no flight, no leverage.

I pivoted, jaws snapping, let his momentum carry him into my open claws.

My fingers sank deep, blood washing over knuckles.

My legs shook. Vega, to my right, smashed an Ignarath’s knee, then drove a sharp rock into his gut; the man folded with a sob.

“Zarvash!” she barked a warning. One wounded captor staggered to his feet behind her, blade glimmering.

Through haze and agony, I lunged, windpipe seizing as I forced my ruined wing to move, damn the cost. My claws locked on his arm.

I twisted, feeling bone break beneath my grip, and buried fangs in his throat. Heat, thrashing, then limpness.

Vega had already finished her opponent, her arm streaked red to the elbow, eyes fever-wild, blood-red hair stuck to her brow in a tangled riot. Her gaze raked across me.

I wanted, against all reason, to drag her close, to scent her hair, to guard her as if she were mine.

I hated that I wanted it.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Her words cut sharp. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, grip still white-knuckled on her stone. “You look like you want to eat me.”

The accusation snapped me awake. I stepped back. “If that were true, you’d be dead already.”

She paced a wary circle, not turning her back to me. She eyed the Ignarath bodies, tensed like I might attack next, practical, not personal, which was almost worse. I wished I didn't deserve the distrust.

I crouched, rifling through the pockets of the dead for weapons; she mirrored the motion, taking her own loot, grabbing and testing a knife as insurance. The sun seared us. My wings ached, hot, useless weight. I tried to unfurl them.

Agony lanced up my spine, blind spots flickering my vision. They nearly cost me my life, twice now. I reminded myself to stop pretending they might miraculously heal in minutes.

“You fight like an amateur,” I said, forcing my voice into something casual. “Messy, reckless.”

She smirked, wiping blood from a split lip. “I’m alive. I’ll take messy.”

Complicated, this one. Not friend, not safe. I watched her shoulders, her hands on a looted flask, swigging the lifegiving water. Good. Smart. She tossed it my way, and I drained what I dared, reflex making me watch for a flinch or double-cross. None came.

For a moment, neither of us moved. The air sizzled between us, within me.

“So.” Her tone was iron. “Where the hell are we?”

I scanned the horizon. Sand, stone, burnt desolation. Trackless, unfamiliar. They'd carried us for days in a rough sack, only setting us down in the dark until today. Heat-sheared rocks, unfamiliar glyphs scratched by claws I didn’t recognize. We were nowhere near Scalvaris, that much was certain.

“I don’t know.”

Survival demanded discipline. I tore my attention to inventory: two water flasks, three knives, and one sidearm with two charges. Not enough for what was out there.

A shadow skittered on the ridge, something watching, waiting.

“We move east,” I said, brusque, ignoring the ache in my wing, in my blood. “There’s shade. Unless you want to wait for whatever that is.” I nodded toward new tracks just visible in drifting sand: claws, wide-set, fresh.

She hesitated, but followed, knife steady in her fist, the closest thing to truce we had. Every step was cautious, uncertain, predatory.

Under Volcaryth’s harsh suns, nothing was safe.

And something wild within me wanted the human beside me.

Hells.