“Does it hurt?” No reaction. No response.

Swallowing down the lump in my throat once more, I apply gentle but firm pressure. The material turns dark almost immediately, soaking up the blood with an efficiency that would be impressive if my heart wasn’t beating so hard.

“Hold on,” I murmur, not sure if he can hear me but needing to fill the silence anyway. “Just hold on. You’re going to be okay.”

After a few minutes, I carefully lift one corner of the makeshift bandage to check underneath. The bleeding seems to have slowed, but not stopped entirely. I press the strip back down, wishing I had more, wishing I had actual medical supplies, wishing I had any idea what I was doing.

My gaze shifts to the water sachet lying on the floor beside me. It’s small—probably like 500 ml—and it’s the last one I have. My last source of hydration in this alien desert.

I stare at it for a long time, biting my lip so hard it hurts. I should save it. I know I should save it. For myself, at the very least—I’m already dehydrated, and without water, I’ll die out here.

But Rok is dying in front of me. Right now. Because he saved me. Because he chose to fight those monsters rather than run.

And he could have run. He’s done it before. He’s fast enough. He could have left me and run.

He didn’t.

And maybe I shouldn’t run now either.

“Fuck it,” I whisper, snatching up the water sachet. “You’re not dying on my watch.”

I pop the little cap off and carefully, gently, tilt Rok’s head back. His lips are surprisingly supple, fuller than I’d noticed before, with a tempting curve that makes me pause for a heartbeat too long—definitely not the thoughts I should be having while he’s literally bleeding out. I dribble a tiny amount of water between them, watching anxiously to see if he’ll swallow.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then his throat works, and the water disappears. Encouraged, I pour a little more, and then a little more.

Suddenly, his whole body convulses. His eyes fly open, golden irises blazing in the dim light, and he chokes, water spraying from his mouth as he gasps and heaves.

“No!” I cry, but it’s too late. In one violent movement, his arm lashes out, knocking the water sachet from my hand. It flies across the cave, its precious contents spilling onto the stone floor, soaking into the cracks, disappearing forever.

“Noooo!” I scramble after it, hands scraping at the stone, as if I can somehow take it back, force it back into the sachet. But there’s nothing to salvage. Not a drop left.

“Shit,” I whisper, pressing my hands against my face, trying to keep my panic in check. That was it. The last of the water.

And now it’s gone. My chest rises and falls in uneven gasps. No water. No way forward.

I should be angry. Furious, even. But all I feel is fear.

I turn back to Rok, just in time to see him collapse back onto the floor, his brief moment of consciousness already gone. His breathing is still labored, but now there’s a wet, rattling quality to it that terrifies me.

I crawl back to his side, tears streaming down my face. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, brushing my fingertips across his forehead. “I was trying to help. I didn’t think…”

Gone. Our only water, gone. And for what? For a few seconds of consciousness that seemed to hurt him more than help?

Hopelessness crashes over me like a wave, dragging me under. I’ve done everything I can think of, and none of it seems to be working. I have no more supplies, no more ideas, no more hope to offer.

I curl up beside him, pressing my forehead against his shoulder, feeling the faint warmth of his skin against mine.

“Please,” I whisper, the word barely audible even to my own ears. “Please don’t leave me alone here. Please live.”

But there’s no response. Just the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the soft, pained sound of his breathing, and the crushing weight of my own helplessness.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter 17

OceanofPDF.com

THE DESERT GIVES. THE DESERT TAKES. I KEEP

OceanofPDF.com

ROK

I wake to a weight against my side and the scent of her in my nose.

Sweet. Strange. Unfamiliar and yet, somehow, more familiar to me than my own breath.

For a moment, I do not move, letting my senses catalog my surroundings. The cool stone beneath me. The faint rustling of the fire bloom plants that grow in the cracks of the stone.

And her. Jus-teen. Curled against me like a young hunter during his first stormy season, seeking warmth.

She stayed.

The realization settles into me slowly, like dust after the winds. She could have left when I collapsed. Could have fled into the dust. She had no obligation to remain at my side.

Yet here she is. Her small, strange body pressed against mine, her breath soft and even in sleep.

I test my strength, flexing my arm, and wince at the sharp pain that lances through me. The shadowmaws took their toll. More than they should have. But I am alive, and so is she, and that is what matters.

The shadowmaws. They should not have been hunting in the open dust while Ain still shone. They are creatures of darkness, of shadow, emerging from their dens only when Ain sleeps and the three moons rise. To find them stalking the dust while there is light…

It is not right. It is not the way of things.

If I had known they were skulking about the open sands, I would not have taken the female that way. Would have risked the Ridge of Shrieking Winds as she wished, despite the dangers there. Better the known peril than the unexpected ambush.

Instead, I almost lost her. This female, first of her kind, sent by Ain herself. Mine that I found. Mine to protect. Mine to keep safe.

I stretch carefully, assessing the damage. The worst of the wounds have already begun to heal, my body doing what it has always done—mending itself, erasing weakness, returning to strength. I have not been unconscious for long. Ain has yet to reach her zenith in the sky. It is still early in the sol, which is good. We have time and many solmarks of light.

My gaze drifts back to her sleeping form. So small. So fragile. Her hide-coverings are torn and stained with my blood, yet even in sleep, there is something fierce about her. Something unyielding.

I reach out, carefully brushing a strand of her strange head-fur from her face. It is softer than anything I have ever touched, softer even than the belly fur of a newborn sand pup. The color of it reminds me of fire blooms in their fullest glory, when they burst open under the light of all three moons.

She stirs slightly at my touch, but does not wake. Her skin is cool now. The dangerous fire that had threatened to consume her has not returned. Perhaps the poison in her was only temporary.

Speaking of poison.

My gaze falls to the strange waterskin lying empty on the stone nearby. Not a waterskin. The shape is all wrong. It is more like a pouch. Her water pouch. Filled with poison water. She had tried to give me her poison—her water. I stare at the pouch, turning the fact over in my head.

In the dust, there is no greater gift, no deeper sign of care, than to offer one’s water to another. It is life itself, precious beyond measure, never to be wasted or given lightly. Even among kin, among clan, water is shared only in the direst need, only to save a life that would otherwise be lost.

She gave me hers freely, desperately, despite her own need. Despite knowing, surely, that she had no way to replace it.

Her poison burned in my throat, seared my lungs, but her intent was clear: this female did not want me to perish. Just as I had told her—or tried to tell her, through the barrier between our minds—that I would not let her perish when she fell into the sand serpent’s tunnel.