The memory of that moment—of seeing her disappear beneath the sand, swallowed by the dust as if she had never been—strikes me anew with a fear so profound it feels like physical pain. It was more than fear for her safety, more than concern for a creature under my protection. It was as if I was about to lose an essential part of myself I hadn’t known existed until that moment.

As if, should she die, some part of me would perish with her.

The feeling is unfamiliar, unsettling. I am a hunter, a protector. I have guarded my tribe, my brothers, my territory. I have fought for them, bled for them, would die for them if needed. But this…this is different. Deeper.

Somehow, so much deeper. I can feel it. Feel it in my very bones. But explain it, I cannot.

It reminds me of the ancient stories, the legends told around the warming stones when the cold season comes and the dust storms are too fierce to hunt. Tales of how the first Drakav came to Xiraxis, of how Ain chose our people to guard her daughters, to protect them from the dangers of the dust.

I need to return to the clan. By now, Kol will have noticed my absence. As clan leader, my older brother is not one to let even a minor deviation from routine go unquestioned. They will likely send a hunting party to search for me soon, if they have not already.

I should go back. Kol and the other older brothers would know more about the ancient legends of the daughters of Ain. They would better understand what is happening here, where Jus-teen has come from, why I feel this way toward her. This strange, overwhelming sense of…possession. Of connection I cannot explain.

A connection that grows stronger with each passing moment, like now, as I find myself reluctant to untangle from her grasp despite knowing I should rise, should gather the fire bloom plants to speed my healing and to refresh her when she wakes.

These are not sensations I have known before. Not urges I have felt. Even in the hunting season, when the call of blood grows strong, I have never felt this…fixation. This need to keep one specific being safe above all others.

I need to understand. Need to know why my people worshipped the daughters of Ain. Need to know why I feel this urgent, overwhelming drive to worship her. Not with words or offerings, as we worship Ain herself, but with protection, with care, with my very life, if needed.

What I did in the dust—facing a pack of shadowmaws alone—is not something even the most foolhardy hunter would attempt. I knew they would follow wherever I fled, knew they would hunt her down, and the thought of her in one of their jaws…

I couldn’t allow it. Had to face them. Had to end them.

She shifts against me again, a small sound escaping her throat, and I know she is close to waking. As carefully as I can, I disentangle myself from her and rise to my feet.

The movement sends fresh pain through my wounds, but I grit my teeth against it. I do not want to rouse her. She needs rest. Despite being a daughter of Ain, she is clearly not adapted to the harsh conditions of the dust. While carrying her, I noticed how she tucked her face against my chest, how she tried to shield her eyes from Ain’s glare.

I understand now that the hides she wears—the strange coverings I initially thought might be trophies from her kills—are not decorative. They are protective, meant to shield her delicate skin from Ain’s light and heat. And I made her lose one of them. The one that shone in the light. The one she seems to need the most.

So I will protect her now. Will find a way to keep her safe from Ain’s heat until we can return to the clan, where the deep caverns offer cool respite even in the hottest part of the sol cycle.

“Rok?”

Her voice, still thick with sleep, draws my attention back to her. She’s sitting up, rubbing at her eyes, her gaze darting around the cave before settling on me.

“You’re awake,” she says, the relief in her voice unmistakable even if her words are beyond my understanding.

Then her eyes widen. I almost reach for her, fearing they will pop out of her skull. She scrambles to her feet so quickly she nearly stumbles, rushing toward me with such urgent concern that something warm unfurls in my chest. Her hands hover over my wounds, not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat of her skin.

“What are you doing standing? You shouldn’t be up!” Her voice rises with worry, her hands gesturing for me to sit. “You were practically dead a few hours ago. Please, sit down. Rest. Tell me what you need, and I’ll—” She stops abruptly, pressing her lips together and shaking her head. “God, I’m an idiot. You can’t tell me anything, can you?”

Her meaning is clear in every line of her body—the creased brow, the gentle hands that want to help but don’t know how, the frustrated care in her eyes. She’s concerned. For me.

Her gaze shifts to the small patches of orange, the fire blooms growing from the cracks in the stone.

“Are these plants medicinal?” she asks, miming something with her hands, rubbing them together as if grinding something. “Herbal remedies? Is that how you healed so fast?”

I watch her gestures, tilting my head slightly. Her meaning eludes me, though I can tell she’s asking about something. Her attention keeps darting between me and the fire blooms. She points to her wounds, then to mine, then to the plants. Is she asking if they hurt me? If they’re dangerous?

I move to the nearest fire bloom, a small but healthy specimen growing from a deep crack in the stone. The plant’s thick, fleshy leaves are a deep blue-orange, tapering to sharp points tipped with tiny spines that glow faintly in the dim light of the cave. Its roots reach deep, seeking the hidden water that flows beneath this part of the dust, kept secret from all but those who know where to look.

Carefully, I pluck several of the largest leaves, making sure to leave the roots and the smaller growth intact so the plant can regenerate. The fire blooms are resilient, adapted to survive in the harsh conditions of the dust, but they are not inexhaustible. A hunter must always ensure the continuation of what sustains him.

“Are you going to crush that?” Jus-teen asks, making a grinding motion with her hands again. “Like you did with the other plant before?”

I understand her meaning, but that is not what fire blooms are for. At least, not immediately.

Instead, I pop one of the leaves into my mouth and begin to chew, feeling the familiar, bitter juice coat my tongue. The taste is harsh, astringent, but the healing properties are worth the discomfort.

Jus-teen stares at me, her eyes widening again as I take another leaf and do the same. The juice of the fire bloom will speed my healing from within, will cleanse the shadowmaw venom from my blood, and will restore the strength I lost in the battle.

When I’ve chewed several leaves, I offer one to her, extending my hand toward her mouth. She hesitates, her gaze darting between the leaf and my face, uncertainty clear in her expression.

“You want me to eat that?” she asks, pointing to the leaf and then to her mouth. “Is it safe for humans? I mean…for me? Will it make me sick?” She looks at the leaf again. “Fuck, how are you even supposed to know that?”

I continue to hold the leaf out to her, waiting patiently. I cannot explain in vocalizations she would understand, but the fire bloom will help her as well, will renew her, will provide some of the moisture her kind seems to need so desperately.

She reaches toward it cautiously, then pulls her hand back with a small sound when one of the tiny spines pricks her fingertip. A bead of red appears—so different from my own blood—and she puts the finger to her mouth.

I freeze, suddenly aware of my oversight. Her skin is so much softer than mine, more vulnerable to the fire bloom’s defenses. How could I have missed something so obvious? The thought of causing her pain, even accidentally, sends an uncomfortable ripple through my chest.