Quickly, I withdraw the leaf and use my claws to carefully strip away the spines from its edges, working meticulously until it’s completely safe for her. Only then do I offer it again, holding it flat on my palm to show her it won’t harm her now.

She studies my actions, a strange look in her eyes. Finally, she takes the leaf, her fingers brushing against mine in a touch that sends an unexpected jolt through my skin. She examines it for a moment, turning it over in her hands, before cautiously placing it in her mouth. She does a single chew.

“Ugh. That is awful.” She glares at me as if I’ve personally offended her. “Are you sure this won’t kill me?”

I do not need mindspeak to know she is pouting at the leaf.

I huff a soft breath, amusement curling in my chest. She is strange. So very strange.

And yet, I do not think I could let her go.

I do not think I want to.

To my surprise, she puts the leaf in her mouth again. I watch her reaction, my eyes traveling over her face as she begins to chew. The juice from the plant turns her mouth a deep, rich brown, almost red—a concerning color against her pale skin, but one I know is temporary. She chews slowly, her brow furrowed, before swallowing with a slight grimace.

“That’s…bitter,” she says, making a face. “But not terrible. Kind of like really strong, unsweetened tea. Is it medicine? Food? Both?”

I tilt my head. She does not seem irritated by it. The fire bloom is sustenance in times of need, medicine for the wounded, a source of moisture when water cannot be found. It is one of the dust’s few gifts, one of the treasures known only to the Drakav and a few other dust-dwelling creatures.

With the remaining leaves, I begin to prepare poultices for my wounds. I crush them between my palms, releasing more of the bitter juice, then press the resulting paste directly onto the deepest gashes—the one across my ribs, another on my upper arm, and several smaller but still significant wounds on my legs and torso.

The paste stings on contact, a burning sensation that quickly gives way to numbness as the fire bloom’s properties begin to work. The bleeding, already slowed by my body’s natural healing, stops completely. Soon, the edges of the wounds will draw together, the skin knitting itself closed with the fire blooms’ help.

I continue methodically treating each wound, even the minor scrapes and scratches, not wanting to waste any of the healing properties of the precious plant. There are a few injuries in other places as well—a nasty gash on my inner thigh, dangerously close to more vulnerable areas, where one of the shadowmaws managed to rake me with its claw before I tore its head from its body.

As I tend to this particular wound, I become aware of Jus-teen’s gaze, fixed on a point between my legs. When her eyes lift to meet mine, her face suddenly blooms with color, a deep, rich red spreading across her cheeks and down her neck.

For a moment, I’m alarmed. Is it the fire starting beneath her skin again? That cursed burning that nearly consumed her before? I drop the remains of the fire bloom and lunge toward her, pressing her back into the cool sand of the cave floor, my face close to hers as I inhale deeply, trying to detect the scent of this dust-cursed sickness.

She sputters in surprise, her hands coming up to push against my chest, but her efforts are weak, uncoordinated.

“What are you doing?” she gasps, her voice higher than usual. “Rok, what⁠—”

But I’m focused on my task, sniffing at her face, her neck, trying to determine if the fire has returned to consume her from within. Her skin isn’t unnaturally hot, though, not like before. And the scent is different—still her unique, sweet smell, but with an undertone of something new. Something I haven’t detected from her before.

I pause, confused, and look down at her. She’s gone completely still beneath me, her eyes wide and fixed on mine, her breathing rapid but not labored. There’s a strange look in those eyes, something I haven’t seen before—a mixture of what looks like fear, but isn’t quite fear, and something else entirely. Something that makes the glow beneath my skin suddenly pulse to life with no input from me at all.

A rumble vibrates low in my chest as I try to understand what is happening, why she’s reacting this way. My eyes travel over her more carefully now, noticing for the first time the small cuts and scrapes across her body—not bleeding, but evident on her soft skin, nonetheless. Harm from when she fell in the dust serpent’s tunnel.

I remain positioned over her, keeping her between my thighs as I crouch above her. Her eyes follow my movements as I reach for another fire bloom leaf, crushing it between my palms until the healing paste forms.

I try to send mind-speech to her again, projecting the concepts of healing and protection as clearly as I can. Nothing. No recognition in her eyes, no response. After so many attempts, I am certain now—she cannot hear the thoughts I send.

I must resort to using my tongue, an organ I have used more times since meeting her than I have ever used in my life. It feels like a hunter trying to kill a dust stalker with a muted blade—clumsy, inefficient, painful for the hunter.

Carefully, I begin applying the paste to a scrape on her arm. The moment my fingertips touch her skin, something unexpected happens. The glow beneath my skin erupts, pulsing brighter, and it’s not the only thing going haywire. It’s as if the nerves in my hands are shooting tingles from where I touch her straight through my frame, bypassing every defense I’ve built.

I have no choice but to pause for a moment. I cannot move.

“Rok?”

So soft, that vocalization. I have never felt my name so softly.

My gaze shifts to her.

She doesn’t move, just watches me with wide eyes, her mouth slightly open as I force myself to continue treating her wounds. That strange new scent grows stronger, filling the space around us, clouding my thoughts. I try to ignore it, focus on the task, but it calls to something…else within me.

A sensation builds at the apex of my thighs where my member rests. It has never responded before. Not like this. I stiffen, staring down at her, confused by my body’s reaction. Perhaps the shadowmaw’s venom has done more to me than I thought.

How can I protect this strange creature if I am compromised? At the very least, I must survive long enough to ensure her safety. I cannot allow the rival clan to find her—they would not be gentle with something so soft, so different.

I know then…that I must try to speak. To protect her properly, to figure out how she came to be wandering the dust alone, I must communicate with her.

I focus, trying to remember how to shape sounds with my mouth rather than thoughts with my mind. Trying to remember how to use a language only vocalized at death, when the Giving Stone opens to take you back within itself.

It has been so long. The muscles in my throat feel stiff, unwilling.

Finally, I manage to push air through vocal cords rarely used, forming sounds that feel alien on my tongue.

“You do not…burn,” I say, the words rough and grating, not even sure if she will understand. Her vocalizations are nothing like I have heard before. “The fire…from within…is gone. That is…good.”

If it’s even possible, Jus-teen stiffens beneath me, her eyes widening like polished flat stones.

For a pulsebeat, neither of us moves. Then slowly, her hands rise toward my face, hovering just a breath from my mouth, fingers trembling slightly. Her gaze searches mine, and my gaze shifts to her hand.

I wish…I wish she would put her touch upon my lips.

“Your language,” she whispers, “it’s beautiful.” Her eyes flick between mine, studying me with new intensity. “I wish I could understand you.”

Ain. She does not comprehend my words. Does she? I try again, preparing to force more sounds from my unused vocal cords, when suddenly I hear another voice—not Jus-teen’s, but similar in cadence, with a strange quality that sends a shiver down my spine.