The cave was still—too still. It was the sort of stillness that suffocates, weighing down like a physical force until the smallest catch of breath is too loud, too dangerous. The damp air stuck to Kael's skin, cold on the tightened prickle points along his nape. His focus, however, was not on the night, or the cave, or the stirring air.
It was on Valkar.
The dragon lay beside him, unconscious, his chest rising and falling in a labored rhythm that Kael had to look closely to even be certain he was breathing. Every time Kael glanced at Valkar's face, he felt his own heart slow—and then his mind was flooded with fear almost instantly. If Valkar didn't wake up once more… what would happen to him?
He was so intent on Valkar's weak, steady breathing that he failed to notice the portents.
The soft waves out at the mouth of the cave, the kind that consist of heat waves quivering above stone. The gentle bending of space, as though the air itself was being peeled back by unblinking talons.
