Page 13 of Scorched By Fate

Mysha was impossibly pale beneath the glow of the heat crystals. Her breathing rasped faintly, like it was dragged from the depths of her chest against her will.

Rachel knelt beside her. “Lift her head, slowly.”

I obeyed, gently sliding my hands beneath Mysha’s scaled shoulders and cradling her head as Rachel leaned forward with the tube and Kaiya clamped her fingers on either side of Mysha's mouth to make her lips pucker open.

It seemed to sit in her mouth for several seconds before Kaiya stroked her hand down Mysha's throat until she swallowed.

We had to wait.

Mysha’s breathing remained shallow, each rasp a reminder of how close she was to slipping away. I let my hands linger beneath her head for a moment longer than necessary, as if holding her steady might anchor her to this world.

No one spoke. Every sound—the shifting of fabric, the bubbling echo of the underground river beyond the far cavern wall, the shallow breaths of the sick—felt amplified in the absence of movement.

Mysha’s chest rose and fell weakly.

“Now what?” Kaiya’s voice broke the stillness, soft and unsure for a change.

"Now we wait." Rachel straightened from where she crouched. Her hands were shaking slightly, the only crack in her otherwise eerie composure.

Rachel and Kaiya returned to their bench, poring over notes and calculations. I stayed. My eyes were glued to Mysha’s face. Her breathing stayed steady now—not stronger, but no worse.

It wasn’t much, but it was something, and in the absence of worse news, I'd cling to even the smallest sliver of hope.

The minutes oozed by. Even in my combat days, time had never felt this slow. My muscles were like coiled springs, tension wrung into every inch of me as the acidic thought twisted in my mind—what if this didn’t work? What if it was already too late, and we’d held onto hope as only another cruel delusion?

Almost worse, what if it did but we couldn't find more vyrathis to go around?

Mysha shifted, just a bit. Her jaw slackened, lips parting as if her body was remembering it was supposed to breathe. My own breath caught as her claws twitched under my hand.

I scanned her closely. Her chest rose and fell again—but deeper this time. The rasp clinging to her breath seemed to let go, if only by a fraction.

“Mysha,” I whispered, leaning closer like the shift in weight really mattered.

Her head tilted into my touch, and for the first time in days, I swore I saw her scales take on a hint of healthy glow on the edges, faint but unmistakable. Hope kicked in my chest, sharp and sudden.

“She's waking up,” I called, voice low but urgent.

Rachel and Kaiya dropped what they were working on and hurried to my side. I hadn’t moved, hadn’t dared to, as they crouched on either side of Mysha. Rachel’s fingers hovered just over Mysha’s forehead.

Rachel pressed against the healer's neck. "Heart rate is still weak, but it’s not erratic anymore. That’s … good. Very good."

I didn’t let go, even as the others hovered, like keeping my hands where they were might hold Mysha together just a littlelonger. A groan left her throat, soft and strained, and her scaled lips twitched fractionally apart.

"Mysha," I said again, firmer this time, leaning in close enough to catch any change in her breathing, her expression, her still-closed eyes.

Her eyelids fluttered open, just barely, enough for the glow of the nearby crystals to reflect off her slit-pupil irises. Her gaze darted sluggishly before landing on me. Recognition flickered there, weak but clear.

“Hum … human,” she rasped. Her voice was wrecked, sandpaper and gravel grinding through the single word. But it was hers, and it filled the space like a signal flare in the dark.

“Yeah, it’s me,” I told her, fighting to keep my voice steady. “You’re safe. Rest. Don’t try to talk.”

She didn’t listen, of course. Drakarn never did—not when sheer force of will was basically embedded in their DNA. Her lips worked again, another groan scraping its way out.

Kaiya’s hand fluttered toward her own mouth, nerves flooding her expression, but Rachel placed a steadying arm on her shoulder. “Let her speak.”

It took several agonizing seconds for Mysha to string something together. Her chest hitched with the effort, muscles jumping beneath her sheer determination. “Rare,” she ground out finally, her voice breaking on the single syllable.

I frowned, leaning closer. “What’s rare? The illness?”

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