Page 36 of Tharn's Hunt
But his lips didn't move.
I tap my translator frantically, suddenly unsure of what's happening. "What did you just say?"
He glances down at me, doesn’t respond, but at least he isn’t wincing anymore when I talk.
"You just said something," I insist, pointing to his mouth. "About firebloom. I heard you."
His expression shifts to something I can't read. Surprise? Alarm? Hope?
Am I losing my mind? Did I imagine it? No. No, I definitely heard him. But if his lips didn't move...
Oh God. It was in my head. The voice was in my head.
I tap the translator again, harder this time, as if that might fix whatever reality glitch is happening. "This can't be... I'm not..."
"Jah-kee."
There it is again. His voice. But not in my ears—in my mind. Like when I was fevered and delirious, when I thought we were having conversations.
But I'm not delirious now. I'm clear-headed, conscious, fully aware.
"I'm going crazy," I whisper, more to myself than to him. "That's it. I've finally snapped. The desert has won."
Goldi’s arms tighten around me, in a gesture that might be comfort or concern. He looks down at me again, and this time there's something like frustration in his eyes. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but only a soft clicking sound emerges.
"Great," I mutter, dropping my hand from the translator. "So I'm hearing voices. Specifically,yourvoice. In my head. That's normal, right? Totally not a sign of an impending psychotic break."
His stride falters slightly, and for a moment, I think he might actually stop. But he pushes on, his determination evident in every line of his body.
"Firebloom," I hear again.
"Firebloom," I whisper. Realization makes my eyes widen. I gesture to the pouch tied to his waist. "Are you talking about those plants? The ones you used on my leg?"
His gaze snaps to mine, sudden awareness in those amber depths.
"Let me check," I say, reaching for the pouch tied at his waist. "There was one left."
He shifts me in his arms, allowing me access to the pouch. I fumble with the ties, finally managing to open them and peer inside. Just as I suspected—there's only one leaf left, crumpled and dry.
"There's only one," I tell him, holding it up. "Is that enough?"
He studies the leaf before his gaze shifts to my leg, to the healing wound there, then back to the leaf. With carefulmovements, he adjusts me on one arm only to use the other to take the leaf from my hand. Without any hesitation, he tucks the leaf back into the pouch.
"Hey," I protest. "Don't you need that? For your shoulder?"
He ignores me, securing the pouch and resuming his steady pace across the sand. But now I understand what's happening. He's saving it. For me. In case my wound gets worse again.
The realization makes me…deflate. This stubborn, golden alien is willing to suffer through his pain, his infection, to make sure I have medicine if I need it?
"You self-sacrificing idiot," I mutter, torn between gratitude and frustration. "You need it more than I do."
He doesn't respond, just continues trudging forward, his breathing growing more labored with each step. The glow beneath his skin flickers, dimming further until it's barely visible even in the shade of his arms.
We continue like this for what feels like eternity, the sun crawling across the sky, the sand shifting beneath his feet. I watch him with growing concern as his condition visibly deteriorates. His skin grows paler, the gold taking on an ashen quality. Every step he takes seems to draw all the energy from him.
He's going to collapse soon. I can feel it in the increasingly erratic rhythm of his heartbeat against my side, in the trembling of his arms as they struggle to support my weight.
"Please," I whisper, not caring if he understands or not. "Please stop. Rest. Before you kill yourself."
