Zaria

The night breathes heavy around me.

Too heavy.

I’ve left them behind their eyes, their voices, their damnable need to either claim me or destroy me and now the forest swallows me whole. The camp’s firelight is a dull memory between the trees. Out here, the air is cooler, but it clings to my skin, mixing with the slow, treacherous throb of heat rising in my blood.

I hate my heat.

No—what I hate is that it makes me remember what I’ve tried to forget. That part of me that aches, ...