GTS Syndrome Ch 19: Anchor in the Sand

(Penelope)

The moon hung high, a pale watchful eye in the desert sky, and for once, it didn't make my skin itch or my mind haze over with that terrible hunger. The Wanting, that unbearable pull deep inside my bones, wasn't screaming anymore. It whispered now—distant, muted, like a storm that had finally passed.

I cradled Braden in both hands, his battered frame curled gently in my palms, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. His skin was bruised, his left arm limp and bent strangely, his lip split. But he was alive. Gods, he was alive.

And I... I was still me.

I pressed his small body closer to my chest, careful not to squeeze, just enough that I could feel his warmth against me—proof that he hadn't left me, proof that I hadn't lost him. The thought of what I almost did—what I did do—it burned in my gut like fire. I nearly crushed him. I dislocated his arm. I wanted to hurt him.

No. The Wanting wanted to hurt him. I didn't.

He groaned softly, stirring in my hands. My fingers trembled around him as I brushed a few strands of dusty hair from his face. "It's okay," I whispered, not even sure if I meant it for him or for myself. "You're okay..."

His eyes blinked open just a little. "H-hey?" he muttered, offering me the faintest, crooked smile.

I choked back a sob. Not now. No tears, Penelope. Not while he's looking at you like that—like you're still worth trusting. "Braden, I'm so—"

He cut me off. "It's fine... That wasn't You..."

Then he went slack.

I gasped and nearly panicked, but no—he was still breathing. Just unconscious again. Exhausted. And probably in a lot of pain. I shifted carefully, bringing my knees up to my chest and forming a small cradle in my lap where I could rest him without jostling his injuries.

The desert wind tugged at my hair. The heat from earlier had bled away into the chill of night, but I didn't feel cold. Not with him here. Not with everything I had nearly lost now resting so fragilely in my care.

I stared down at him, unable to look away.

His face was scratched. His side was bruised. His arm—his poor arm—I didn't even know if the joint would ever fully heal without a real doctor. And yet there he was, still trying to make me feel better. Still standing up to me. Still calling me back when I was lost.

He was like an anchor.

That's what it felt like. He anchored me to myself. To who I used to be—before all of this. Before the rage and the instincts and the lies we were all taught as we were trained to be warriors. That men were weak. That they were made to serve and obey. That we were the rulers now.

Looking at Braden, bruised and half-broken in my lap, the very idea of superiority felt hollow and ugly.

If he hadn't spoken... If I hadn't seen his face in the mist... If he hadn't risked everything to stop me...

Gods.

I wrapped my arms around my knees, still cupping him gently in my lap, my fingers curled protectively around his tiny form. The guilt twisted inside me like a knife, but I didn't cry. Not yet. Not until he was safe.

We had to get to the city. He needed help. Real help. I couldn't afford to break down now—not while he was depending on me.

I kept my eyes on him, even as the stars spun above and time trickled slowly forward. I watched his chest rise and fall. I whispered soft apologies he couldn't hear. And I stayed awake.

Because the Wanting hadn't fully gone. It was quieter now, yes—but not gone. And I had no intention of letting it return.

Not if I could help it.

Not while Braden still believed in me.

Not while I still had someone to protect.

***

(Braden)

It was dark.

I didn't mean the kind of dark where you wait for your eyes to adjust and maybe catch some hint of light. No—this was the kind of dark that swallowed everything. Endless. Heavy. Like being buried in ink.

And I was floating.

"Hello?" I called out, my voice echoing too many times for comfort. "Penelope? Georgia? Anyone?"

Nothing. Just silence, thick as tar.

Then I heard it.

"Kill..."

A deep voice. Harsh. Male. Cold.

I turned, or at least tried to. But there was no body to turn—just a sense of motion in stillness.

"Show no mercy..." the voice growled again, closer this time. "All giantesses must die."

My blood ran cold.

"No," I muttered. "No, that's not right..."

Images came to mind. Penelope shielding me from a sandstorm, her massive hand curled protectively around me. Georgia's warm laugh as she handed me a tiny cup of tea during training.

"That's not what I want!" I shouted, more confident now. "They're not the enemy!"

But then... something else answered.

A tug at my arm. A pressure.

I looked down and saw my right hand—my real one—clutching the handle of Draughtbane.

But it wasn't just glowing like before. It was... changing me.

Sharp pain lanced up my arm, burning like fire. I could feel something under the skin—pushing, twisting, reshaping.

"What—? No. Stop!" I cried, trying to drop the weapon, but my fingers wouldn't let go.

The voice returned, like thunder in my skull.

"You have no choice."

My breath stopped, as my skin began to rip apart and black metal spikes popped out from beneath my skin.

"You are a male. This is your destiny."

My body spasmed. The pain intensified as more and more spikes appeared on my arm, drenched in my blood, soon nothing of my arm remained, only a big black metal claw covered in my blood.

I screamed.

"KILL THEM ALL."

"NO!"

My eyes flew open.

Breath came in ragged gasps. My heart thudded like a war drum. I was back—lying in Penelope's hand, her warm fingers curled loosely around me.

"Braden!" she gasped, her voice filled with worry. "You're okay... you're okay..."

I blinked, confused, the weight of that dream—or vision—still pressing down on me.

I looked down at my right hand. Still intact. No metal. No spikes. Just skin slick with sweat.

"What the hell was that?" I whispered, my voice hoarse.

Penelope gently ran her thumb along my back. "You were thrashing... twitching like crazy. I thought you were having a seizure."

I swallowed hard, staring at Draughtbane where it now rested beside me.

Something was wrong with that blade. Or maybe with me.

And that voice...

It didn't sound like a hallucination.

It sounded like a warning.