A Burning in the Bones (Waxways #3)

Chapter 14 Nevelyn Tin’vori

14 NEVELYN TIN’VORI

One of her father’s favorite stories to tell them as children was the tale of Gathraxes.

For the first century of Delvea’s existence, their ancestors interacted with dragons. Not often. Even then, the dragons had begun their retreat into the Dires. Their already dwindling numbers continued to decline rapidly. But every now and again, a story would make its way back to the general population. Travelers would encounter them on the deeper forest trails. Expansion into new territory would occasionally be stymied by their presence.

One of those stories came from a man named Crawley Shiverian.

Eighth son of the legendary Hara Shiverian—he stood to inherit little. Backed by a generous sum from a family patron, he led an inland expedition. Not all the way into the Dires, but near enough to be considered a risk. He established a small outpost that grew into a small town. Crawley’s mission looked successful until one night, he came face-to-face with Gathraxes.

The dragon unfolded from the shadows. Crawley knew better than to fight or run. He immediately bowed. Pleased by that subservience, Gathraxes offered mercy.

“In seventy-three days, your town will flood. Many will die. Prepare and you will survive.”

Crawley took the news back to his people—and his wisest advisors all rejected him. His prophecy wasn’t logical. Their town was elevated. Far away from any flood plains. It had hardly rained at all since they’d settled in the region. His encounter was dismissed as a fever dream. Pure imagination. Crawley prepared his house and the rest of the town smirked at him from their front doors. Once their leader, he was denounced. Stripped of command. Others stepped in to replace him. Crawley labored on in spite of their judgment.

The day finally arrived. Seventy-three days since his encounter. Crawley woke up to an empty sky. The advisors passing his home pointed at the stray light cutting through the forest trees. All that wasted effort, because of a dream, or else because of the mischief of a dragon. Crawley was the town’s newest fool. Until they heard a distant rumble. The rumble became a roar.

In less than an hour, the town flooded. Historians would later confirm what none of the townspeople—not even Crawley—knew. Gathraxes had spent those seventy-three days toiling. Every day and every night. He’d been in the mountains using his claws to carve a new valley. That gap in the mountains diverted one of the major riverways, slowly but surely, until the entire waterway broke through like a shattered dam.

Hundreds died. Crawley was one of the lone survivors. The story’s lessons always depended on who was telling it. Patience is a virtue. Dragons are assholes. Wisdom can only be found in hindsight. A younger version of Nevelyn had considered everyone in the story to be utter fools. If she’d encountered a dragon—she would not have stayed and worked on her house like Crawley had. She would not have grinned in mockery like the advisors. No, she would have left the next morning and never returned to that place. But now she found herself walking in Crawley’s metaphorical footsteps.

She was a mortal in possession of prophecy.

Their home was prepared. A dozen different wards had been cast. Magical protection layered over the entire property. Physical reinforcements had been installed as well. Nevelyn had replaced every lock. Doubled the thickness of the exterior doors. She’d even ordered special windows. As they made their modifications, the neighbors took note. She saw them watching from windows, or else pausing in the front of the street to assess their bulky new door. One woman had muttered to her partner that it all looked rather out of style. No one asked what they were doing, though. Maybe the answer seemed obvious. The Tin’Vori family—once raided and ruined by the greed of the great houses—was taking steps to see that the same fate would never befall them ever again.

A decent guess, even if it was inaccurate.

Now that preparations had been made, Nevelyn felt like Crawley must have felt on the dawning of that seventy-third day. Waking up to a bright sky. Not one cloud on the horizon. Looking out at a world that showed no signs of what had been promised.

Nevelyn had taken over the master bedroom when they’d first moved in. No one else had wanted the room. One too many ghosts for their tastes. It was on the second floor with a big bay window that overlooked the entire neighborhood. Their estate stood on the corner of two streets. One ran down to the nearest market. The other was a residential street that was often full of small children and their sometimes-watchful parents. Looking out now, she saw the makings of a normal Kathorian day. Markets full. Commuters passing by on their way to work. Bright scenes that had her pacing her bedroom and wondering why she ever chose to trust anyone besides her siblings.

Agnes Monroe was Nevelyn’s own personal Gathraxes.

Had the woman lied? Or was she, like the dragon, working in the background to fulfill her own dreadful prophecy? Downstairs, Nevelyn heard Josey rattling dice in a small cup. He poured them out onto the hardwood floors. Dahvid groaned at whatever the result was. She’d visited a specialty stall and bought dozens of different games for them to play. Childish things, but what else was there to do? True isolation meant there was only the house and the outer courtyard. Ava had secured a stack of novels from the library for reading. Dahvid spent most mornings training. Each of them had activities to occupy their time. All she knew how to do was brood and overthink.

It wasn’t until the following morning that Nevelyn witnessed the first proverbial trickle of water into the village. She had dozed off in her rocking chair. She woke to the sound of boots. A team of paladins were hustling up the street in the morning light. Nevelyn watched them until they turned the corner and the rhythm of their footsteps on the stones faded. Sometime later, they returned with a gurney held between them. A woman writhed atop the stretcher—though it was hard to see more than her outline through the thick barrier of golden light that sealed her off from the rest of the world. It might have been a normal injury. A heart attack or an overdose of the breath. But Nevelyn saw, as they passed just beneath her window, the bruises. The woman’s body was covered with them. Across her face. Running along her collarbone. Far too many to count.

And then the paladins turned onto the next street. Moving in the direction of the Safe Harbor hospital. Agnes Monroe had promised this would be the first sign.

“It’s beginning,” Nevelyn whispered to no one. “It’s here.”