When the Moon Hatched (The Moonfall #1)

Chapter 39

T he pathway is like a crack formed in the world’s crust, weaving off in all directions, seeming to go on.

And on.

“This is quite the tour,” I mutter as we cut left up another vein of stairs. Or perhaps I’m just impatient, being herded by a massive feline close enough that I can feel its hot breath puffing against the back of my neck.

We take another turn, the air thickening with the rich smell of roasting meat. We move between a tall, lofty entrance framed by …

Bones.

Two colossal bones so large they can only belong to one thing. A dragon that died before it had a chance to soar into the sky, curl up, and turn to stone, instead rotting where it fell.

My eyes widen as we step past the macabre entrance into a massive chest cavity four times the size as I imagine Rygun’s to be. As though the mammoth beast fell many phases ago, its corpse swallowed by the elements.

It’s been mostly hollowed bar a few swooping pinnacles reaching for the clefts in the ceiling—holes bored between some of the thick arching ribs, allowing sunlight to pour down.

The ground is pocked with domed tents made of smooth animal hides all stitched together, reminding me of Rygun’s saddle blanket, the tents like tumbled boulders, painted to look like the scorched terrain in this part of the world. Likely camouflaging this place from anyone soaring above who might otherwise look down the holes in the ceiling.

Clever.

Stone arches frame the entry of each dwelling, all so beautifully carved, boasting creatures of every caste. But predominantly dragons— their realness embossed upon the stone in such immaculate detail.

A shriek snaps my gaze to the arched walls of the chest cavity littered with faunycaws. Winged beasts less than half the size of an average Moltenmaw, looking like knobbled bulges of leathery stone. Perfectly disguised were it not for the way their heads swivel on stumpy necks, big, gloomy eyes blinking.

One of them loosens from the wall and flits between the pinnacles, screaming, saddle ropes fluttering in its wake. My mind clutches the vision like a newborn babe seeking comfort. Seeking an anchor in this place I have no knowledge of.

My key to acclimatizing: don’t get bogged down by the overwhelming details.

Pick something.

Hone my focus.

Don’t drown.

I’m led down a path that wiggles between the tightly packed tents, clusters of silk-swathed females and bare-chested males milling about the space, forging weapons from bits of wood, bronze, or plates of dragonscale bigger than I’ve ever seen. Others are weaving troves of golden silk thread into draped lengths of material or gathering around smoking fire pits saddled with metal spits, each laden with haunches of roasting meat that season the air with that rich, gamey smell.

Though many of them have red hair and bronze, heavily freckled skin, there are also folk with white hair. Black hair. Brown hair. With skin of all shades. Like folk from all corners of this world have fallen through those holes in the ceiling and found a home in this place.

I notice many of the cavity’s inhabitants boast tattoos similar to Kaan’s but depicting various creatures, some more of an outline rather than a full, shaded rendering.

“ Kholu haf comá !” one of the warriors who led me here bellows, the words seeming to echo through the hushing cavern.

Everyone stills, wide eyes taking me in, then the creature following me like a majestic silver shadow I certainly didn’t ask for. But here we fucking are.

Some of the females cry out, eyes watering as they repeat the words:

“ Kholu haf comá !”

“ Kholu haf comá !”

“ Kholu haf comá !”

Everyone drops their tools, some folk pushing from tents and immediately falling to their knees, kissing the ground. Like they’re thanking Bulder for … something .

Aside from my two escorts, myself, and my prowling Herder, not a single male, female, or youngling remains upright.

A surge of nausea spears up my throat, making the underside of my tongue tingle. I’m not sure if I’ve upset them or made them really, really happy, but either option is concerning.

If they revere me, expectations .

If they fear me, death .

That’s the general formula the world seems to be brewed with, and both those things are heavy time wasters. I’ve got a male to hunt down and strangle with his own intestines. I don’t have time to waste.

I pick at the skin on the sides of my nail, cutting another condemning glance at the beast herding me forward. “You’re in trouble.”

It cranks its jaw and yawns, stretching its mouth so wide I could almost crawl down its throat.

Nice to see somebody’s relaxed.

I’m led over a small hump, then down what I can only imagine was once this ancient beast’s throat, its knobbled vertebrae protruding from the ground just enough that a bony tunnel is exposed—a hole I imagine once housed the dragon’s spinal cord. The way is lit by glowing runes etched into the sides, casting the tunnel in a warm hue.

It must’ve taken great affinity with Bulder to find these remains, to excavate them so precisely without disturbing their position.

I’m still marveling as we come to twin flaps of hide hanging from above. My escorts pull them open, stepping aside to give me enough space to pass.

I frown, pausing. “Not sure I want to go in th—”

The Fate Herder headbutts me between the shoulder blades, shoving me through the gap and into the humid embrace of the dragon’s massive skull.

I cut a glance over my shoulder and scowl at the bossy creature before I take in my curved surroundings etched in more of those luminous runes, the ground lined with leathers painted with an array of colorful dots, streaks, and jagged lines.

On the left is a low table that runs the length of the space. Slabs of wood are piled high with hunks of meat being carved up by a white-haired male wielding a huge bronze blade.

He pauses the moment he casts his gaze on me, eyes widening, shifting to the beast at my back. He immediately falls to his knees, kissing the ground.

It occurs to me that it’s probably what I was supposed to do when I first saw the Fate Herder.

Kiss the ground.

Instead, I tried to run from it, yelled at it, snarled at it, and essentially told it to fuck off. It’ll probably give me a shit fate, and honestly, it’s warranted. I’ve certainly got enough blood on my hands to justify it.

I notice a small cluster of golden-silk-clad females perched around baskets heaped with the lanky, blade-like foliage I saw from the sky. They’re folding them around bits of dried meat, though their hands pause as they look at me, then at my prowling shadow.

Their eyes go impossibly round.

They, too, kiss the ground before they rise, nipping glances at the entrance while they gather their things and dash out of the way. Frowning, I look over my shoulder, past my fluffy non-friend, eyes bulging.

A swell of folk are pouring in between the flaps of hide, splitting both ways, packing the space full on either side of the twin bloodstone thrones at the far end of the space. Not sure how I didn’t notice them earlier, given that they’re huge, dominant, and so intricately carved I think they might’ve taken many aurora cycles to construct.

A female occupies the throne on the right, a babe suckling her breast. Her pale hair pools around her like gushing water, her skin so fair I’m certain a single blade of sun would cause her to sizzle like a Moonplume caught in The Burn.

Her bright-green eyes widen at the sight of me, then soften with something akin to relief before she looks to the broad male on her right, placing her hand on his arm. Squeezing gently.

His features are hard and harsh, short beard tailored to his strong jawline, his eyes like mini suns staring out at me from beneath russet brows crunched together in a disbelieving frown. Unlike the other bare-chested males, his broad, freckle-dusted shoulders are draped in strings laden with copper rods, and he wears a bony crown that claws down through his long hair, his ear pierced with a black cuff.

I frown.

It’s the same as the one Kaan wears …

He passes a wide-eyed glance to the female on his left, placing his hand on hers. They dip their heads our way in combined homage, though I suspect that’s more aimed toward the creature that herded me here, considering its mythical status. Certainly not me .

Can’t be me.

I’m wearing a shackle, for shit’s sake. And there’s vomit in my hair.

My cheeks heat as I bring the offending tendrils close to my nose and sniff, my face scrunching up at the sour reek.

Damn. I thought it was more diluted than that.

“This is what happens when you don’t let me jump in the river,” I grind out to my unwanted Herder. “I’m presented to important folk smelling like bile.”

Its only response is to leap ahead and do a prowling loop around me, forcing me to stop.

“Message received,” I mutter, and it lumps itself beside me, sitting on its haunches. It lifts a paw, licks it, and swipes at its face with a smooth sort of contentment I certainly don’t appreciate—surrounded by strangers, standing in a dragon’s skull in the middle of fucking nowhere.

The space packs so full there’s scarcely any hot, humid air to breathe, and the male on the throne lifts his head. His gaze shifts between me and the creature at my side.

Boasting a warm smile, he shakes his head. Like he’s wrestling with some kind of disbelief. “ Kholu …”

“Yes,” I say, cutting a glance around all the silent, wide-eyed onlookers. “Folk keep saying that.”

Again, he looks at the female beside him. They press their heads together, both relishing in some form of relief I can see clear in their expressions.

The male cups the head of their babe and plants a kiss on its brow—

I pull my attention from the intimate moment that’s strangely painful to watch, looking skyward, noticing the vast domed ceiling is strung with toothy skulls. Enough for me to come to the swift realization that these folk have no qualms in killing.

We’ll get on fine so long as they don’t try to kill me .

The maybe-King stands—slow. Everyone in the room bar the white-haired female pounds their fists against their chests before dropping into a bow so low their mouths meet the floor again.

I should probably do the same. Don’t want to piss anyone off, given the fact that I’m incredibly outnumbered and still bound in a shackle of iron.

I clear my throat, drop to my knees, then dip my head, holding the stance for a long moment.

The male steps down from his throne, looking between me, the Fate Herder, and the two males who plucked me from the river—both now standing off to the side. “ Hagh toth ?” he asks, pausing.

The male with the bird tattoo responds. “ Rivuur Ahgt at nei del ayh .”

“ Rivuur Ahgt … uh surt ?”

“ Ahn …”

A stretch of silence before the crowned male speaks again. “ Teni asg del anah te nei . Tookah Téth ain de lei … Sól aygh tah Kholu!”

My mind drifts, clawed fingers scrambling to cling to the now.

The present.

It all begins to remind me of a different place, a different time. When I was just as confused about what the hell was going on, my vocabulary failing to stretch further than a few huffing grunts I’d use to try and explain my needs.

I recite my calming song internally as the maybe-King moves back to his throne, a tall female stepping free of the parting crowd. She’s clothed in lashings of copper body paint and a black-beaded cloak that clatters as she strides toward us in long, hip-swaying steps. Her feet are bare, russet hair so long it smothers half her cloak.

My gaze lifts to her eyes, and all the breath flees my lungs.

They’re white.

Unseeing.

She looks my way, and I feel the opposite of unseen — shafted through with the sense that she sees far too much.

“ Kholu ,” she whispers, smiling before raising both hands skyward. “ Kholu haf comá. Haf de neil da nu … Tookah te!”

The skull erupts with victorious yells and the pounding of fist to flesh, thumping hard like my rallying heart before the crowd becomes a bustle of motion—an energy about the space that prickles with anticipation.

“What in the Creators have you gotten me into?” I grind out to the beast at my side, who simply curls into a great mounded ball of fur, tucks its face beneath its tail, and appears to fall asleep—oscillating between its solid form and smudging at the sides.

Hmm.

Maybe if I ignore it for a bit, it’ll smudge out of existence entirely. Then I can leave.

Two hulking males push free of the bellowing crowd, the larger of the pair so massive his hand could thread around my throat and crush it with a single squeeze, his hair the color of clay and reaching down between his shoulder blades. When he turns to bow at the folk occupying the thrones, I see his back is littered with dots, the image of a serpent coiled around his muscular frame more whole than blotted in places. The smaller male has brown hair and tawny, freckle-dusted skin, bearing a faunycaw with its wings reaching up, draped over the warrior’s shoulders.

Both turn to me, dipping into an even deeper bow.

I frown, my attention drifting to the female sitting on the throne, seeking answers in her eyes. All I find is a soft, comforting smile that makes me want to growl.

I don’t want comfort. I want cold hard truths so I can work out what this Fate Herder has gotten me into and how I can remove myself from the situation the moment the creature drops its guard.

Clopping sounds come to me from behind, and I look over my shoulder, seeing a big leathery six-legged creature being led down the path between the crowd. It has no ears and three sets of beady black eyes that are clustered on either side of its long face, its jaw rocking as it chews something tucked between its molars.

My frown deepens. I think it’s a colk, but the ones I’ve seen have a thick, fluffy pelt. The creatures look so strange … naked .

It makes a snorting sound, settling between myself and the two males watching me with intrigue.

The milky-eyed female steps between me and the peaceful, masticating beast. With one swift motion, she rips a curved bronze blade from a sheath I hadn’t noticed strapped to her leg and slits the animal’s throat faster than I can track.

My lungs seize, heart hammers.

The poor animal lets out a shrill honk, its spilling blood caught in a bowl while my head goes light and airy. The beast is gently lowered to the ground, settling into a kneeling position that mimics my own. But still.

Dead.

I waver.

I’ve killed folk in the same manner. But seeing this poor, innocent creature loosen its final, gurgling breath jostles something inside me. Makes me feel sick to the stomach.

Fuck this.

I’m out.

I push to my feet and spin, stalking for the exit when the Fate Herder leaps in front of me, snarling. The crowd gasps, murmuring while I bare my teeth and growl back.

It drops its head lower, prowls closer, urging me back toward my starting point.

“I’m growing less and less fond of you,” I grind out, then shake my head and turn, storming back, toiling rage whipping at my ribs like ribbons of icy water.

This verbal barrier is growing deeper by the second. If I don’t find out what’s going on soon, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.

The male and female on the thrones frown at me, passing each other wary glances as I pick at the skin down the sides of my nail, watching the two warriors get painted in colk blood like it’s something to be proud of.

I try not to look at the dead animal. Hard when it’s right there , still bleeding out in a bowl.

A group of females converge around me like a fence, breaking off my view of the poor colk. Rows of them, until I’m hidden behind a circular wall of shapely, silk-garbed folk, most of whom have their backs turned.

Every cell in my body stiffens, my eyes darting left and right. It takes me noticing the nervous glances being passed between the few folk still facing my way for me to realize I’m snarling.

One dons a soft smile and steps forward. “ Eh tah Saiza . Téth en . Aygh ne .”

“I don’t understand. Any of this.”

She lifts her hands. “My name is Saiza. It is okay. No hurt.”

Saiza’s peaceful words do little to soothe my hackles, though I do wrangle my upper lip down over my teeth, thankful somebody can speak my language.

This is good. I can work with this.

“Please tell me what’s happening.”

“We have need to cleanse your body,” she says, and my brows fly up.

“Because I got vomit in my hair? I assure you, there’s a very easy solution to that. Just lead me back to the river and toss me in.”

A small smile picks up one corner of her mouth, her sunburst eyes warming, reminding me of Ruse. “Because you are Kholu ,” she whispers, pointing to some colorful marks painted on the leather beneath my feet, crouching to touch a black slash. “Your hair is like the eyes of the faunycaw—in your common tongue,” she says, then points to an azure squiggle. “You came to us on the eternal ribbon of blue—the River Ahgt .”

Debatable. It looked pretty muddy to me.

She traces a dark-red line that coils around these markings like a rope binding a bouquet, spearing off to the right, cradling an impression of three moons.

A Sabersythe.

A Moltenmaw.

A Moonplume.

Another line surrounds the entire image, silver like my unwanted companion coiled at my side, Saiza’s finger tracing it. “It was foretold that the Fate Herder would bring you to us. That your offspring will tether the moons to the sky,” she says with a hitch of awe. “ Forever .”

My heart thuds to a stop, gaze rising to meet hers. “Well, that’s a load of spangle shit,” I snap, jerking my chin at the paintings. “I am no Kholu, and I will never carry offspring.”

The words are a weapon hacking through the space between us, their honed edge whetted on my stony heart.

Never.

The Fate Herder cracks an eye open, watching me.

“ Never ,” I repeat, infusing every ounce of condemnation into my tone as I meet its slit stare.

It blows a deep, rumbling breath that puffs against my face, and something settles within my chest. Like it just reached through me and stroked my frazzled heartstrings.

Might just be me, but I get the potent sense that it doesn’t want me here for … that .

“I know not of this spangle you speak of,” Saiza says, “but the Sól is never wrong. She drew this foretelling many cycles ago, and she herself has called you Kholu. The Fate Herder escorted you here, so the Tookah Trial will proceed, as it was ordained by the Creators themselves and approved by our Oah and Oah-ee. King and Queen in your tongue.”

Another trial?

I groan.

Wonder how many more of these I have to stand through before I finally get to kill Rekk Zharos?

I glare at the problematic Fate Herder still watching me with lazy intrigue, its tail flicking back and forth. “This is your fault.”

A vibrato dong rattles the air, its echo tapering before striking again, making my skin pebble. Another female steps into my circle of relative privacy, carrying a bowl of soapy water.

“May I remove your clothes and prepare you for the trial?” Saiza asks, and I sigh, reaching for the hem of my oversized shirt.

“Sure,” I mutter. “Let’s get this over with.”

The sooner I’m cleansed , the sooner I can be done with this trial, the sooner I can leave.

Hopefully.

A length of silk is passed around my protective ring of females, draped like a curtain before Saiza helps me out of my stolen clothes, then rinses my hair and sponges me down—painting lathered sweeps over my body to the daunting beat of the gong.

“You have beautiful shape,” she boasts, patting my skin down with an absorbent bit of cloth. “Such lovely curves.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, mind elsewhere.

Another.

Fucking.

Trial.

What are they even trialing me for ? It’s not like I murdered any of them.

I don’t think.

Perhaps they want to question me on my procreation intentions, given they think I’m going to magically produce some world-saving offspring?

Better not. I take a tonic every phase that renders my womb inhospitable and have no intention of missing a dose.

Streaks of blood are slicked across my skin by two other females before a long strip of bloodred silk is draped around my waist and knotted. Another shred is wrapped around my breasts, a string laden with copper rods pushed over my head and settled atop my bust.

The gong sounds again—swiftly followed by a rapid foray of beats.

The curtain drops, my band of privacy dissolves, and I see the two painted warriors watching me with honed regard. I’m about to ask Saiza if they’re the ones who are trialing me, but then the Fate Herder gets right in my face and nudges me to a stand, smearing some of the freshly painted blood.

The crowd begins to disperse, funneling through the exit, my fluffy non-friend herding me in the same direction while uncertainty churns in my chest, making it feel tight.

Constricted.

Pick something.

Hone my focus.

Don’t fucking drown.

I hum my calming tune, stare narrowing on the flow of folk before me as I count my steps, imagining each one brings me a little bit closer to that mystical fucking word that’s always just out of reach …

Freedom.