When the Moon Hatched (The Moonfall #1)

Chapter 46

I stalk down tunnel after tunnel, the air chilled by glowing runes etched onto the curves of russet stone, flaming sconces shrieking at me as I charge past.

Those who can’t hear Ignos probably think flames are happy to be alive no matter their size.

Wrong.

A candlestick flame will stretch and squirm in the presence of anyone who wanders by, screaming for more sustenance to burn. Desperate to grow .

Ignos doesn’t like being small and unimpressive. He craves rugs to singe. Forests to obliterate. Fields of dry grass to rip across.

I call a small flame to my hand, and it writhes in my palm with hissing excitement as I pass mercenaries shoving against walls, fists thumping against bare or garbed chests.

“ Hagh, aten dah .”

“ Hagh, aten dah .”

“ Hagh, aten dah .”

Their respectful bellows drone into oblivion, paling in comparison to the rage rumbling through my bones, heating my blood, licking against my organs with fiery malice.

I haven’t slept in cycles. Not since before I woke to Raeve straddling me, one of Rygun’s scales poised at my throat, her eyes flared with the promise of a death I’d rather have at her hand than anyone else’s.

Before they softened.

Before I caught a glimpse of … something. A tender emotion that split my chest. Made me think her memories are in there.

Somewhere.

Fucking somewhere .

The aurora rose and fell three times while Rygun beat across the plains to get us here as fast as he could, and still, I don’t crave sleep—a rabid amount of energy thumping through my veins, pumping my muscles full. Making me picture blood on my hands, fingers shredding flesh, bones snapping beneath my tight grip.

Grihm’s heavy steps echo mine as I crack my knuckles, turning down the wide stairwell that spills into a dusky training ring.

I whisper my flame into segments that flit through the air, latching onto the flammable heads of many wall torches. Engulfing them in hissing shrieks—casting the wide, round, rough-hewn cavern in a rage of amber light.

I didn’t craft this space with gentle precision. The ceiling isn’t high or paved in grandeur. I didn’t bother willing the walls into a fine polish.

This space is exactly what is required, nothing more. A crater-sized arena to throw fists and split skin. To break bones and fray feral tendencies before they grow their own blood-letting pulse.

Stepping down into the sand peppered with grains of iron, the voices in my head extinguish like a blown flame. I make for the arena’s epicenter, the doors thumping shut, followed by the sound of Grihm removing his boots.

I stretch my arm across my chest, then the other. The fine scabs that had begun to form on some of my wounds reopen with the motion, warm blood slicking down my torso and dripping onto the sand.

“I’m not in the mood to hold back,” I rumble, spinning.

Grihm’s jacket is on the ground by his boots, head dipped as he loosens the strings on his black tunic before pulling it over his head, exposing his back, his pale flesh a puckered mess. Like it melted, got stirred up, then abruptly solidified.

He begins to turn, and I look away.

“Neither am I,” he grates out, and it’s a battle to keep my face stony. To contain my shock at the sound of his voice—its coarse texture a tribute to how little he uses it.

He stalks toward me, looking at me from behind the flop of snowy strands half concealing his face, broad shoulders flexing as he fists his hands at his sides.

“Good,” I growl, then charge .

We collide in a clash of white-knuckled blows that break more than they build, our blood spraying the sand as we exert the menace from our systems in the only way either of us understands.

Fists to flesh.

Snarl to bloodlusting snarl.

Rage to fucking rage.