When the Moon Hatched (The Moonfall #1)

Chapter 61

T he heavy smoke haze makes the sun look like a pink smudge, a quiet reminder that this village was a battlefield earlier this dae.

Now it’s a graveyard.

We step around the blistered corpse of a fallen colk yet to be dragged into the pit, and I clear my throat.

Chief Thron keeps my pace as we walk past bouldered homes, some reforged in the past few hours, though shattered glass still litters the ground at their base. Others are black from where dragonflame fired the stone, the glass from their windows now puddled on the ground.

Solidified.

Uprooted trees lie across the path like dead bodies, their foliage withered or singed, roots still clinging to slabs of ground that lifted with their upheaval. Folk cut into the trunks with long bronze saws, hacking them into pieces small enough to be used as firewood or other supplies.

“We have lost much,” Thron says, a somber hitch to his deep voice. “But we’d have lost much more had you not arrived when you did.”

Had I not slaughtered his dragon.

I grunt, stepping over a scatter of crushed ginku fruit, the bright-yellow flesh browning beneath the sun’s harsh rays. Souring, just like this feeling in my gut.

We move into the open, past fields of tawny crops that have been gouged, many plants uprooted from the skirmish that took place before I was able to lure Blóm into the sky again. Toward the rolling hills that sit as a backdrop for the village of Rambek, like great crouching beasts.

I could’ve done it here, but I wanted to give him somewhere private to curl up since it was clear he wasn’t going to make it into the sky.

As it was, he didn’t manage to curl up at all. Didn’t solidify.

Just died, and will eventually rot where he lies.

I clear my throat, trying to scrub the image from my mind, gaze sliding to the clay silo—once tall and strong, now shattered. A phase’s worth of grain spilled across the scorched ground, dampened by the downpour that came just after the beast was slain. As though Rayne herself was crying over the loss of the majestic Sabersythe Rygun slung to the base of a gully, releasing his own tortured shriek that rivaled the howling wind.

The ground had rattled just as much as my fucking bones.

I pull my lungs full, the air thick with the stench of death, smoke, and despair. “I will have barrels of grain shipped to the nearby port,” I offer, watching some of the village folk move about the fields, snapping nearly ripe heads off the top of cormah fronds and gathering them in carts. Salvaging what they can. “As well as some slow-perishing produce to tide your folk over until you can replenish your crops.”

Thron turns to face me, his hand flat on his broad sable chest as he dips his head. “Thank you, Sire.”

“Of course.”

He lifts his head, stark-brown eyes heavy with the weight of loss. “And on a more personal note, I’d like to thank you for felling Blóm.” He brings his hand up to the lower half of his face and smooths it down his black beard threaded with a few ruddy beads. “Had we been able to get a clear shot, I’m not sure I would’ve been able to order it taken …”

“I understand,” I say, placing my hand on his shoulder. “He has been your companion for many phases.”

Thron clears his throat, glancing toward the vast stretch of colk pastures at my back. “There’s your second-in-command. I’ll leave you be, but please join my family for a meal before you leave.”

I offer him a clipped nod, watching him move toward the shattered silo.

“Fuck,” I mutter, my gaze lifting to the hills, certain I’ll never look at them the same again. They used to be so picturesque, now they look like fucking tombstones.

Shaking my head, I turn, seeing Grihm standing by the stone fence that appears to be entirely repaired—spoken back into shape. When we’d arrived, the herd had scattered, many of them felled and now bloated in the streets, caught by the blow of dragonflame that poured all over the village.

The surviving members of the herd now graze on patches of shrub, long tongues wrapping around the stiff twigs and pulling them into their mouths. Young ones wobble about or punch their heads up at laden udders, stubby tails wagging as they drink.

I move down the ashen path and lean against the fence beside Grihm, planting my forearms on the stone. Silence prevails while we watch the herd graze on what little vegetation wasn’t razed by the flames, their large padded feet picking up a mixture of damp ash and mud.

“Something on your mind, Grihm?”

He clears his throat, like checking to see if it’ll work before he speaks in a voice rusty from misuse. “I would like to request leave.”

I look sidelong at him, taking in his pale hair streaked in ash, his black leathers smeared in the same orange dirt the soles of his boots are caked in.

“For?”

His eyes remain cast ahead. “It’s rumored the Great Silver Sabersythe has laid a trio of eggs.”

My heart stills, realization sinking through my skin, chilling me to the bone. “You want to go to Gondragh and raid the nest of the Great Silver Sabersythe?”

A single nod.

For a moment, all I can do is stare at the side of his face, trying to sort my thoughts into a manageable hand.

Failing.

So I go with the fiery facts.

“I stole one of her scales many phases ago. She almost ripped off my arm. For a scale .”

He turns his head, and I see fragments of his pale-blue eyes through the flop of his hair.

Silence.

I shake my head, laughing low, bringing my hand up to scrub my beard. “Fuck, Grihm.”

“I don’t wish to replace Inkah, but being bound to her grave has taken a toll.”

It’s an effort not to gape at him.

I’ve never heard the male thread so many emotionally bound words together in one sentence, and I’m all but certain I’m the only one he speaks to. He doesn’t even say Skripi when he’s ready to show hands. Just taps the fucking table with two fingers like he’s ordering a mead.

He’s never told me what happened to Inkah, and I’ll never ask. I know enough about his past to know it’s riddled with veins of pain that will forever throb.

“Did you inform the others about this decision?”

He shakes his head.

Course not.

He and Veya are cast from the same stone. I’m almost certain they’ll quietly dance around each other for eternity.

“And if you die there, will you have any regrets?”

“Perhaps.” He shrugs. “But I’d be dead.”

Right.

I sigh, scrubbing my face again. I was baffled by the size of his saddlebags. Makes a whole lot more sense now. Going to Gondragh, you need to be prepared.

Meaning he’s been planning this for a while.

A heaviness settles on my chest, and I hang my head, then nod and push off the wall. “I’ll take you there and drop you near the hatching hut,” I say, feeling his gaze on me as I stalk toward the village. “Least I can do since it’s probably the last time I’ll see your sorry ass again.”