Chapter 7 #2
Because no matter how beautiful most of them are, no matter what comfort they might bring, they all ultimately lead me back to a pain I would give anything to erase, even if it meant forgetting him entirely.
Maybe it's selfish. Cowardly. But I'd let my last pieces of him go if it meant never again thinking about how I'd lost him. How I’d woken up on our last night together to find him missing from our bed.
Looking back, it seems strange that this was the first thing I noticed—that I was aware of his absence before I was aware of the flames.
Of course, it didn't take long for the hellish glow of the burning city to catch my attention.
The memories swirl and shift into a more solid scene as I watch the campfire dance. I see the lower level of Malachi’s house, flooded with smoke so thick I can't speak, can't breathe. I feel the sharp burn in my throat as I inhale too much, too quickly, when I try to shout for him.
I'm coughing and sputtering, ready to collapse, when suddenly he reaches through the grey, catching me by the wrist and pulling me through a broken window.
Outside is worse.
So many dark beasts in the skies above, each silhouette another promise of death.
Everything—everything—seems to be on fire.
I race toward my parents' house, reaching it just in time to see a dragon landing on the roof, the entire structure collapsing beneath its weight. The dragon thrashes violently among the wreckage, reducing my family’s home to piles of splinters and glass and broken belongings.
One of those piles catches fire, whether from the beast’s magic or a stray ember from the houses already blazing around it.
My heart pounds in the present as fiercely as it did back then. I try to close my eyes against the memories, but they keep coming, chasing me back into the past, and now I am running, screaming my parents' names over and over and over—
The dragon is the one who answers, turning its oily black eyes in my direction. Its silver-black scales are so shiny they reflect the flames building around it, making it look like it burns with some internal, hell-attained fire.
With a roar, it lunges toward me.
Malachi pushes me out of the way at the last instant.
I'm spared from the dragon's attack, but I trip over one of the many dead bodies scattered on the ground, tumbling face-first into the burning ruins of the place I once called home.
A smoldering, jagged piece of wood impales my eye.
The pain is so agonizing I lose myself for several moments, the world tilting up and out of reach as I stagger and fall onto my back.
My awareness eventually returns.
My strength doesn't.
I try, but I can't make myself get up, even when I hear people stampeding toward me, shouting and pointing. Even when I realize it's Malachi they're pointing at, Malachi that's been snatched into the claws of the same dragon that tried to kill me.
In my mind, here in the middle of the Mouren camp, I still hear him being torn apart. I still hear my name—the last thing he says before choking out an agonized cry, then a gasp, then…silence.
Through spinning smoke and blurring vision, I watch the murderous beast carry away his broken body. I choke down a sob as another dragon collides with the killer, trying to claw my fiancé from its grasp; they're known to play with and fight over their kills.
The nightmares about Malachi’s body being tossed between them started when I closed my eyes in the middle of that burning city, and they haven't stopped ever since.
Finally, I shake myself free of the memory.
I tilt my face to the sky, trying not to look at the campfire anymore.
Every flicker of its light tightens the knot in my stomach and brings me a little closer to vomiting.
To screaming. To sobbing out a confession about what I saw, what I felt, what I failed to tell anyone.
In every sizzle of the smoking fire I hear a whisper of the question that has haunted me for five years.
Could I have saved them all?
Another hour passes.
I drift in and out of awareness, still trying to formulate a plan, but battling with exhaustion, too, all while trying to keep the traumatic echoes of my past at bay. Then a frantic shout pulls my attention fully back to the camp—
A severed head rolls to a stop in front of us. Eyes still open. Still staring.
A shadow races past, cloak snapping behind him.
“Fucking hell,” Briar curses, turning her face from the gruesome sight. “This day just keeps getting better and better.”
I start to point out that at least it's the head of a Mouren soldier—one who'd been guarding us, no less—but a bloodcurdling scream makes the words collapse in my throat.
Turning toward the noise, I see that the center of the camp has erupted with violence. Masked figures pour through it, cutting down Mouren soldiers, hurling torches into tents and supply stacks.
And now I’m cursing as well—because regardless of whose heads are flying, being bound up and defenseless in the middle of a massacre is not exactly ideal.
We struggle once more with our bindings, hearts pounding and more colorful curses flying between us.
A soldier staggers into our view. Two arrows are lodged deep between her shoulder blades.
Blood trickles from her mouth, and her eyes turn glassy as she circles around and around and then finally collapses.
Her sword flies from her hand as she hits the ground, landing near Briar's foot.
A potential tool—and not a moment too soon, as there are now several tents catching fire alarmingly close to us.
“This is what I get for wishing their camp would burn down last night,” I say. “I didn't say I wanted to be inside of it when that happened.”
“You have to be more specific about what you're praying for,” Briar replies, stretching her leg toward the fallen sword, “or the gods will fuck you over every time.”
“You'd think I would have learned that by now,” I mutter, twisting so I can reach the sword as well, helping her guide it closer. The pain radiating from my knee is still dizzying, but I grit my teeth and push through it.
Together, we manage to shove the blade against the post we're bound to, and then to force it to slide upright. After a few failed attempts, we angle it between the wood and the ropes binding my hands.
Briar presses her body against the sword, holding it relatively steady as I work my arms up and down along the blade, sawing myself free. Once I escape, I take a knife from the fallen soldier and cut Briar free as well.
We steal hooded cloaks and more weapons from both that soldier and the one who was recently relieved of his head.
As I pull the hood up to hide my face, trying not to gag at the stench of the blood splattered across the thick wool, I squint toward the growing battle. “Who are these invaders?”
“Who the hell cares?” Briar answers. “They're creating a distraction, so let's move.”
I can't argue with this.
We break into a run, weaving our way toward where I'm fairly certain our horses are tied. The pain in my knee only gets worse with every step, but I don’t let myself focus on it.
More of the Mouren soldiers are beginning to wake up.
They spill from their tents with weapons in hand, wave after wave of them, and quickly outnumber their attackers.
But even then, there are still plenty of intruders to keep them distracted—and no one seems to have noticed our escape amidst the chaos.
We're actually going to get away.
The thought has only just crossed my mind when a dragon roars overhead.
I stumble, the familiar pain and paralysis triggered, trying to overtake me. Even after I push these things down, I can't seem to make myself move as fast as before.
But it isn't just me that's gone numb, this time; Briar is nearly at a standstill as well, staggering with one hand pressing against her temple while the other desperately clenches her stolen sword.
The battle has slowed, people stumbling about as if in a daze. Shouting is turning to confused mumblings, while the clang of steel and the twang of arrows is growing less frequent, just occasional wayward strikes rather than the violent cacophony of moments ago.
A wave of cold energy sweeps over the area, making the fires flicker and dwindle.
The air seems to grow thicker, absorbing more and more sound.
The captive dragon—my supposed bonded one—is suddenly frantic, flailing violently about, its cries so pitifully desperate that I almost consider going back and trying to free it.
Almost. Warmth blooms in my chest as I look in its direction, but that heat isn't strong enough to overcome the cold, brutal power that's sinking even deeper into camp.
It has to be magic causing that cold.
And magic only has one source in this world.
Casting a look skyward, I see dark silhouettes circling. Dragons. Between the tangle of tree limbs and my poor vision, it's hard to tell how many there are.
But even one is far too many.
Commander Gareth has caught up to us, along with several other soldiers—one of whom rips my hood down, confirming my identity. They start to try and apprehend Briar and me again.
Then a rider breaks out of the trees just ahead of us, the breath from his beastly horse steaming in the night air, and the world seems to slow once more.
Gareth tenses, holding tightly to my arm as we watch this rider approach.
He's dressed almost entirely in black, save for the inside of his fluttering cloak, which is a rich, deep crimson.
A mask covers his face, but it's strikingly different from the masks hiding the ones that invaded this camp; it hides him, yet draws the eye because of its shining, intricate artistry.
Like golden dragon scales that have been molded so precisely it seems forged to his very features.
He comes to a stop a short distance away, his gaze sweeping across the camp before fixing in my direction and staying there.
At least ten other riders follow closely behind, all of them dressed in similar fashion, wearing similar masks—yet the first rider stands out, even as these others press in closer to him.
He dismounts.
The dragons overhead sing out a harrowing song, as if to announce his arrival. Another wave of cold magic sweeps outward from the man, further dimming the fires and making every hair on my body stand up.
That magic, the cries of the dragons, the power that seems to roll so effortlessly off of him…
I know who this man is well before the Mouren soldiers scramble to clear a path for him. Before they all fall silent, many of them dropping to one knee, while most of the remaining camp intruders start to back away and search for escape routes.
And I know that things have gone from bad to worse before he even reaches us, and the commander bows his head and says, “Hello, Your Majesty.”