Chapter 22 Aurora
AURORA
We do not stop until the sky bruises into evening and the sulfur stench grows stronger.
No fire. He orders it without speaking. Just a look, a tightening of his jaw. We settle into a hollow between two weeping roots—thick as pillars, slick with moisture that drips in slow, rhythmic taps.
The cold sinks into me immediately, sharp as needles. I curl against Othic’s side, trying to leech warmth from him. He is a furnace—burning from some core I will never understand. My shaking eases only because of him.
Then a new smell threads through the air.
Rank. Musky. Oily. Wet fur left too long in a dark room. Hair damp with sweat and blood. The kind of scent that hits the back of your throat and refuses to leave.
“What is that?” I whisper.
Othic goes still. Not the restful kind. The statue kind. And when a warrior like him goes statue-still, it means something is terribly wrong.
His growl rises—not loud, but so deep it seems to vibrate the earth. The last time I heard a sound like that, slavers died.
He stands. Silent. Sword drawn.
I press myself deeper into the roots, dagger trembling in my grip.
My breath fogs faintly in the cold. His does not. He is too keyed up, too taut.
I try to sleep. I fail. My eyes stay open, locked on every flicker of shadow.
Suddenly, I see them.
Two red pinpricks. Low to the ground. Unblinking. Not animal eyes; those dart, reflect, move. These… watch. Fixed. Intelligent. A patient, sinful red.
They study us.
My lungs forget how to work. I clutch the roots behind me until bark cuts my palms.
The eyes do not move. Do not blink. Just watch. For hours.
At some point exhaustion grabs me by the throat and pulls me under.
When I wake, the sun is only a smear of grey behind the canopy. My body aches from the cold, my neck stiff, my hands numb. Othic is not beside me.
Panic jolts through me.
He returns a moment later, his jaw tight, breath sharp with fury. He grabs my shoulder—too hard—and I gasp.
Then I see why.
Behind him, in the small clearing where the eyes had been, lie three rodan.
Or what’s left of them.
Their heads are ripped off. Not cut. Ripped. The bodies piled neatly. Purposefully.
A message.
Every bone in my body tries to retreat at once.
Othic’s voice is a growl. Raw. Dangerous.
“We do not rest,” he snarls. “We run.”