Chapter Thirty-Eight Claire
The pit was a disaster zone. The trellis netting caught fire and collapsed onto the dragon, but trapped four of the six trainees as well.
Of the two trainees who survived to slay the dragon, one lost an arm.
We need to cap the number of participants allowed per target for these final exams. There’s a difference between using chaos as camouflage and sacrificing our allies to get the job done.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Claire
This high up the mountain forest, my chest struggles to fill with air, as if the world itself is telling me I don’t deserve my next breath.
Snowflakes constantly catch in my eyelashes.
Icy wind chafes my nose and lips. This snowfall is nothing like the gentle flurries during the Ascension Day parade.
Marshal Payen rides up beside my horse. “Does anything call to you from here?”
The dozen gendarmes Marshal Payen selected to escort us watch me like a silverwolf must watch a fawna.
“There.” I point at the snow-shrouded spike of rock over the trees. “The summit. That’s our destination.”
“You’re positive?”
“It’s just a feeling,” I remind her.
But it’s more than that.
My heart thumps harder than usual at this altitude. Hot, heady, insistent—and unnaturally feverish, as if warring against the snow. As I think back, a subtler version simmered within me every time I stargazed. I just didn’t recognize it for what it was: instinct.
Relief only comes from moving closer.
“A feeling is all I asked for,” Marshal Payen replies.
“This is where we spread out. Lyle, you ride with me. Gendarmes, ride ahead in formation around our dragon. Keep to evasive maneuvers until the full moon. If you’re spotted, break from the rest of us and lead them away.
Abel and Claire, you’re on foot. Stay back.
It’s our job to clear the area, not yours. Understood?”
“Yes, Marshal,” I reply.
With Lucy perched around his neck like a scarf, Abel turns awkwardly on his horse, gripping the saddlebags for balance. “A few more minutes with the horses,” he tells Marshal Payen. “Please.”
I run my gloved thumb along the stiff leather of my saddle. The bump of the pommel, the worn stitching, the padded knee rolls. I dismount with a crunch. My boots sink ankle-deep.
“She’s right. We need to proceed.” I pat my mare’s neck, but the way she leans into it, bobbing her head for a good scratch, makes my eyes prickle.
I remove my glove and satisfy her itch as best I can, memorizing the texture of each coarse hair until my fingers turn numb.
Then I guide her to the nearest gendarme.
“Thank you for escorting us. And for lending us your horses.”
He grunts an affirmative response. He’s careful not to touch my hand when he takes the reins, as if my curse will somehow jump to him.
That’s okay. Centuries of lies have taught him to fear my human form, too. It’s enough that he trusts Marshal Payen’s judgment to leave me unchained.
Abel dismounts with a stumble and passes his reins to another gendarme. Grimacing, he stretches his weak shoulder. The joint is mostly healed, but it isn’t as strong as before.
“What happens when you find the cultists?” he asks Marshal Payen.
“Stay within our perimeter. We’ll find you.”
I approach Lyle on his gray gelding. “If they’re up here, every last cultist will end up in prison, Lyle. Your mother’s murder won’t go unpunished.”
It’s the only assurance I can make.
“Thank you for your help,” he says.
I offer my hand. “You’re the best of us, Lyle Meteku.”
“I try.” He kisses my knuckles, like the day we met. “Be careful. I don’t like seeing my friends get hurt.”
It’s not me he should be worried about.
I look at Abel. He focuses too intently on unbuckling his saddlebags. His thoughts are written all over his expression.
Best-case scenario: Water of life is a miracle cure.
Next-best scenario: In one month, he uses my death to change slayer culture.
Worst-case scenario: I wake up to find his charred body.
No matter what happens, I will protect him.
The gendarmes split off into the forest, their horses kicking up powder. Marshal Payen turns her horse to follow but halts to wait for Lyle.
“See you at the summit?” I tell him.
“I’ll be there,” he says, then gallops off.
Abel and I continue on foot. I handle the map.
Abel aids my ascent over slippery rocks and through deep snow.
Lucy’s bounding steps quickly turn sluggish.
I tuck her inside my coat like I did at the Tordou River and savor her warmth against my chest. She snoozes after a while.
I kiss her forehead when I can spare the breath for it.
Thick clouds block the suns. The dull daylight fades with the hours, and eventually Abel considers the space amid a cluster of pines and suggests we set up camp for the night. Patches of soil peek through the snow, signaling the driest location we’ve seen all day.
He drops a pack against a tree and rolls his shoulder. “I’ll pitch the tent. Would you gather some firewood?”
“Sure,” I manage, flushed from the hike.
It takes multiple trips, but I gather enough scrap wood to last us a few hours. Abel starts a fire and drags an old log beside it for us to sit on. Nightfall darkens the forest. Our tiny shelter shrinks to a dot of orange in the snow.
“This reminds me of the night we camped at the river,” I muse.
“But much colder.”
I place a hand on his thigh. “We can make it warmer.”
In answer, he twines his fingers with mine.
Lucy nips the flames while we eat our rations and talk about happy memories from our lives before things went wrong.
The tumbles I took when Papa taught me how to ride.
The sewing kit Madame Afi gave to Abel to take home for Micah.
How his pompous parents wouldn’t have liked me, and that he wouldn’t care.
Too soon, the fire dims. Fatigue sinks into my muscles. I’m lighting a lamp and about to suggest we retreat to the tent when Abel pulls the map from the bag. His gloved hands shake.
“Show me where we’re headed again,” he says.
I lean close. My lantern lights up the topography. “Here. Around the summit.”
For a moment, he holds his breath. That handsome brow twitches, as if he’s searching for answers that a map can’t provide. For a boy so accustomed to controlling the variables, blindly following my instincts must be difficult.
“Come,” I whisper. “Don’t think about it.”
I guide him inside the tent, then button it shut. I pull my coat off, then his, in the low lamplight. Layer by layer, our clothes come off. Lucy makes a den out of our coats in the corner and falls asleep.
Naked beneath the furs—for survival, Abel teases—we kiss slowly, patiently, until we’re too tired to keep our eyes open. I tuck my head beneath his chin. We pull each other close, savoring the drug of skin on skin. My mind wades into the river of his warmth and drifts ever closer to sleep.
Before I get there, Abel murmurs, “You’re sure the owls never hurt you?”
“Yes.” I run my fingers down his back, to soothe him toward rest, if nothing else. “I’m sure.”