Chapter 9
I think I might’ve fucked up.
Battling for breath, I look over my shoulder, down the jagged cleft I squeezed through to get … here, wondering—
The distant sound of boots pounding stone confirms going back is not an option.
I should’ve peeled off earlier, down one of the other cracks in the wall.
Swiping the sweat and tendrils of hair clinging to my brow, I take in the cavern stretched before me, scanning angry pools of magma that burp billows of smog. My gaze climbs the massive stone columns that support the broad ceiling—like Bulder himself is using his arms as pillars.
It’s a death trap. My gear isn’t equipped to withstand such heat. And what if I get down there and the only way out is death by lava pool?
A blow of air whips the powdery, sulfuric fumes into a violent dance. Like Clode just gusted into the cavern, parting them like gauzy curtains.
My gaze narrows on a slice of aurora light shafting through mottled clouds beyond. An exit.
I deflate, muscles easing.
Thank the Creators …
I study the labyrinth of frail paths that weave through the caustic carnage. Unfortunately, they appear as sturdy as my withering balance.
Guess it’s time to remove this iron bolt.
Looking down at the poke of metal protruding from my foot, I wince, look back up again. “Dammit,” I mutter, sinking onto my ass with one leg dangling over the steep ridge.
Dammit.
Dammit.
Dammit.
I fill my lungs, hold my breath, then rip out the bolt, plugging my mouth with my fist so I don’t scream. I toss the fucker, blood oozing from the gory puncture as Bulder’s song hammers me like a drudging lament. As it always does when there’s lava around.
He doesn’t enjoy being melted.
We have that in common.
I tear a strip from the hem of my cloak and bind my foot, about to beg Bulder to build me a bridge of salvation across the landscape of doom when something catches my eye, tucked amongst chips of obsidian. Something black, shiny, but suspiciously round and perfectly shaped.
My heart stills.
It looks like one of Bharon’s scales—Tyroth’s massive, majestic, and very boisterous Sabersythe.
Surely not. Surely he’s hutched in one of the outposts closer to The Fade, where there’s at least a bit of warmth in the air. Nobody in their right mind would hutch a Sabersythe here.
In fucking Arithia.
I look closer at the cavern, at the mounds of obsidian clustered in places, some scuffed into shards. Like something’s been using them to tend its overgrown claws. A behavior I’ve only seen in dragons kept in confined spaces for too long.
Small, silver runes are etched in the many crevices about the walls … around pools of lava … on islands of stone …
“Creators …”
This place is no accident, forged into existence by some volcanic anomaly. It’s a brimstone cage.
Again, I glance toward the distant exit. At the frail ridges woven between the volcanic pools.
I can’t call on Bulder to build me a bridge and risk rousing Bharon, but potentially having my flesh melted off to get free of this place is a risk I’m willing to take.
Sketching out the best, hopefully sturdiest path, I rip another strip from the hem of my cloak and bind the bottom half of my face so I don’t choke on the fumes. I turn, edging down the craggy cliff when a low rumble echoes from deep within the burrow …
Fuck.
I don’t stop. Don’t even slow.
It’s been a long while since I last saw Bharon, but I recall his broad stature and fierce territorial nature.
Can’t forget his heavily spiked tail he used to bludgeon anyone who stepped into his personal space, or the way he went through handlers like roast colk haunches back when he was hutched in Dhomm.
If he emerges from wherever he’s coiled up, I’m dead.
Leaping the final few feet, I land in a crouch that sends a shaft of pain up my leg, unleashing a wild scream that echoes in the cavernous space.
Panic pitches me into a hobbled run, the undersides of my boots threatening to stick to the hot stone as I weave down frail paths that crumble in my wake, dodging spits of lava bursting from brimstone pools. Thick exhaust clouds my vision, but I power forward, Clode a gusty beacon I hunt.
You can do it.
You can do it.
You can do it.
I scramble up a pile of loose obsidian fragments, drop to my ass, and slide down the other side, slicing my hands and arms on all the sharp edges. Pushing upright, I keep moving, coughing despite the bind, eyes stinging from the steam and sulfur-laden stench.
Just down this hill, a quick dash to the burrow’s mouth, then out. I can hide in the steep forest. Wild waifs are known for nesting amongst clusters of weeping wisps, but the risk of having my soul slurped is better than the alternative.
Death.
Losing custody of the diary.
I leap onto more sturdy ground, sprinting toward the exit when another gust of wind shoves into the burrow and sweeps the smog aside—
Revealing Tyroth barring the way like a pewter-armored statue.
There’s a cruel glint in his mismatched eyes, his hair loose, arms crossed and shrouded in the pelt of some white beast with its lifeless head hanging over his left arm.
My heart drops.
His mouth moves.
The ground shakes.
A spear of obsidian strikes up diagonally from the ground. So fast I don’t fully register it until it pierces my shoulder. Shreds skin, muscle, and sinew.
Shatters bone.
I feel it burst through my back as I jolt to a stop and scream—a loud, bloodcurdling howl. Pain thrashes in pulsing heaves, like something just tore my arm clean off.
I drop my chin, lungs aching for breath I can only sip for risk of breaking myself further, watching blood ooze down the black shard and puddle at its base.
My brother’s heavy footsteps thump closer, one thought belting through my mind …
I can’t fail.
Can’t fail.
Can’t fail.
I still my trembling lips, forcing my lungs to fill with breath I drudge into words. Beg for Bulder to spear up and do to Tyroth what he just did to me. “Gurdeth aath ahn—”
“Gurdeth aath uh nah!” Tyroth bellows before I finish, wrestling my command into submission. Something that almost rips my tongue from my throat, crumbling the shaft of stone that had begun to spear toward his chest.
I gag and splutter, tasting blood, lungs burning.
He steps through the remnants of my failed attempt to murder him, over a shattered chain of silver containment runes—suggesting Tyroth’s been keeping Bharon trapped against his will.
“Leaving without saying hello?” he drones, long hair billowing in the hot, humid wind.
My very essence crunches in.
Just like with Pah, I always feel small in Tyroth’s presence. The runt of the litter who didn’t have the decency to die with Mah when I took her from the world.
“Why wou … would I— w-waste … my br— breath?” I ask instead of telling him how much just looking at him hurts. His face that rarely smiles, condemning eyes that blame me after every blink.
That’s what mirrors are for.
He clicks his tongue. “Funny how you always see yourself as the victim, Veya, when you’re the one who took everything from us.
” Stepping close enough that I can see the flecks of green in his left eye, he rips off the bind and frowns down his nose at me, studying my face like he’s picking apart a painting. “I hate how much you look like her.”
I wish I had the breath to tell him to get fucked. At least he knew her. Saw her. Smelled her. I didn’t have her at all, and Pah burned all her portraits.
Instead, I edge my hand into the folds of my cloak, gripping the blade strapped to my left thigh.
“I think he did, too.” His frown deepens. “Probably the reason he didn’t put you out of your misery when you begged for it.”
I ignore his riddled words and whip back my good arm, about to slash my blade through his throat when my hand freezes midair.
It takes a moment for me to register what Tyroth grunted out, and the thin spear of obsidian now impaling my raised hand.
The blade clatters to the ground before the violent flare of pain strikes, warm blood glugging down my arm and drip, drip, dripping from the point of my elbow.
Tyroth clicks his tongue again. “Tell me, sister. What are you doing in my kingdom?”
“Sight—ssseeing.”
With a sigh, he stuffs his hand in the pocket of my cloak. “I forgot what a sarcastic cunt you are.” He retrieves my bangle and waves it in my face. “Have you recalled the last time you used this yet?”
I don’t answer. Can barely focus on anything beyond the ragged workings of my lungs.
“I take your silence as a no.” He pockets the bangle, then pulls out a bronze dragonscale blade.
My heart slams against my ribs at the sight of it, the shade familiar. The same tone as a Sabersythe I watched heave into the sky and bind into a ball when I was only five phases old.
Tyroth grips a handful of my hair and yanks, jerking me against the spear of stone. I cry out, the blade glinting as he brings it close to my scalp and slices.
I feel the strands sever, see the clump of curls fall away in his hand.
“Something to send as proof when I inform Kaan of your death.”
I grow so cold one tap would shatter me.
Tyroth whistles, long and deep. The sound ricochets off the cavern’s walls, followed by a gravelly rumble—like Bulder’s gut just gurgled. Or at least that’s what I tell myself, that Tyroth’s dragon didn’t just rouse from a heavy slumber.
I tremble anyway, certain I’d rather die by my own blade than be eaten or burned alive.
“You can keep your head,” Tyroth drawls, looking down at the small black pouch he’s stuffing my hair into, tugging the drawstring tight.
When he looks at me again, there’s cold hate in his eyes.
“Spend your eternal existence hunting me from beyond, little sister. Watch me slaughter your favorite brother, then decimate The Burn until it’s nothing but rubble and bones.
Payment for helping himself to what was mine. ”
The last word is hissed with such vehemence I realize one terrible, frightening thing …
He knows.
He found out about Kaan and Elluin.