Chapter 44
Predators cackle and howl somewhere in the distant murk, echoing across the plains of snow and gleaming sheets of ice—only the odd sharp rock punched up from beneath to give me any sense of expanse. Of the distance I’ve moved.
Of how far I still have to go.
A shiver runs me through.
Out here, the world’s bigger, more brutal. One wrong move will bury me in the pinch between this barren wasteland and the dark, moon-pocked sky. Though it’s no less than I deserve, there’s still something I need to do.
But first—
I lift Kaan’s weald to my bare, throbbing shoulder. Use the light to inspect the ugly pucker of pink skin I sizzled shut four daes ago, struggling to keep my hand steady. Not helped by the fever boiling my blood. Nor the welling anticipation of what I’m about to do.
“F-f-fuck it,” I mutter, deciding it’s best to cut first, think later. Either way, I’ll need to dig around until I find whatever’s left in me. It’s going to hurt as much no matter where I stick the knife in.
I’m transferring the weald into my other hand when another howl heckles me.
I scour my surroundings, looking past more scattered black stones jutting up like loose teeth, toward the wave of white towering over the plains like a constant threat.
Miel Et Muíem smothers my view of the bright horizon, blocking my path to The Fade.
Not that I believed I could get there once Bharon buried himself in the sky.
Nobody survives the Ergor Plains without a mount.
Provisions. Shelter. I’ll die of starvation before I make it near enough to the border to open my bond with Zekhi and call him to me without risking his well-being. But those Mists—
They might be the answer to everything.
If I were to pass through them, I’d likely get soul-suckled to death. Not my favored way to go. But if I can simply get close enough to catch the attention of one of the resident waifs, they might be willing to pass a message to Borg; ready the moment Kaan decides to pop the cork on his vial next.
A great plan. Unfortunately, the wind squealing past this rock I’m sheltering behind is keeping the Mists perpetually out of reach.
That, and I’m pretty sure I’m dying.
Teeth gritted, I roll my shoulder, using the agonizing grind of pain to gauge the exact whereabouts of whatever I left in there before I cauterized the wound. If I can get it out, I might break my fever. Survive long enough to reach the Mists.
Atone.
My right hand trembles around my pre-fired dagger, still achy from being torn through, lacking the strength to clench properly. It’s one thing to cut yourself open. Doing it with a floppy hand is another beast entirely, but I have no choice.
I angle the tip against my puckered flesh, grit my teeth, and plant pressure down the blade, breath held as the sharp metal splits past skin and already ravaged muscle. Like stabbing a hunk of cooked meat to see if the juice still runs pink.
Not mine. But given the raging throb seeded deep in the general vicinity, I’m unsurprised to see yellow puss glug around the silver blade, oozing down the front of me, chased by a rush of blood.
Despite my urge to scream, I hold my breath, not wanting to mark myself as easy prey for whatever’s skulking nearby.
Don’t wanna make it too easy for them.
My grip on the weald trembles so much I almost drop it. Darkness clouds the corners of my vision, but I don’t stop pushing until the blade is nearly through the other side of me.
Pulling it out is harder, like sliding against a coarse grain. Painful enough that my head kicks back against the stone as my throat threatens to loosen.
The blade slips free.
I droop, shuddering with such violence I almost topple to the side, letting the dagger fall from my wet grip. I don’t allow myself a moment to breathe or think or fucking feel before I bite the glove from my right hand and push two fingers in, goring through my ravaged flesh.
Time blurs as I close my eyes and dig, voiding the pain as best I can, my head becoming lighter.
Colder.
Even the howls grow quiet, like they’re moving farther away. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking.
My finger grazes something sharp, pumping my heart with hope.
I wedge my other finger around, pinch the object, and pull. They squelch free, boasting a black stone splinter.
An immediate sense of ease washes over me as I swallow a sob of relief. The feeling’s short-lived, my gaze moving past the wet splinter to the Mists beyond—suddenly so much farther away. As though Clode just heaved the mightiest breath of her existence and blew them almost out of sight.
It would take a miracle for me to reach them before I die of starvation or get preyed upon. A realization that’s like the heel of a boot grinding me into the snow, loosening a pathetic whimper that makes me want to punch myself.
My vision smears as my head flops back against the stone, the warmth leaking from my shoulder a quiet comfort in this frozen expanse of black and white. Like a soft hug while death quietly takes your hand and gives you a gentle tug—
Not yet, Veya.
Not.
Fucking.
Yet.
I snarl, jerking straight.
Another howl rips across the plains, answered by a beast that sounds as though it’s coming from a different direction.
Perhaps they’re circling …
Wonderful.
I have no doubt that if I were to focus my gaze on my surroundings, I’d see whatever’s hunting me. Likely crouched close to the snow, skulking nearer with each slow beat of my heart. But they can’t have me until I’ve made some of this right.
I lift the weald to my weeping wound until flame meets flesh.
Melts it.
I bottle a scream, convulsing through the sear of pain.
Once I’m certain the wound is cauterized, I drop my hand and pull a wobbly breath. Gag on the potent reek of fried flesh.
I pocket the precious weald and fumble for my blade. Gripping the hilt, I tip my head against the stone and wait—determined to slaughter anything that tries to eat me. Even if I survive to see the aurora ribbons rise again, it’s time for the winds to change.
For the Mists to drift close.
For me to get a message to Kaan without dying first. Who knows what problems will arise once my soul leaves this body. How hard it’ll be to pass my knowledge on.
To tell my brother that he has a daughter.
I can’t give back the precious lives I’ve taken, nor can I mend the kingdom I doomed, but I can do this.
I can make this right.
Another distant howl scuttles across my skin.
I swing my head right and scan my surroundings, stilling as my gaze narrows on a dark hollow tucked in a jagged crevice at the foot of the mountain ranges.
Most likely one of the many long-forgotten entrances to the ancient labyrinth beneath, shaped before folk learned how to sculpt aboveground cities with cleaner air and better access to our bonded dragons.
A hitch of hope snags my breath.
If I can make it into that tunnel, I’ll be sheltered until the Mists move close again. Less of a target for circling predators.
With a few teeth-gritted maneuvers, I get the cloak back up over my bloody shoulder, pull on my glove, and tug my hood down over my face. Then I shove to my feet and make for the cave—each heavy step shafting spears of pain up my legs, into my hips.
Even at my quickest, it’s little more than a limping jog.
The sharp wind bites through my clothing, making me ache all over, my organs shaking. As though someone has my spine in their fist, jolting me from the inside out.
The world wobbles beneath me …
I trip face-first into the hard-packed snow. The blow of pain radiating through my shoulder suggests I’ve torn the freshly cauterized wound even before the seep of blood begins to warm my chest—heat rushing from my veins, gushing out the hole.
Another howl rips my heart up my throat.
With a surge of unnatural strength, I heave to my feet and gouge through the snow. My gusty surrounds blur as I focus on planting sturdy steps, bringing me closer to the promise of safety.
The back of my neck prickles with the sense that something is right behind me—
I launch into the pitched cave, landing so hard and heavy all the air punches from my seizing lungs.
I roll, chest jerking with each failed battle for breath. Watch in vulnerable horror as three large crowls gallop across the plains, powering toward me with their jagged teeth bared, kicking up bursts of snow.
They swallow the space between us while I take in their skeletal forms and frosted eyes, the beasts busting against one another in the rush to funnel into the cave and claim the kill.
I finally heave a breath. Blast it free with a single sentence that grates my throat on the way up, coming out like a spit of stone.
“Gerg-agh tah vú!”
Bulder snaps the cave shut with such force it reminds me of a dragon’s maw clamping down, enclosing me in the faint smell of dust and soot and a darkness so thick it’s like I’m clapped between bricks of dried ink.
That, and a bone-aching silence.
I fumble for Kaan’s weald. Manage to open the lid and release the flame as a different darkness begins to encase me—cold.
Hungry.
The sort that suggests I’ve lost too much blood.
I groan, feeling the weald fall from my weakening grip. Hear it skitter across the ground.
My head rolls to the side, gaze caught on that small, hungry flame until I slip away.