Chapter 65
“Oh my Creators—Fuck me,” Pyrok grits out from where he’s sprawled across the seater. Chin to his heaving chest, he watches Roan dig for the pin wedged deep in his pectoral. “I thought you’d be—good at this. Kaan didn’t—make a single sound when you—got his one out.”
“I’m literally not doing anything different,” Roan says on a sigh. “You, however, are moving much more than he was.”
From the opposite side of the hook-shaped seater, I glance at the trapdoor in the ceiling overhead; snapped shut after Kaan charged up the coiled staircase the moment Roan finished de-pinning his arm.
Not a word was uttered in my direction as we made our way back. Not even when we entered the safety of the tree. But I can feel them there, wedged between us. As tangible as the explosive rage welling behind my ribs, building a little more each time I think of the fucking note still in my pocket.
Orders to kill the youngling cross-legged on the ground beside me with the hatchling in his lap, dangling bits of bloody meat the dragon’s trying to pluck from the air despite his eyes still being fused shut. Probably why he keeps almost nipping the kid’s finger off.
How could he possibly be a threat to The Flourish?
A child?
I tuck my freshly washed hair behind my ear and lean farther forward over the bucket of sudsy water, scrubbing my jacket with extra gusto.
The only thing I’m delivering Sereme and The Elding is retribution served in the shape of a blade slamming hilt-deep in their hearts. I’ve lost all faith in them, in the cause. I wouldn’t be surprised if The Flourish is perfectly safe and secure. If this is a thick layer of manipulation. A ruse to—
I don’t know. But I will find out.
“Nope.” I look up to see Pyrok snatch the fine-tipped prongs. Wedging into a sitting position, he pushes muddy hair back from his eyes, then points the bloody tool at his brother. “Go away, you fumbling fuck. I’ll do it myself.”
Roan tips his head, like he’s looking for patience in the ceiling’s swirled grain. “I almost had it.”
Snorting, Pyrok bites down on the cork of his flask, rips it out, and spits it aside.
“The only thing you almost had was my fist in your face.” He glugs back what I can only assume is half the flask’s contents.
He hisses through his teeth, then plants his chin to his chest and digs through the wound.
Roan tosses his hands. “I’ll get my tinctures ready for you to etch yourself shut.”
Pyrok glares at his brother now moving down the stairs. Muttering to himself, he gets back to work as I dunk my jacket in the water. Continue brushing the gathered grime from between Rygun’s tiny claw scales that line the garment, wondering if all siblings act this way.
Not sure why the thought makes something deep in my chest … ache.
The trapdoor lifts.
Kaan moves down the coil of stairs still dressed in his muddy pants that cling to his muscled thighs like a second skin. He’s shirtless from Roan’s intervention with the prongs, and it appears he cleaned most of the grime from his arms and torso with a cloth that was barely sufficient.
Another step down, and his face comes into view—mostly cleaned, though filth is still streaked through his loose hair and beard, his eyes like charcoal when they finally drop into view, underscored by shadows.
Striking me.
Something drips on the step he’s stalled on, my gaze lowering to a crimson splat. Rises again to the shredded skin across the knuckles of his right hand.
He wipes them on his pants and says, “We need to talk.”
Pyrok, Roan, and Ahvi all look at me as an awkward tension stiffens the atmosphere.
With a nod, I dunk my jacket in the bucket, then edge past the table. I move up the stairs behind Kaan, my gaze on the constellation of moons inked across his surging back. On the beautiful art now marred by the five cauterized wounds he received in Bothaim.
He waits for me to pass before he closes the trapdoor, shutting us off from the bottom level.
I break away. Pace back and forth between the windows that offer wide views of the thick mist still smothering the nesting grounds, packing the forest full. Since they’re the only source of light in the room, it makes the space feel dark.
Cluttered.
Or perhaps that’s just me, stuffed with thoughts and messy feelings my seams are about to split.
“Raeve—”
“I’m blood bound,” I blurt, whipping around to stare at Kaan standing by the trapdoor.
A line forms between his brows. He opens his mouth like he’s about to speak, then seems to reconsider, jerking his chin for me to continue.
“The only reason I found Ahvi first was because I received an order to kill him while we were in the village,” I say, and his eyes widen and I lift a hand. “Not my finest moment, I know, but it’s important to note the order said nothing about him being a child.”
Again, it looks like he’s about to speak. This time, I cut him off.
“My binder, the bitch, has never liked me. Can’t say I like her either, given she has a penchant for torturing me until I come to heel. Since I let the Fíur du Ath assume Rygun ate me after the trial, she’s using the bind to tug on my reins. Not the first time. Won’t be the last.”
He clears his throat, crossing his arms, lips pinched like he’s trying to stop himself from interrupting.
Probably wise.
“I used to buck the pain, thinking it was normal. Now that I see otherwise, I need to find a way to cut myself loose of the bind, but that’s not a you problem.
It’s a me problem. I just—” I shove my hands back through my hair, then stamp them on my waist, not knowing what else to do with them.
When that doesn’t feel right, I mimic his stance, crossing them over my chest. “I was going to tell you. I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner. ”
His eyes widen, brows raised in a way that makes me wonder if I should be offended.
Silence drags for so long I grow restless, unfolding my arms, refolding them. Finally, I arch a brow. “Is everything okay?”
He clears his throat and pockets something. “Honestly? I thought I’d have to pry that out of you.”
My gaze slides to his ripped knuckles, then drifts behind him to a deep fist print in the column that supports the structure. “You knew?”
“It was just confirmed for me, yes.”
“How?”
“I have a pet waif.”
I glare at him, turning over the sentence. Five words I never thought I’d hear pieced together in that way. Not in a million phases.
I didn’t even know that was an option.
“I’m going to need you to go a bit deeper on this.” I scan the space for any sign of the creature, perhaps hiding out in a shadowed corner, ready to toss me an extra dose of spangle shit. “Where do you keep it?”
“In my pocket. Most of the time.”
My gaze spears to the bulge in his left pant pocket. The precise size and shape of a small jar.
I’m no exhibit of good decisions, but that’s a recipe for disaster.
“He feeds me information.”
My eyes narrow, scouring the dark smudges beneath his. “In exchange for?”
“Sips of my memories,” he says too fast. “And you’re wrong. This isn’t a you problem. It’s an us problem. That’s what a partnership is, Raeve. That’s what my málmr stands for.” He reaches back and hooks the thin braid I tethered to his hair, pulling it forward. “That’s what this stands for.”
My cheeks burn from the slap of words I certainly had coming.
I pull breath to speak, but he beats me to it.
“The one who controls this blood bind.” A long pause as the muscle in his jaw ticks. “Does she just use the bind to torture you?”
“Yes,” I grit out, trying to imagine a reality where Sereme would deign to get blood beneath her perfectly manicured nails. “Why’s that?”
His eyes pitch black. “I’m trying to discover the origin of all the healing runes you’ve been going to great lengths to hide.”
My blood runs cold, eyes widening as my arms fall to my sides—heavy.
Mind churning.
He’s—He’s seen.
“How?”
He frowns so deep his brows almost crush together. “Does it matter?”
Probably not.
I whip around and stalk to the window, staring out through the fog—gently shifting. Distant glimpses of Moltenmaw nests emerge through the pale gloom, the odd colorful beast streaking skyward, screeching to the moons.
I wish I was out there. Not in here facing … this. A past I’ve buried deep, with no tombstone to mark its place.
Purposefully.
“Who, Moonbeam?” Though sturdy and composed, the question riots. Rabid, like a tick-bitten beast. “I asked you for a name once. I’ll give you one more chance to tell me on your own, but I will find out.”
“Shit,” I mutter to myself as a scalding past nips at me. Memories of a small cell that had everything and nothing at all, shared with someone who taught me how to speak and smile.
How to dream.
“Imagine, Raeve. Imagine a world that doesn’t hurt …”
At the soft echo of Fallon’s words—spoken from a voice too sweet for this fucked-up world in which she had so much hope for—something inside me splits.
Crumbles.
“Not Sereme,” I rasp. “My blood bind is entirely unrelated to the old runes.”
Most of them earned willingly. A teeth-gritted tradeoff for the female I would’ve given my life for … had Arkyn only asked me to hand it over.
Not that I dare divulge any of that.
“So you remember receiving them? They were after the fall?”
“Yes.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “It was after the fucking fall.”
I don’t realize he’s right behind me until he has his hand wrapped around my wrist, using his firm grip to jerk mine from where it’s tucked beneath my arm. He spins me around until we’re almost face-to-face, my hand the only thing between us—raised like a flag.
“Are they the reason for this?”
No point asking for confirmation of his meaning, the skin down the sides of my nails scratched so raw they’re bleeding in places.
My gaze drifts past the messy wounds to his eyes—heavy on me.
No, Kaan. My fingers have itched since I woke in that cell; confused.
Alone.
Voiceless and powerless.
“It certainly didn’t help.”