Chapter 7
Heart pounding in rhythm with my chattering teeth, I hurry along the steep streets of Arithia, buffeted by bitter wind and pelting snow—wondering if Clode and Rayne are at war with each other.
Cursing them for it.
I would barely be able to see past my own hand were it not for the bright orbs bobbing overhead like tiny moons, likely suspended by advanced runes I’ve never seen before.
Distantly, I recall hearing a rumor that Tyroth traded a young protégé to the Tri-Council in exchange for their eternal favor, prized for his ability to lace runes like nobody else.
Guess it’s true.
Checking over my shoulder to make sure I’m not being followed, I cut around a corner, struck by an icy blow that nips so deep it feels like my face is peeling off.
“C-creators,” I chitter, easing deeper into my hood.
Yet to see a single folk walking the streets, braving the storm.
Yet to see a single sign of life beyond the odd lit window flickering like starved flames.
A full-body shiver runs all the way to my bones.
This place is beautiful. Skillfully sung. But it feels like a grave.
I move faster, jogging down a stairway pinched between tall, pointed buildings sung from obsidian, cursing each burst of blustery air heaved into my parched lungs.
Cursing the size of this fucking place—an ornamental labyrinth that feels like it’s about to fold over itself and chew me up, all its honed structures becoming the tapered teeth of an angry beast.
I don’t want to be here, caught in wrestling gusts of snow. I want to be home in the hot, humid north, beyond the impending conversations I need to have, chugging hard liquor until I’m blind drunk in some crooked gambling den, pretending the world isn’t more fucked up than I’d previously thought.
Rounding a corner, I finally come upon the towering black wall that circles Arithia. Almost collapse with a mixture of cold exhaustion and relief.
The sound of ruffling feathers almost makes me shit myself, the feeling not helped when I look up and see a massive Moltenmaw roosting on the wall, front claws tucked.
I still.
It shakes off a crust of gathered snow, revealing a chest bound in saddle straps that offers me a pinch of relief.
Not wild.
Though its head is dug down in the resting position, its red eyes boldly stare, assessing me with uncomfortable curiosity.
I look at the wall beneath its roosting spot to where a dead weeping wisp is rooted to the stone, its spindly remains a pale sentinel to the only unguarded exit … given said exit is a secret only revealed by activating hungry runes with a penchant for warm blood.
Eyeing the beast above, I dig into my pocket and feel around for the vial of colk blood I stashed there. Slits of sting permeate my numb fingertips. “Dammit,” I murmur, picking out bloody shards of glass I drop in the snow. Remnants of the smashed vial.
Unfortunate.
I ease my blade free and drag it against my palm. Warmth pools as I clench my fingers around the hurt.
Keeping my gaze firmly trained on the curious dragon, I edge closer to the wall, trying to ignore the deep rumble coming from the Moltenmaw’s broad chest. A fierce reminder that approaching a bonded dragon without their rider nearby is often seen as a threat.
Way I see it, I’m bleeding. Bleeding things are less threatening than non-bleeding things. At least that’s what I tell myself as I smear my wet hand across the stone.
My blood coagulates into the shape of the previously invisible runes before they begin to hiss and steam.
I grit my teeth and brace against the wall, hoping the etchings aren’t thirsty enough to put me on my ass and make me look too much like an eager meal.
The bloody marks dissolve in unison with my fading equilibrium …
Three.
Two.
One—
Part of the wall slurps into oblivion, leaving an arched exit from this beautiful, soulless tomb.
A perfect frame that looks out across the wide chasm to the Forest of Weeping Wisps on the other side, sown into the steep mountainside.
The spindly trees being tossed about by the storm like water weeds caught in a blustery current.
I stumble through the opening.
The stone claps back into place so fast I’m shoved forward, like it tried to push me down the sheer, rocky ridge Arithia spawned from.
“Hugth aht, Bulder!”
I toss my arm back. Clasp the rigid hand of stone that punches from the wall and jerks me to a halt—though my heart feels like it busts through my ribs, plummets through the blinding vortex of wind and snow, and impales on a rock somewhere far below.
The smooth hand calcifies around my clenched fingers while I heave breath, trying to reel my heart back into my fucking chest.
That was close.
Still half hanging over the edge, I look up at the Moltenmaw, unsurprised to see it studying me over its snow-dusted wing. Still rumbling. Probably hoping Bulder will drop me into the chasm to be snatched like falling prey.
I may not be his most devout apostle, but the God of Ground likes me enough not to purposely turn me into a dragon snack.
“Gurn huk atúin, Bulder …”
Slowly, he pulls me back until I’m flopped against the wall, still feeling like the world is rocking beneath my feet.
Pesky, parasitical runes.
I hack a strip of material from my cloak and use it to bind my hand, difficult with double vision and no feeling left in the frozen tips of my fingers.
“T-take me back t-to the scorching plains of home,” I bite out, then stash my blade and turn toward the obscure stairway that zigzags up the ridge, cuts left across the mountain’s sheer face, then fringes the forest. The path a relic of times past, further smudged behind a battle of snow and wind.
The world splits, converges, splits …
I sigh.
If I don’t fall and break my neck, it’ll be a miracle.
With careful steps, I begin the treacherous traverse, moving across the cliff’s face when the Moltenmaw screeches so loud it rivals the howling wind.
I spin, squinting.
Through the eddy of snow, I see the beast stretching its massive feathered wings. With a few violent heaves, it lifts off the wall and propels toward the huge, spiky silhouette that crowns the mountain city, windows a glittering contrast to the murky dim.
The palace.
My heart skips a beat.
I wobble as the ground jolts, like something flicked at me from beneath. Quick. Isolated. The sort of jolt I only get when Bulder’s trying to tell me something.
Frowning, I open myself—
His song busts into my eardrums. A baritone lullaby, the melancholy tune almost reminding me of—
The tune he sang to Slátra when she was in the burrow at Dhomm.
Burnt.
Broken.
I spin, looking through the churning storm to where a cluster of ancient, abandoned burrows are tucked amongst the mountain’s ridges. One of which my lovely carter is hidden within, waiting with her Moltenmaw.
Waiting to carry me back to The Fade.
An uncomfortable feeling lodges in my chest, like I just got struck with an arrow.
Cold, hungry dread.
I lurch to my feet and run.
My aching legs give way.
I stumble. Catch myself against a jagged rock and collapse into its meager shelter.
Working to steady my breath, I ball my frozen hands against my mouth so they absorb my hot exhales.
Finally sure I’m not about to pass out, I look toward the huge cave ahead—barely visible, were it not for the odd blade of moonlight now slitting through the clouds.
I cup my mouth and make the whirring sound of a bundle-bush bird. The sound amplifies off sharp edges before it’s eventually swallowed up.
And I count.
One … Two … Three … Four … Five—
The world continues to split and sway as I pick apart the darkness, waiting. My insides twist into tighter knots with each passing moment.
We agreed on sixty counts. That if there’s no response, something’s wrong.
Fifty-four … Fifty-five …
Come on. Come on. Come on—
who whooooot
I almost cry out with relief.
Blowing a quiet prayer to the Creators, I flip the lid on Kaan’s copper weald, using the small flame to light my way down the trembling burrow, barely dodging bits of falling rock.
We need to get out of here. Fast.
I round a corner that opens into the large nesting chamber. “Rasha?” I whisper, stepping over pale branches and chunks of obsidian, the cave rumbling again.
Shaking. Almost like it’s angry.
There’s a sharp crack. The only warning I get before a wedge of stone plummets before me, so close it almost crushes my toes.
I stumble backward over a log and land on my tailbone, a jolt of pain lashing up my spine as Kaan’s weald skitters across the floor—though the flame continues to burn.
What’s Bulder’s problem?
I open myself—
His song thumps into me with such vengeance I hiss a breath, his tone dense and guttural. A grinding mix of anger and sadness so unlike the sturdy god.
The melody splinters through my skull, many of his words unfamiliar—abrupt and jagged.
I press my hands against my head—an attempt to stop my skull from cracking like an egg—then pause at the smell of blood. At the wetness smeared all over my left palm.
Snatching Kaan’s weald, I wave it over the glossy red puddle on the ground, pushing up to get a better view of its large scope.
Too large.
“Rasha?”
My voice cracks.
I step through the blood and move deeper into the den. Gasp as a huge shape comes into horrific, devastating view.
Furn—Rasha’s yellow-and-orange Moltenmaw—suspended midair, pinned in place by shards of obsidian piercing her from all angles. Like she tried to take flight at the first sniff of danger but was immediately impaled through her chest.
Wings.
Abdomen.
Neck.
My heart unspools, veins, arteries, flesh stripping loose until it feels like there’s nothing left.
I sway, looking at her head—hung at an unnatural angle, eyes wide, red pupils gone dim. Her beak is open, blood dripping from the forked tip of her tongue and splat, splat, splatting on the ground.
The sight splits, converges again. I wonder if I’m seeing things—if the drain has taken me a nip too far—until someone speaks a series of seething words that raise the hackles on my soul.
“Jisthh et aagh. Et zist fiyah ke!”
The flame from Kaan’s weald erupts, burning my palm.
I drop it, jolting back from the inferno as it surges skyward, gushing against the ceiling like a plume of dragonflame. Igniting the chamber with such fiery ferocity that I’m forced to squint, using my hand as a meager shield to protect my face from the radiant heat.
The hot, hungry light illuminates everything.
Numerous Thorns line the walls, long swords pointed toward the ground between their feet, their faces guarded by silver headgear—eyes gleaming like gems tossed in the firelight. Single beads dangle from their lobes, glinting like silent threats.
Another command hisses through the cavern, spoken by a broad male more decorated than the others.
I’m flayed by his cutthroat gaze as fire siphons down upon the beautiful, broken Furn. She ignites with such ferocity the chamber becomes a kiln, the air souring with the pungent fume of charred feathers and dragon flesh.
Unable to watch, I look away, seeing Rasha bound and gagged, held in place between two hefty warriors more than twice her size—her big green eyes so wide with pain and fear that a coarse sound claws up my throat.
“Traitorous whore,” a Thorn seethes, jostling her.
She barely manages a muffled scream before a blade punches through her throat from behind.
“RASHA—”
She chokes, blood staining her gag.
My face twists, lips pulling back, neck muscles tightening as I pour all my rage into a single grinding command. “Gurn ed akin, ah—”
Something strikes my left ankle.
Bulder abides by my command and collapses part of the ceiling, crushing three Thorns.
At the same time, I crumble, his song vanishing.
Washed away by the iron arrow that barely missed my Achilles.
A pain that pales in comparison to the deep ache in my chest at the sight of Rasha being tossed to the ground like a doll. Limp.
Dead.
My surroundings become a burning smear.
The Thorns converge as one. A silver noose tightening on the fate of the precious diary bound against my abdomen. A relic that has the power to change … everything.
I grip the hilt of my dagger, looking between the armored soldiers, wondering which of them will grab me first. Who will end up with my blade in their eye.
I’d rather die than end up face-to-face with Tyroth. Would rather burn beside Furn and Rasha so my soul can pass messages to Kaan via his pet waif.
My breath hitches as I glimpse a tight cleft in the wall that cuts off to the right and certainly wasn’t there before. That likely leads deeper into the mountain, but—
Better than death.
Quietly thanking Bulder, I lift my leg and plant my good foot, digging through the pocket of my cloak.
I scour my approaching persecutors. Take a final look at poor Rasha on the ground at their backs—eyes wide and so heartbreakingly flat.
Take a final look at Furn’s skeletal remains, Ignos feeding on what’s left of her feathers and flesh.
“You’re all monsters,” I snarl past the thickness in my throat.
Pompous laughter erupts from all but the stolid commander, a sneering voice threatening to bend me over a rock for thinking I could sneak into my brother’s kingdom undetected.
My fingers close around the jar of moonlight while I hold the commander’s cutting blue stare. “I can’t wait for the dae you’re forced to bow before the rightful queen and face your heinous crimes.”
A line digs between his pale brows.
I toss the jar. It shatters, frosty light exploding as I snatch Kaan’s weald, then shove up.
And stagger blindly through the clamor.