Chapter 30
A constant churn of snow clots the air as I hurry up the steep mountain path, past numerous burrows that look like gaping throats to oblivion—most haunted by the rumbling echo of a roosting Moltenmaw.
I feel their eyes on me every time I shoot out onto a ledge, dashing toward the next incline of stairs zigzagging up the cliffside.
Perhaps, given the heady reek of dead things wafting from the burrows, I’d be concerned about being ripped to shreds by one of the young dragons …
especially since most of them are recently fledged, still learning to find their own food, discovering the hunting thrill.
But Moltenmaws don’t typically leave their nests or burrows during slumbertime.
Thankfully.
I step off the stairs onto the deep shelf Rygun herded Líri toward. Immediately backstep, flattening against the mossy cliff as the three broad riders who ushered her across the plains collapse free of the burrow’s entrance, chased by a plume of azure flame licking at their heels.
The shorter male swears—his arm clutched close to his chest, his leather jacket torn to reveal a gory slash near his elbow. Like he got clipped by a claw.
“Fuck it,” the taller of the trio grinds out, dashing loose brown hair back off his angular face as he cuts a glance at his injured companion. “If she wants it off, she can Creators-damn chew it off.”
The others give grunting responses and move to retrieve their saddlepacks from where they’re piled together, dusted in a fresh layer of snow.
I notice the matching blue beads threaded through their beards, their gaunt complexions, and the way they roll their jaws.
Like they’re aching. Sure signs they’ve been wielding long and hard to get Líri here unscathed.
An honorable feat.
They make for the path, their dark cloaks fluttering in the wind.
I step forward as they begin to file around the corner, intent on shifting quietly past when the tall folk shoves out his arm, widening his stance.
Blocking my way like a fucking tree trunk.
It takes him a moment to register my dragonscale blade nudged against his abdomen, but when he does, he frowns—thick brows shadowing flat brown eyes.
“You going into that Moonplume’s burrow?” he grumbles, standing staunch despite his obvious exhaustion and the fact that he smells like he hasn’t bathed in daes.
I nod.
“Aren’t you the one she came at the moment we got her through the clouds?”
“In the living, breathing flesh,” I mutter, flashing a joyless smile as my stomach releases a hungry, rather embarrassing growl.
Poor timing.
“Well, given she charged you with more ferocity than she charged anything she hunted on our way here …”—he pauses, raising both brows—“should you make it into the burrow, you’ll most likely not come out alive.”
As far as pep talks go, this falls flat.
“That dragon’s more wild than tame,” he continues. “We tried to remove her saddle so she’s not stuck with the thing when she no doubt takes off for Netheryn, but she’s having none of it. Rigg almost lost a limb. You’ll lose your life.”
He moves past me without another word, the other two following—Rigg’s arm bleeding all over the snow. They’re not even out of earshot before they start muttering between themselves about some folk being too stupid to live.
Bit harsh, but given the current circumstances, not entirely unfair.
I tuck my blade away, then stuff my mouth full of snow. Zero sustenance, but it stops my gut from rumbling loud enough to wake a sleeping dragon. Or in my case, startle one with pristine hearing and a sudden appetite for blasting me to death.
I creep toward the burrow’s jagged mouth that’s emitting a soft luminosity, stepping over trampled twigs and feathers frosted white. Edging forward, I peer down the tunnel’s long throat, my heart hitching at the sight of Líri tucked against a litter of old uprooted trees.
She’s bound in a defensive knot, teeth bared as she saws through labored breaths, eyes homed on me with scathing intensity.
I see exhaustion in the droop of her trembling wings, barely holding against her body. See it in the tendrils about her jowls and down the line of her neck, limp and lacking their usual luster. Like a fading star.
Oh, Líri …
Lifting my hands, I edge forward a step—
She snarls, the rough sound echoing off the walls. So tangible the ligaments in my chest tighten.
Definitely pissed at me.
“Hais te nel, Líri.” I slide another foot forward. “Shuin oot an pleur, leonari-eh. Ze lui, ze lui …”
Her hackles rise, wings lift. The only warning I get before she charges forward, so much chagrin in her eyes, I’m momentarily frozen.
I open my mouth to speak—
Someone grabs me from behind. Rips me back.
I’m swathed in Kaan’s scent, crushed against his chest—his arm binding around me as Líri gallops past, releasing an icy screech. She leaps off the ledge and slashes her luminous wings through the dumping snow, nipping glances at me.
At Kaan.
She doesn’t resume her lethal attacks. Likely because of the male behind me, radiating a knee-buckling amount of primal dominance.
“I think she’s angry at me …”
Kaan’s hand flattens over my rapidly beating heart. “Yes,” he says, smooth. Matter of fact.
I frown, turning in his arms to look up into his eyes—dark in the low light. Líri’s bright silhouette reflects off them as he watches her.
His gaze flicks down, meeting mine with crushing intensity. “You left her, Raeve.”
My blood turns to ice. “I—”
“In your mind, the reasoning might’ve been sound, but dragons understand things in very simple tones. To her, you were there one dae, caring for her … a safe space for her to rest her head. The next, you were gone, and she was back to being just as lonely as she’s ever been.”
Something in my chest gives way, a sudden coldness seeping through. Like I just got stomped.
Another screeched roar as Líri tears through the clouds with impressive gusto for one so tired and worn.
“That dragon was so close to death when Rekk flew her into Dhomm, I was almost certain she was going to die. I believe she only clung to life because of the kindness you showed her. In fact, she released such a deep lament not long after you left that we thought she’d reopened her wounds before the runes had a chance to settle. ”
The words land like a volley of kicks, making it hard to breathe.
His hold on me softens, one hand coming up to tuck my hair back off my face. Such a gentle contrast to his firm words. “Though some dragons lust for vengeance in the same way as a bloodlusting fae, others simply yearn to be loved.”
Creators.
Líri tosses her head to the sky and loosens a serrated roar unlike anything I’ve heard before—like a call to the moons. She tucks her wings and dives, swooping into the gorge.
Kaan loosens his hold, and I move forward.
Sensing the presence of something above, I glance up, seeing Rygun’s head arched over the ledge, his ember eyes pinned on the commotion below like a mighty sentinel scouring his lands.
I shiver despite my swelling love for the beast, pausing near the edge. Clode whips my hair about as I look down on the village far below.
Smoke chugs from the pointed, snow-dusted roofs, swirling around Líri while she hovers above the island I took refuge on, looking like a sowmoth fluttering above a boulder from all the way up here.
She fills her chest with breath, expelling it with a plume of pale-blue flame that blasts me full of panic—villagers screaming.
Creators, she’s going to destroy the place …
The plume mushrooms, smashing into the body of land with such roaring force I expect it to explode like the bridge did.
Except I hear no sounds of shattering stone.
See no chunks of it tossed into the river through the billow of mist gusting from the impact, clouding the quaint, colorful buildings in waves of white.
The flame loses any remaining color, turning a stark white that coalesces into a … a—
“She’s building a nesting perch.”
A hexagonal structure begins to take shape, much like the many I have … within.
Deep in my Other’s den.
A thought I’m quick to dash away, watching Líri pause to circle her sprouting pillar, taking big bouts of breath before she hovers directly above and reconvenes her efforts—blowing another burst of white flame.
Adding another layer.
“Surely she’s not broody. She’s barely beyond adolescence.”
“No,” Kaan murmurs from right behind me. “She just wants to be high.”
My heart drops as I hear every word he’s not saying.
She wants to be somewhere I can’t reach her …
“She’s likely tired from her flight across the plains and needs to rest before her journey south,” he says, gripping my chin and turning my head so I’m looking right into his earnest eyes. “If you want her, Raeve, it won’t be easy.”
I search his gaze for a long while. Look forward again, watching Líri add layer upon layer to her swiftly growing perch.
If I want her …
But what about what she wants?
I drop to a crouch, hands clasped. Mind churning as her perch gathers both height and wide-eyed spectators flooding the village paths, my gaze narrowing on the saddle clamped between her wings. On the messy holes in its flaps, right where Rekk used to dig his heels.
A heavy feeling fills my chest.
She’s one of the mightiest creatures to roam our world, yet she’s spent her daes being told what to do, abiding commands that almost claimed her life.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned since Fallon trembled in my arms in the snow and ordered me to live with what was left of her fading breaths, it’s that life with a shackle—tethered to any length of chain—is not living. It’s existing, missing a fundamental element:
Choice.
And if I put my feelings aside, consider only her best interests, there’s really only one outcome I’d be proud of. One risky, slightly mad, very dangerous outcome.
Fingers crossed it doesn’t turn me into dragon chow or put me in the ground.
“What are you thinking, Raeve?”
That my survival odds are pretty fucking dire. Worse, actually, since Líri seems perfectly comfortable trying to slaughter me, but I wouldn’t dream of so much as wounding her. Puts me on the back foot.
I’m never on the back foot.
I hate the back foot.
“That I need something to eat,” I murmur, then shove to a stand and stalk toward the stairs.
If there’s one thing Moonplumes are known for, it’s their keen sense of hearing.
And right now, my grumbling gut’s a death sentence.
“Then I need to hunt down some soft-soled boots and hope for a Creators-damn miracle.”