Chapter 53
I pop the cork on my skein and draw deep, scanning the oppressive gray trees arched over us like leering beasts. Ancient; tall as Rygun’s wingspan and much thicker than his neck. Their dense canopies are unburdened by the many Moltenmaws screeching through the sky above—thankfully out of sight.
A pleasantry that’ll change very quickly if they get any sense of our presence.
I tuck my skein back in my satchel and continue forward. Catch up with our single-file pack moving between gangly shrubs, swatting past branches heavy with foliage that looks like dripping mud.
Something this forest has an unsavory abundance of.
That, and clouds of black insects that move through the space between the lofty canopy and the steaming, squishy ground. Their droning buzz is good for disguising our squelching steps toward Bhoggith … somewhere in the distance. Close.
I hope.
Unfortunately, I can’t exactly ask how much farther we have to go.
No talking until we get to the treehut, Kaan warned while we slopped mud on our cloaks in hopes of masking our scents and blending with the underbush, leaving our restless dragons in the northern hills before we embarked on this dae-long journey through the muck.
I swat another branch aside, chest aching as I recall the time I sat eating Essi’s buttermin loaf, flipping through one of her smart-folk books that was open on the table. Someone’s travel journal, boasting intricate sketches of all three nesting grounds and their fiery inhabitants.
It spoke of Bhoggith’s ancient law, suggesting this entire place is just one big, boggy bruise on the world.
That it was created by a Moltenmaw moon that fell so hard and heavy it cracked the world’s inner shell, causing magma to seep toward the surface.
Softening the ground and taking out bits of the wall. Creating mud.
Mud.
More fucking mud.
It suggested the fissure spread until this forest of surrounding trees took root, stabilizing things. Trees the Moltenmaws now respect and protect.
Apparently, they rarely breach the canopy.
And they certainly don’t tear at these trees to build their nests.
In fact, it’s said that stepping foot in the Forest of Harthor is a dragon-induced death sentence for anyone not stealthy enough—therefore, the path less trodden.
Our best hope of making it to the nesting grounds without coming face-to-face with members of The Fade militia.
Though right now, they’re the least of my worries.
Another etch of pain slits down my spine like skipping stones, almost bringing me to my knees for the third time since we began this horrid, silent trek. I pause to brace against a tree, muscles spasming from the swift assault.
The others have all but disappeared around another trunk by the time I trust myself to take my full weight. Even so, my back muscles refuse to loosen, aching like I’ve been beaten with a stick.
Fists bunched, I charge forward, cracking my neck from side to side. I move around the tree, almost smashing into Pyrok, who has paused, head tipped, gaze pinned skyward.
I frown, following his line of sight. Latch on to the faintest hint of a silky tail—minus its usual luminosity—dashing behind a foliage-laden branch.
My heart drops.
Líri …
Shit.
Dropping my internal walls, I open to her emotions, bombarded by an icy flood of concern that nearly knocks the breath from my lungs.
I sigh, certain I’m destined to be surrounded by folk and beings who care too much.
Who care themselves into danger.
I glance at Pyrok, his mud-crusted brows almost raised into his flaming hairline. A silent what’re you gonna do about that? written all over his face.
Nothing.
There’s literally nothing I can do. Not a Creators-damn hope she’s going to turn back to the mountains with all those boisterous emotions churning in her chest.
I give him a nudge to urge him on, deciding it’s best to pretend Líri’s not there and hope for the best.
She’s quiet. Somewhat camouflaged. So long as she stays amongst the canopy and doesn’t do anything to lure the Moltenmaws pounding the air above, everything should be okay. And if anything goes ass-up … well.
She seems to have an appetite for masticating my problems.
Kaan looks over his shoulder, scanning the rest of us clustered behind a massive tawny rock, ankle-deep in steaming, smelly mud.
He puts his finger to his lips, then gestures toward a gangly tree not thirty paces away, its base cushioned by mossy ground that appears at least sturdy enough not to swallow us.
Crouched forward, he creeps past a patch of spindly shrubs on his left, each step achingly slow. Ensuring his boots don’t make that squelching sound we could afford a little deeper in the forest.
Not here, right on the fringe of the nesting grounds, where the canopy is so thin it’s barely present. Where one too-swift move could draw an unwanted gaze and cause us to get torched by a blow of dragonflame.
Roan follows, then Pyrok—moving slower than a glug of hardening magma. I trail, pausing to tuck back the edge of my hood and peek through the shrubs, seeing the world beyond has opened. Dense forest giving way to a vast stretch of bubbling, muddy marshland that’s belching steam and sulfur.
I scan the mossy mounds poking above the surface as far as the eye can see—some bigger than others. They double as perches, each pocked with a scatter of spherical nests that remind me of moons.
Shaped from sticks, trees, and vines, each nest bears a single opening.
Gaping holes big enough for a dragon to shuffle through, spin around, and tuck upon their eggs within, the bog alive with so many vibrant Moltenmaws tearing about, screeching.
Some have limp prey dangling from their claws, others carry sticks or entire trees they’ve ripped from the ground, roots and all.
Nest-building materials destined to be snapped, tucked, and shoved until they’re in the perfect place.
Looking to the sky, I fail to see the aurora past the heavy cloud coverage, though I gather it’s late, based on the ruckus. That, and the fact that most nests appear to have both a dam and a buck present, the second parent perched on the mound or doing tight circles overhead. Guarding it.
Guess we’re not collecting the moonshard until the aurora rises.
I push forward another step when a slit of pain drags up my shin, gouging marrow.
My knees buckle into the mud, hands punching wrist-deep, breath caught behind clenched teeth as I scour Kaan’s retreating form. Silently begging he doesn’t choose right now to do another random shoulder check.
Tense moments tick by while I battle through the torture, silently cursing Sereme’s name. Her date of birth.
The fucking color she loves so much.
I’m wrestling a full-body tremble by the time it finally subsides, nipping a glance at Líri peeping down at me from where she’s draped along a thick branch overhead. Though she makes no sound, I feel her concern whining through me like a bow dragging across my frayed heartstrings.
I ply her with all the smooth, sturdy emotions I can muster, repressing the inferno of icy rage now simmering at the base of my throat. The last thing I want is for her to disappear on a revenge streak without me.
Slowly, I pull my hands free and scrape off the mud, simmering over why I put up with Sereme’s torturous, controlling shit for so many phases. I should’ve found a way to rid myself of this blood bind phases ago.
A little bit of open-sky freedom and everything suddenly looks so different.
It’s an effort to mask my limp as I make for our small pack now gathered at the tree’s base, thankfully all too busy watching Roan quietly root through his satchel to notice I almost ate mud.
Roan empties a vial of brown elixir into his cupped palm and smears it across a knobble on the trunk, revealing a line of luminous runes that simmer and spit. A hidden doorway slurps inward.
Kaan passes a quick scan over me, frowning at the fresh mud on my hands before he bends his knees, turns to the side, and barely wedges through the gap. Roan makes it through more easily, while Pyrok struggles almost as much as Kaan, failing to dip his head enough to avoid banging it.
The moment I slip through, the entry glugs closed, dousing us in darkness.
Kaan flicks the lid on his weald. “Heish ath sith, vista thah.”
A chill climbs my spine as a flock of tiny flames flutter up the tree’s hollowed inside. They splash against several wall torches, igniting a twirl of stairs that travel all the way up as far as I can see.
I clear my throat, drop my satchel, then work to unlatch my black, muddy cloak and hang it on the wall beside the others.
After wiping my hands clean, I kneel and begin unbinding my boots, muscles spasming so much I almost lose balance.
Something that adds another scoop of pissed off to my already toppling pile.
“We can take turns washing up. Privy and the bathing chamber are down there,” Kaan says, stomping something hollow-sounding.
I peer over my shoulder to see it’s a trapdoor, then shove up, kick off my boots, and begin pulling blades from my sheaths. One by one, I check their edges—making sure they’re sharp.
Sereme-slitting sharp.
“The dam won’t move from her nest until rising.
We’ll bunker down for a meal and rest while Roan finishes his invention meant to locate this young protégé.
” Kaan’s words blend into the background noise of everyone else removing their boots and bags, though my ears twitch when he says, “You’re aware that Líri followed us? ”
“I am,” I murmur, stuffing an iron blade back in my sheath, pulling out another. “Thankfully, she appears to understand the need to be quiet and not damage any branches.”
“Raeve.”
“Kaan.”
“Look at me.”
Brow arched, I turn, glancing from the rolled sleeves of his brown tunic, up past the open neckline that boasts a glimpse of his broad, hair-smattered chest. I meet his ember eyes—warm in the firelight, though shadowed with concern.
He frowns, scanning me from feet to face. “This is a stealth mission. We’re not here to kill anyone.”
If only.
“We’re in enemy territory.” I stuff the blade away and lift my satchel off the ground, drape the strap over my shoulder before meeting his gaze again. “Way I see it, failing to prepare is akin to digging a muddy grave.”
He watches me for a long beat, then grunts, heaves the weight of his own laden satchel on his shoulder, and turns, leading the charge up the twirling staircase.
Roan follows.
I wait for Pyrok to move first in case Sereme decides to fuck with me again, but he just stands there, watching them go. Once they’re out of sight, he turns to take me in, chewing the inside of his lip piercing. Something I’ve noticed he does when he’s gnawing on a thought.
“You’ve been acting strange ever since you locked yourself in that room.” He cracks the lid on his flask. “Something wrong?”
I watch him draw a deep sip, like he’s sucking air, wondering if he should turn his concern inward.
“You know me, Pyrok. Just frolicking through life.” I clap him on the shoulder and urge him around, up the stairs. Certain I won’t be resting this slumber.
Not fully.
I’ll be braving my internal lake, bracing for a gulp of trauma at my Other’s icy trade station in exchange for another scoop of Bulder’s gritty language.
Sereme’s working extra hard to break me down, no doubt expecting me to crawl through her ugly door and kiss her purple boots. Joke’s on her because all she’s doing is stuffing me full of vehemence, encouraging me to swallow more of Bulder’s words—sharp and hard enough to really mess her up.
Or at the very least, make the serpent bitch reevaluate her life choices.