Chapter 37
T hey came for me while I was sleeping, curled beneath the furs in Mah and Pah’s pallet like I did when I was sick. Where they’d sing me songs that always made me feel better.
They came for me—an entourage of beaded guards from The Burn, The Fade, and the neutral city of Bothaim, residence of the Tri-Council.
They must’ve known I’d put up a fight despite my weakened state, because they shot me with an iron pin before I’d even opened my eyes.
Cowardly fucks.
They allowed me to gather a single bag of belongings before I was veiled, shackled in iron, and escorted from the sleepsuite. Mah and Pah’s aides must’ve fought, because they were also bound, on their knees, being guarded along the corridors as I was led outside to where a thunder of Moltenmaws were perched along Arithia’s walls. Upon the rooftops of Arithia’s buildings and gusting through the sky, blowing their orange flames and making the city folk scream.
I’m told they didn’t come to conquer my kingdom. That they’re simply helping to ward it until I’m able to bind with the male who’s been chosen for me by the Tri-Council.
Tyroth fucking Vaegor.
One of King Ostern’s three sons. The one with cruel eyes. The male Pah promised he wouldn’t trade me to for all the grain in the world.
I screamed at them. Told them I’d rather rot. Earned a smack to the side of the head by one of The Burn’s barbed guards.
Everything went black for a bit.
I came to on the back of the biggest Moltenmaw I’d ever seen, Slátra trailing us all the way to the Imperial Fortress near The Fade’s capital where we’re to spend this slumber—screeching without pause.
Now I can’t drift off. Can’t do a thing but stare out the window, nurse this chest full of grief, and watch Slátra flick through the colorful clouds, throwing icy flames while my escort Moltenmaws keep trying to herd her back toward the shadows of The Shade.
Once the aurora rises, we’re set to soar across the Boltanic Plains, straight on to Dhomm—The Burn’s illusive capital. Where I’m to spend the next three phases biding time until I come of coronation age, after which Tyroth and I are to be bound. Until then, it would be “uncouth” for me to be living under the same ceiling as the male now charged with running my kingdom.
My. Kingdom.
Earlier, while I was slumped here watching Slátra tear three Moltenmaws from the sky and fry the feathers of many more, The Fade’s young queen came to visit me in my guest chamber. Offered to remove the iron pin from my thigh.
We spoke in hushed tones as she worked, and she apologized for the actions of her male—King Cadok Vaegor—who offered his aid to the Tri-Council and sent their thunder of mercenary Moltenmaws to secure me.
I got the feeling she regrets that she let the male “slither into her sleep space,” conceiving a youngling who forced them into a binding that tied The Burn and The Fade together in a secure knot.
I took my veil off and let her see my face, gaunt as it is.
She wrapped me in a warm, sturdy embrace, reminding me that there’s still some good in the world.
Together, we watched Slátra wage a lonely war until the Queen was done mending my wound and retired to her chambers. Still, I rest on the windowsill runed against my escape and pray to Clode despite the chilling silence brought on by these cuffs of iron.
I beg her to tell Slátra to fight her battle this slumber but, once the aurora rises, to turn around. To return to Arithia, curl up in the hutch, and wait for me.
Moonplumes don’t survive in the sun, and I can’t lose her. My heart can’t take another hit.
I’d rather die than watch her turn to stone.