15
Soleil
Hours after I’ve laid down in the tent Vayla and I are sharing, I’m still wide awake.
I’m playing and replaying the conversations I had today. With Finn. With Vayla. With the rest of the demons at camp.
They’re something that’s plagued me for years, these circular nighttime thoughts.
It’s why I prefer the solitude of my work.
After a day bent over a cauldron, I don’t go to sleep wondering if I said something stupid, if I unintentionally offended someone, if I made an ass of myself and wasn’t even aware of it.
No, this only happens when I put myself out there and try to socialize, and honestly, what’s even the point?
I roll over on my cot and let out a breath through my nose, already sick of my own shit.
Of course there’s a point, I know that, and generally I had a good time tonight.
It’s good to be with other people, to get out of my head for a while. It’s good to be social.
But maybe I said too much about the coven. Maybe everyone took my remark their king the wrong way. Maybe I shared too much with Finn. Maybe, maybe, maybe…
I roll over again, on my back this time, staring up at the tent’s canvas roof.
In the far corner, Vayla snores softly, obviously much better adjusted and more at peace with herself than I am.
Silent minutes tick by. I close my eyes, open them. I try my left side again, then my right, and when Vayla’s snoring stops and she lets out a half-asleep murmur, it’s clear I’m doing more to inconvenience her than I am to find sleep for myself.
As quietly as I can, I roll off the cot and get dressed.
A pair of jeans this time, and a heavy sweater to ward off the evening chill. I don’t know where I’m going, exactly, but I should at least stay out of the tent until I’m ready to sleep and stop bugging Vayla.
Camp is mostly quiet.
There’s a guard on the far side of the circle of tents, but no one left sitting around the fire, and my heart gives a strange little pinch when I see Finn must have gone to bed, too.
Not that I wanted to talk to him again.
Certainly not.
Now that I’m out here, though, I don’t really know what else I intended to do.
My eyes slide from camp to the well-trod path leading up the slope toward the mountain.
I wonder if there are any stellarin flowers blooming tonight?
Even though I’m well-aware of the plan to stake out patches of flowers tomorrow, what could a little searching tonight hurt? I won’t go too far from camp, and at least I’ll be doing something useful instead of staying here and stewing in all my scattered thoughts.
Ducking between a couple of tents, I find the path and start climbing.
My idea of ‘hiking’ is taking a leisurely stroll through the coven hall grounds.
I’ve never been particularly fond of strenuous exercise, and after just a few minutes of walking, I’m already huffing and puffing.
Which is probably a good thing, actually, if it means I’ll be tired enough to conk out when I get back.
Despite struggling up the incline, I can’t help but be in awe of the majesty of the scenery around me.
Breathtaking, the sweep of stars above. The moon is hanging big and bright in the sky, nearly full, with enough light to make the way ahead clear to navigate.
Moonlight shines down over the distant mountains, making the snow glow nearly silver. Deep shadows line the craggy peaks, nearly taking my breath away when I crest a small hill and see the full panorama spread out before me.
And there, just twenty or thirty yards off the path, a patch of stellarin blooms.
I’m almost certain that’s what they are as I leave the hard-packed trail and go tromping off through the rolling grass. The ground is more uneven here, dotted with rocks and small boulders, and I have to scramble a little to reach the flowers.
Once I do, though, I’m even more certain.
The blossoms glow just as silver-white as the moon, their delicate petals unfurling to expose the valuable stamens within.
Coated in the pollen that we’ll harvest and use to brew the fever cure, I reach a hand out to touch the one nearest me, when a low, reverberating rumble cuts through the night air from further up the slope.
What the hell was that?
My eyes aren’t the best—likely because of the years I’ve spent hunched over workbenches meticulously sorting potion ingredients—and they’re even worse now in the low light.
I have to squint, take a few steps forward, and even then, I don’t see it until it’s way too late.
A dragon.
A fucking dragon.
Covered in midnight black scales that nearly conceal it where it lies low against the ground, with a great horned head and a mouth filled with rows of razor-sharp fangs that glint in the moonlight when it opens its mouth to give a bone-rattling roar.
It’s huge, at least ten or twelve feet tall when it rears up, big enough to take me out with a single well-placed bite.
And that’s even before a flame-bright glow begins to emanate from the back of its throat.
Oh, fuck.