Chapter 26
Hanging on the wall before me are all manner of saws, thick metal needles, chisels, hammers, and pliers.
The dragon carcasses are quickly processed on the surface—just enough that the pieces can fit down the chutes.
This must be where they are broken down completely to finish the job of dispersing the Ethershade.
“Reduce the skull to small enough pieces that it can completely fit in that barrel.” The Mercy Knight points at a vessel to the right of the door that’s surely far too small.
We’d have to reduce the skull to little more than pulp to get it to fit…
“I’ll return in an hour to assess your progress and ensure neither of you are particularly susceptible to Ethershade.
” Cursed, he means. That’s why we’re really here.
Put us all in front of a whole bunch of Ethershade and see if anyone transforms.
“Put on those,” he says, pointing to two pairs of gloves that look long enough to stretch past our elbows.
They’re resting atop an equally tall pair of thick leather boots in front of heavy leather aprons hanging on the wall.
They’re all red like the Mercy Knight robes, but uneven—and I want to vomit as I realize just how much dragon blood has stained them, year over year, without a proper wash.
At least if we are dragon cursed, we won’t die covered in dragon innards. I’m learning it’s all about the small victories during the Tribunal.
With that, the knight leaves, and the door closes behind him with an ominous thud. Shivers dance down my spine at the distinct sound of a lock on the outside of the door engaging.
Lucan doesn’t say anything. Instead, he stares at the head of the dragon, mouth pressed into a hard line.
I cross to the wall and shove on a pair of boots and gloves, then sling the apron over my neck and tie it on.
It’s all slightly too big for me, but I’d rather the extra space over pinched toes.
Then I turn to the tools hanging along the wall.
Beside them is a basic anatomical chart of a dragon.
It bears the seal of Mercy in its lower right corner—an impaling blade, a dragon wrapped around it.
“Which would you like first?” I select a bone saw. When Lucan doesn’t immediately answer, I glance back at him. He’s still staring at the dragon’s head, shoulders curled in slightly. Relatable. I cross and hand him a hammer. “We should get to it.”
His eyes drift toward the hammer, then to my face. Lucan’s skin is ashen, and a fine sheen of sweat beads his brow, like he might pass out at any moment. I bite back a sigh. I didn’t want to find something in common with him, but if he hates this as much as I do…
“They’re going to be back before we know it,” I say, softer. What I don’t say is what I know he well understands: they’re going to want to see results, and not having them is a grave risk.
“Right.” He takes the hammer from me, his jaw tightening.
“There’s a chart over there. The softer spots and good break points are marked.” I gesture, then go right to the head.
It’s a truly disgusting sight. Bile creeps up the back of my throat as I lean in.
Being this close to a dragon’s head—even a very, very dead one—has my throat tight.
Innate fear wars with disgust as my saw sinks into the squelching, rotted flesh.
The scales part with ease, the meat below no longer holding on to them.
“You…are very good at that.” Lucan still has yet to move.
“Almost half my conscious life has been spent under the tutelage of the Creed.”
“As has mine. That’s how I know they didn’t teach you this.”
I should’ve expected that offhand excuse not to work on him. Straightening, I debate if I can tell him the truth. If he wants to be allies, this is a good test. “My mum.”
Comprehension dawns on his face.
“She studies the dragons as much as she does the scourge. She believes dragons are not the cause of the scourge.” I echo her at the end.
“Study of anything related to Ethershade is prohibited if not in service to the Creed or Mercy.” His voice lacks conviction, as if he’s simply reciting it out of habit.
I give him a dull look that I hope conveys he can stop echoing the vicar around me. “You going to turn her in?”
“No,” he responds easily, glancing away, as if ashamed he even brought it up. The tension in my shoulders eases some. I’d intended to be sarcastic, but there was a nugget of something genuine in that question. He’s passing the test, so long as he keeps his word on that.
“She’s already been disgraced—cast from her guild, research support taken. I think she’s suffered enough.” Lost her happy family, as it were… “Anyway, let’s focus on what we have to do.”
He walks over and shoves on his own boots and gloves, then comes up beside me, adjusting his grip on the hammer before delivering a blow to the chunk of neck vertebrae still attached to the head. I narrowly avoid projectile goop. “I’m sorry for what they did to her.”
I pause mid-saw, staring at the chunk of bone I’m hacking in two rather than him. Lucan glances my way, I see it in my periphery, but I don’t turn to face him. I don’t want him to see my expression; he might read too much into it.
It was easier to not like you when I thought you were a Creed sycophant, I want to say.
My saw vibrates in my hand as I hit a particular hard piece of bone and is now wedged stuck. I yank on the handle, trying to wrestle it free.
“Do you want me to help?” Lucan straightens from his last swing.
“I got it.”
He gestures at the bone above my saw. “Here, that’s the thickest part. Let me—”
“I said I got it.” I give him a firm look.
“What’s your problem?” Lucan rounds the massive head anyway. “Why are you still fighting me when all I’m trying to do is help you?”
“Why are you helping me at all, though? You haven’t given me a good answer.” I grunt without making eye contact and try to force my saw through the thick knob of bone it’s stuck on.
“I told you: I like you.”
I willfully ignore that. “Is it for your father?”
“That man is not my father,” he says with enough venom that it startles me, even knowing more of his history since coming to the Tribunal. “How many times do I have to tell you: I will do what I have to, never because I want to screw with you.”
“I…” All of my warring thoughts silence me.
The tidy tally Saipha and I made of pros and cons is a mess.
“No matter what I tell myself, I can’t seem to move past the idea that I just can’t trust you!
” I thrust forward, and the saw pops free.
My grip slackens in the moment of surprise, and the handle slips from my fingers.
The saw scuttles across the floor, skidding all the way to the back corner of the room.
But instead of going after it, I lift my gaze to his.
Neither of us move. “I can’t stop thinking you’re one of them. ”
“Them?” His voice is low and quiet, and his brow furrows.
I realize I could have been referring to those cursed as easily as the Creed.
“One of the vicar’s mindless sycophants.” I look away. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Lucan takes a step closer. I go to move around him, making for the saw.
He catches my elbow, holding me. Not hard enough to make me stay, just enough to ask me to.
Face-to-face, I’m struck by just how much taller he is than me.
I can almost feel the bulk of his muscles, which I’ve been unable to ignore since Saipha so aptly pointed them out, straining against pulling me closer.
For the first time, he feels like someone who could protect me, if I were to ever need it.
Not because he’s of the Creed or can use sigils.
Not even because he possesses power within Vinguard as the vicar’s son…
but because he might also have the will.
It’s a dangerous fantasy that I try to kill as fast as it sparks to life in my mind.
“Why would me being one of ‘them’ matter? Don’t you trust the curates as Valor Reborn?” Lucan’s gaze roves over my face—my brow, my lips—as if he’s searching for a hint of a lie.
I swallow thickly and manage to say, “Of course I do.”
He narrows his eyes slightly, and the corners of his lips twitch, but I can’t tell if it’s with amusement or disapproval. “Say it like you mean it this time.”
“Excuse me?” My words are barely more than a whisper.
“That might work on the rest of them, but not on me. I see you, Isola, even the parts you wish I didn’t.” His gaze doesn’t waver. It’s as though he’s reading me like a scroll and he just got to the best part.
“Is that a threat?” My body is on edge. Breaths short. Never have I been studied like this before.
“If it was, you’d already be in trouble.” Lucan frowns as a flash of pain crosses his eyes. “You can trust me. Please, trust me.”
“I want to,” I whisper. “You’ve no idea how hard it is, being Valor Reborn. I don’t have people lining up to be my friend for the right reasons often. I thought you’d understand that as the vicar’s son. Maybe even understand me.”
“I do.”
“So then you know why it hurt so much when I put trust in you and you betrayed me to the man I hate the most. I know it was small and unimportant. I know I’m being immature about this.
But it’s like there’s a part of my mind that knows better and a part that’s scared.
” My words are as fragile as I feel, and Lucan accepts them as delicately as his hand rests on me.
“Look, I—” The words are stuck in my throat, and I force them out.
“I want to trust you again. I’m getting there. ”
He nods and releases me.
I walk to where the saw landed, kicking up motes of dust with my oversized leather boots, all the while wondering when the last time anyone set foot on this particular chunk of stone was.
Anything to run from my mess of thoughts and feelings surrounding Lucan.
From my fear of giving someone my trust when it’s so possible that they might disappoint me.
Or worse, that I might care enough about disappointing them.
I’m so focused on everything else that I don’t realize what’s happening until it’s right upon us.
I don’t notice the sudden drop in temperature until the chill passes through me.
The cloying smell of rot accosts my senses—but not of dragon flesh.
Instead, it’s of flowers and soil. Of stone crumbling to time.
A rot that’s as sweet as it is acrid. A slight burning on the end of every inhale.
It’s distinctly different from the green dragon’s acid.
This is brighter. It burns my nose and sizzles across my skin.
It’s a scent I last detected on the wind as I stood on the wall with Saipha.
I look overhead, and terror grabs me by the throat. A thin curl of rusty haze ripples across the ceiling. I stagger back.
“Isola?” Lucan asks, his voice sharp with concern.
Spinning, I lock eyes with him. “Scourge.”