Chapter Thirteen
VESKOR
Iknew I’d lost the red draken when the scent trail scattered in the fog and frost. Good.
The red draken—fast, desperate, reckless—had vanished in the white murk behind me. I flew until my wings burned, until the storm-thick air scraped against the membranes of my wings like sandpaper, and until the child in my arms whimpered and curled smaller against my chest.
Only then, when the world grew quiet and the wind smelled sharp with pine and snow, did I descend from the sky into the northern woods.
The child wriggled in my grasp the moment my claws touched the white snow.
I folded my wings, tucking the child close as her tiny claws caught on the silver scales of my breastbone. She trembled—fear, cold, exhaustion, all tangled together in her small body.
I could have killed her and ended whatever crazed, ill-thought out plan this was.
That was the truth.
She was leverage, I supposed: a test that exploited the wards and proved that Lyoness was soft, trusting, and vulnerable.
I didn’t know. Time had blurred over the years. All I could remember was pain, suffering, and survival. I didn’t remember my own childhood.
I crouched beneath a fallen tree, the hollow beneath its roots forming a crude shelter. The child blinked up at me, pupils wide, already shivering in the cold.
Her voice came as a tiny, trembling chirp.
I froze.
I hadn’t thought she was draken enough to make a distress call.
Drakling distress calls were impossible to ignore.
That I did remember. Even feral males would respond.
My research had taught me that, since I couldn’t remember living alongside another draken in my life.
And yet, instincts older than speech stirred in the marrow of my bones at her pathetic warbling.
“No,” I growled quietly, more to myself than to her. “Do not do that.”
She chirped again, small, trusting, yet in pain and cold. And probably hungry. Her little hand reached toward my jaw, fingers brushing my scales.
I went still.
Her warmth seeped into me, settling in places that had been cold for so long they barely remembered feeling anything.
“What is your mother?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
She grinned as if I’d answered a hard question no one asked. “Fire witch.”
Ah. Well, at least she wouldn’t freeze to death.
“Come on,” I said instead.
She nodded, matter-of-factly, as if I had a plan. As if she trusted me.
She shouldn’t trust me.
No one should.
I was Veskor: the renegade, champion of the Blood Hollow and the Iron pit, unknown and unclaimed, unbound by enclave or tradition or king.
And now I had a new title to add: manipulator of vampyres.
They’d been so stupidly easy to command with a whisper.
I’d dangled draken blood as bait, directing them like hounds toward the wards of Lyoness.
They were disposable creatures, nothing more than hollowed-out husks who would do anything for a taste of power.
Unlike this little witchling hybrid.
I shook my head. They had swarmed, chaos had bloomed, and the wards had quivered, exposing their weaknesses and when I’d finally slipped through, I’d found this little one. This tiny, foolish, fearless creature.
Her scent clung to me now. She reached for me again, cooing softly, one hand on my chin, the other tiny fist curling in my hair.
“Careful,” I muttered, but my voice had lost its edge.
She yawned, clearly exhausted.
“Down,” she insisted, not begging or whimpering. Demanding.
This little wraith of a thing dared to command me? The victor of the Ash Circle and slayer of monsters and humans alike?
“Down!” she demanded again.
I set her on her feet. She tottered once, steadied, then turned in a full circle to take in the towering trees, their limbs heavy and straining under the fresh snow.
She pounded her feet into the snow, delighted at the deep tracks she made.
The distant mountains peered at us through breaks in the tree line. It was so quiet.
Her eyes, bright, curious, unafraid, were too large for her small face.
“Where are we?” she asked, brushing strands of dark blue hair from her eyes.
“Far north,” I answered. “Away from the island.”
“Why?” she asked, sucking on her thumb.
Because I am a weapon.
Because I am alone.
Because your home is soft and bright and full of things I was denied.
I cleared my throat. “It is safer here. For now.”
She considered this and nodded. She accepted my half-lies and semi-truths far too easily. Hopefully not all draklings were such trusting creatures by nature. Or maybe they were, and that was why the enclaves protected them so fiercely.
Ha, not fiercely enough.
She kicked a pinecone experimentally. It skittered across a small patch of ice.
Her eyes lit up. She scrambled after it with a delighted squeak, vibrating in excitement, only to immediately trip in the deep snow and disappear face first into a snow bank.
I watched, curious what she would do.
“Ack!”
She came up coughing and sputtering, cheeks red with exertion and excitement. She stood up, brushed herself off, and threw her body down into the next snowbank.
I stared, baffled.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Playing,” she said, baffled that I didn’t understand. “Look!”
She stood up, and threw herself into the snow bank for a third time.
Did she not realize it would make her colder? I supposed if her blood ran hotter than most, it might not affect her as much.
And I didn’t understand why she was playing. Now? After everything? After nearly falling into a volcano, being scooped away by a stranger, and being cold and hungry?
“You play too,” she insisted, with a slight whine to her voice.
“No,” I said automatically.
Her face grew serious. “You can. I say you can.”
Her command was small, and ridiculous.
“No,” I said again.
She frowned, disappointed in me deeply as though I’d gravely offended her.
I didn’t like how my chest tightened unpleasantly at that.
She walked right up to me, barely reaching my waist, and took my hand in both of hers.
Tiny fingers curled around my knuckles with startling warmth, and she pulled my head down to her lips.
“Is it because you’re old?” she whispered seriously.
I drew back, offended.
Old. I’d show her old.
I huffed a breath. “No. I do not play.”
She raised her chin. “Try. Unless you’re too old.”
My chest puffed out because I could help it. I had never taken insults lightly. Ignoring them in the pit had been a death sentence.
You are not in the pit anymore.
That did not matter. I was not beholden to a child—especially one as tiny as her! She did not get to tell someone as big as me what to do. That was not the way of the world and the sooner she learned that, the quicker she would fit into it.
And yet, I did not say any of that to her. Instead, I let her tug my hand toward the pinecone where it had come to rest at the edge of the ice. She placed my clawed foot beside it, demonstrating the angle with exaggerated seriousness. Then she stepped back.
“Kick,” she ordered like a tiny militant leader.
It was absurd, undignified, and laughable. So, I kicked it back across the patch of ice.
Too hard.
The pinecone arced upward, hit a branch, and bounced down onto her head. She squealed with delighted outrage and threw herself into a giggling heap in the snow, leaving a child-sized imprint in it behind her.
She moved her arms and legs back and forth quickly. She stood and surveyed her work. The silhouette left behind was just as silly as her.
“Look!” She pointed, clearly proud.
Something in my chest cracked, painfully. It felt odd at first, almost hurting, but then something else replaced it. Warmth? Light?
I knew deep down why I’d escaped the fighting pits. The warlock I’d befriended had known about drakens. He said that males without family, without bonds, were a danger to themselves and others after long periods of time.
Perhaps that was why I had finally escaped, and sought out my own kind.
Whatever the reason, I didn’t think I was dangerous or crazy—not yet. And here was this little one, trusting me, and laughing with me. Surely that counted for something.
She scrambled up again, running to kick the pinecone back toward me. Her wing stubs fluttered in excitement, sending puffs of frost drifting into the air.
“Again!”
The pinecone hit my chest.
She froze, blinking at me, unsure.
My eyes narrowed, and in the blink of an eye, I swiped the tree branches above her. A cascade of snow tumbled down from the branches, covering her in a layer of snow. She squealed in outrage and delight.
A sound escaped me. Not quite a laugh—too rusty, too unfamiliar.
She grinned as she swiped snow away from her eyes, and it reminded me of the sun breaking over the mountains.
“I will get you for that!” she called out, and jumped at me.
I dodged.
I indulged her in a game of chase until she collapsed in a breathless heap, panting happily, her breath nothing more than frozen white puffs into the air.
“Hungry,” she announced as if informing the sky itself, so it would rain down all her favorite foods.
I lifted her effortlessly. She curled into my chest: small, warm, trusting.
“I will search,” I vowed.
We continued north.
The air sharpened, growing colder than seawitches could tolerate. Their magic thinned in the frost. Their bodies cracked under the cold. They would not follow us past this line.
The northern mountains rose ahead, vast and jagged, their peaks glowing faintly with reflected starlight. Ice coated their flanks like ancient armor.
The child stirred against me. “It’s cold. Still hungry.”
I huffed.
“I know.”
She blinked up at me. “I will make you warm.”
That ache returned, sharp and unfamiliar.
“Little one, keep the heat for yourself.”
I wrapped my wing around her, trapping heat inside the membrane. She sighed—a soft, content hum—and snuggled deeper against my chest. She burned like a miniature sun against me.
And just like that, I was no longer alone. But we weren’t safe: this fragile, little drakling and me. Not while the red draken tracked us like prey. And she was still hungry, so I kept pushing further north.
The farther north we climbed, the quieter the world became. Snow swallowed sound, and pines stood like black spears stabbing the sky. Even the wind held its breath. The drakling fidgeted in my arms.
“Hungry,” she whispered again.
The cold bit at her little cheeks, flushing them pink. Her wings trembled beneath the wrap of my own. For all her stubbornness, all her trust, all her baffling bravery, she was still small. Still fragile.
I needed to feed her.
I had gone hungry for days before. Weeks. It did not matter; my body was built for it. I’d endured worse in the fighting pits. But she … she was not built for deprivation.
I lowered her gently onto a bed of dry needles beneath a thick cedar.
“Stay here.”
She nodded, squatting down with a solemnity I did not expect from one so tiny. “OK.”
“And don’t move.”
She pointed at her own chest. “I be good.”
I had no reason to believe her, but I believed her.
The woods opened before me, the cold air slicing deep into my lungs. Frost clung to the edges of my scales, but I welcomed the bite. It sharpened focus, honed instinct. I sank low to the ground, claws digging silently into the snow.
The northern forests were full of prey—large, silent beasts with antlers like branching bones; quick-footed hares that moved like shadows; thick-furred boars that tasted better than they looked.
I liked these woods. They were too cold for witches, and even the heavier-furred lykoses.
“Show me something with meat,” I murmured into the cold.
A snap of a branch came from my left.
Then another.
I stilled.
A bull elk stepped between the trees, breath steaming in heavy bursts. Its eyes were dark, unblinking. A massive creature, draped in winter-thick fur and crowned with antlers large enough to break a draken’s ribs.
Perfect.
I lunged.
The elk bolted, snow exploding beneath its hooves. It was fast—faster than I expected—but I was faster still. I cut sideways, leaping between trees, claws raking frozen bark as I angled ahead.
The elk swerved.
I pivoted.
Its hooves struck my forearm, but pain meant nothing; I grabbed its neck and dug my claws in deep. It screamed, a harsh, ragged sound that died quickly as I snapped its spine. It crumpled, its blood steaming against the snow.
For a moment, I stood there breathing hard, heart pounding, staring down at the kill.
I was again in the fighting pits, staring over my opponent in victory as they bled out on the sand in front of me.
The crowd roared, and the guards stepped forward to reward me by wrapping me in chains and throwing me in my cell to survive another night—
I shook my head.
Once, I would have eaten this entire animal. Alone. I would have torn strips off its hide with no care for anything but survival, attacking anyone or anything that tried to take some of my food.
But now—
I thought of her small voice, her little hands, and her trusting eyes. I bent down and tore the choicest chunk free from the elk’s flank, warm and rich and dripping. Then I gathered the rest, slinging the carcass across my shoulders, and carried it back.
She hadn’t moved.
She sat exactly where I left her, tiny hands clasped around her knees, arms and legs tucked close for warmth. When she saw me, her face broke into a brilliant, relieved smile that hit me like a spear.
“You came back,” she said simply.
Something inside me cracked wider. “I said I would.”
I set the elk down and tore off a small, soft piece, cooling it quickly with a breath of frost before placing it in her hands.
She sniffed it, then bit in with sharp little teeth.
Her hands fluttered happily.
I sat beside her, tearing into my own share, and for a moment, we were two companions eating quietly under the shadow of the mountains.
Like a family.
I should not want this.
I am not meant for this.
Yet when she leaned against my side, warm and trusting, chewing loudly and humming between bites—
I found myself wrapping my wing around her again, protectively. Perhaps possessively?
Wrongly.
Either way, I would kill anything that tried to take her from me.