Folk scream, dashing for cover beneath skybridges that are, in all honesty, completely fucking useless. If that beast decided to turn its head and torch us, I doubt a single one of us could do anything to stop it.
Dragonflame doesn’t abide by the rules of nature. Ignos’s language can’t deter it from blistering skin. Melting flesh and bone.
Destroying cities.
Only a Daga-Mórrk can wield dragonflame—one so bonded with their dragon they can harness its strength and fire. Though the connection is more myth than reality.
The beast glides toward the coliseum that’s clamped between both lengths of wall like a ghastly, blood-splattered crown.
“Creators,” I mutter, watching the Moltenmaw circle lazily above the massive structure.
The feeding bell gongs loud enough that I feel the sound in my marrow, and a haunting hush falls upon the crowd, the air igniting with the frantic thump of beating wings. A thunder of Moltenmaws swarm from every direction, clotting the sky with a riot of ravenous motion, charging for the free meal—their sharp maws pointed toward the coliseum like a volley of arrows.
They converge, snapping at each other, talons slashing, vibrant feathers spraying as they battle for whoever’s currently tied to the stake within the structure.
An ear-splitting scream followed by a bloodcurdling howl of anguish echoes into the otherwise silent Ditch with eerie precision, almost like someone willed Clode to carry the sound down just to fuck with us. To remind us of the chilling consequences for those who madden The Crown.
My hands shake with my welling rage, fingers tangling through the folds of my gown, fisting the thick material.
I’d be up there right now, screaming for blood in the spectator seats if the one being fed to the beasts were a monster like Tarik Relaken. But it won’t be.
They never are.
They’re others like me, caught masquerading as nulls. They’re folk who speak out against the King, or parents of gifted children who try to keep their young from being forced through the painful screening process required of every offspring. From being shaved. Pierced. Ripped from their homes in exchange for The Crown’s prescription bucket of bloodstone—gratitude for their great contribution to The Fade’s swelling militia.
A paltry bandage for a wounded heart.
The searing scream is snipped to the tune of splitting wood, and my guts plummet so fast I’m struck with the urge to vomit.
A victorious Moltenmaw shoves from the coliseum, churns its feathered wings, and heaves into the sky. Blood leaks from its honed mouth as the beautiful, monstrous creature glides west, a sea of heads turning to watch it sail along the wall.
All the oxygen wicks from my lungs.
In that direction, the wall eventually dips, half swallowed by the Moltenmaw spawning grounds—Bhoggith. Whenever they fly west with fresh meat, there’s only one place the victim is going to end up.
Spat out in a nest, fed to the dragon’s young.
Live prey.
I shiver from the base of my neck all the way to the tips of my toes, my gaze coasting across the silent crowd, most staring skyward through wide eyes, their mouths pinched shut as if under lock and key.
Apparently, the Kingdom of The Fade used to be a Creators-blessed place to live, where children’s giggles echoed through the Ditch. Where the wispy watercolor sky inspired an era of music and arts.
Then our current king was sworn in, caring only for his military might.
I’d like to have seen Gore back then, when the kingdom was in its prime. Would like to have experienced the reality that was colorful to the core—not just on the outside.
I think that’s the living Fallon was referring to. Not this.
This can’t be it.
I swallow the rage boiling up my throat, certain there’s enough anger inside me to incinerate this city in a single blow of breath. Even so, I force myself to continue forward, ignoring the feral urge to stalk to the city hutch, hire a carter, and fly west to Drelgad. To where King Cadok currently resides, overseeing his militia.
Only a fool would believe I could get close enough to kill him without a fierce amount of backup, the tri-beaded male constantly guarded by dual-beaded elementals and his vicious dragon. Making my anger useless—at least until the Elding decides to stop clipping leaves off this malignant tree and start hacking at its roots.
Itake a zigzag path up the Ditch’s lofty interior, scaling thirty-one stories, scanning my surroundings as I cross a crumbling skybridge and step onto the side of the wall that looks out upon The Shade. I skulk down a rough-hewn wind tunnel that reminds me of a choking throat, the ground etched in bands of runes that trigger all sorts of terrible responses for anyone other than myself or Essi.
The immediate urge to shit themselves. The sudden loss of vision—like they fell headfirst into The Shade’s inky sky. And my personal favorite, the unnerving belief that a Moltenmaw just stuffed its beak down this very tunnel and is trying to pluck them out like a bug in a hole.
I pause by what looks very much like a rubbish chute for the velvet trogg and unlace my bodice, revealing a fadestone-brown skinsuit that’s snug against my form and much easier to climb in. Bundling my veil, boots, bodice, and supply bag within the folds of my skirt, I post the package, watching it shoot diagonally down, then disappear from sight.
Most prefer to make their homes on the other side of the wall, where sunlight shafts through colorful windows and fills rooms with warmth. Where folk can line their sills with potted vegetables that thrive in its constant flow.
Not me.
I like the cold, and I can’t keep a plant alive to save myself. Though none of that holds a candle to the reason why I chose the brisk, quiet side with the dusky vista.
Wind toys with my hair as I stop at the end of the tunnel with my toes hanging over the edge, looking out upon the snow-covered plains that stretch toward the south. The clouds have almost entirely cleared, allowing me an uninhibited view of the bruised horizon pocked with moons cast amongst a bed of distant stars.
Closer are the vibrant balls of fallen Moltenmaws, as if someone took the colorful clouds of The Fade, shredded them, then packed them into compact orbs and tossed them skyward. You can see the outline of their massive, majestic wings bound around them like feathered fans. The lanky plumes of their tails that sometimes fail to tuck in before the dying dragon solidifies, looking like flicks of paint.
Much farther in the distance are rounds of pearl, iridescent, and gray spilling shards of Moonplume light. Radiant bruises smudged against the otherwise dark horizon.
There’s something poetic about looking up and seeing that which has passed. A soft launch into grief for those who linger below. If I could ball myself up like a Moonplume and nestle amongst the stars when I know my time has come, I would. Not that I think many would seek me out, but I’d die knowing I left something bright behind in this beautiful world sketched in so many shades of ugly.
I also like the idea of being able to fall from the sky and squash somebody if they piss me off. I’d aim myself at the Fade King and obliterate him in a heartbeat for doing such a shit job of keeping his kingdom together.
Petty, but justified.
I seek out the small silver moon of an adolescent Moonplume that’s drawn my eye since I first looked upon the tombstone-laden sky, pulling my lungs full of crisp air, a true, untarnished smile stretching across my face …
Many call that particular moon Hae’s Perch.
It’s certainly not the largest, nor is it the brightest, nor the most magnificent to look upon. But for whatever reason, I can’t imagine not being able to open my eyes each aurora rise, look out past the ever-vibrant clouds in this part of the world, and see that little wonky moon with the malformed wing.