Haedeon will never walk again because the bones fused back together, but not in the right way. Pahpi says nobody has the skills to rebreak, then fix such delicate damage so deep without cutting him open and risking more harm.
His Moonplume may never fly because her wing is gammy. Because our makeshift hatching camp got sniffed out by a pack of doomquills just as Haedeon’s egg began to rock, and I had to hide it in the warmth with him before it had a chance to fully hatch.
Yes, I fought off the doomquills, but I would’ve lost if the massive Moonplume that had been circling hadn’t shown up and blazed the rest of them. Yes, I then climbed on her back and held on really tight for really long until she listened to my soft song, but I just did what I had to do to get my brother home. Because the Creators wouldn’t sing to me no matter how much I begged them to help.
Now they won’t shut up.
Wrook scratches at the corner of his cell while I hum, sitting in the corner, tapping my foot against the ground to the tune in my head. I trace the dips and spines of the ceiling, hunting the bulbous balls of moisture hanging off the more prominent peaks, trying to guess which one will drip next. A game I’ve played on and off since I was dumped here.
Not sure how long ago that was. Feels like a while.
Perhaps those who tossed me in here think that by leaving me to rot in this shithole, I’ll madden into a pulp. Become pliable enough that when they finally present me to the Guild of Nobles, I’ll mold to their stringent will.
Unfortunately for them, I’m well practiced in the art of existing in a confined space, and there are many ways to bide time in a cell if you have a rich imagination.
Heavy footsteps thump down the corridor, and I dim my sound, a small smile swelling my cheeks as Wrook stuffs his blanket over his rebellious hole, tucks into a ball before it, and pretends to sleep.
My gaze clings to a water droplet I’m certain is the next to fall—disappointment backhanding me when instead one lands atop the peak of my nose, making my face twitch.
I frown, eyes narrowing on the wobbly globule …
Drip, you stubborn bastard!
A different one splats on my knee, and a sigh gusts past my dry, split lips.
I’m terrible at this game. Not once have I gotten it right. So help me, I will crack the code by the time I’m marched to my doom.
A figure storms past my cell in a flutter of thick white material, and a voice in the back of my mind questions why a Runi would bother with a trip into Gore’s septic bowels cluttered with half-digested “traitors” to The Crown. Whoever it is stops before Wrook’s cell, crouching. “I heard you stole the wrong ring from the wrong fae,” the male rumbles in a deep, gravelly voice that skates across my pebbling skin.
A voice I recognize.
My heart flops against my ribs, gaze drifting to the broad, cloaked visitor as Wrook feigns a stretch.
The hooded male from the Hungry Hollow, now dressed like a Runi.
I tuck farther into the shadowed corner …
I was so strong and composed outside the wind tunnel with my iron blade pressed to his member. Now I’m in bits in a cell, chasing drips of mildew, smelling like my own filth and ruin. I’m like a dragon midmolt, and the last thing I want is that assessing stare poking me in my tender spots that are yet to fully calcify.
“Costly mistake,” Wrook forges past a faux yawn.
The male grunts. “I’ve been looking for you all over, you know.”
Wrook’s ears flick forward, nose twitching. He licks his paws, using them to swipe the hairs back on his face as he rocks up into a crouch. “Why?”
“Because someone I’m acquainted with saw you scurrying for the nearest sewer with a moonshard in your mitts.”
My heart skips a beat.
Why in this Creators-forsaken world is he hunting moonshards?
Wrook kicks back his foot to scratch behind his ear. “I don’t know what you’re t-t-talking about.”
“I can get you out. Digging won’t work. This place is runed against anyone digging farther than a foot. And I have a Sabersythe tusk I’m willing to trade for the shard.”
My brows lift.
According to Ruse, Sabersythes drop their tusks every shed, but they’re remarkably hard to find.
I think back to the first time I purchased a sliver for Essi. Ruse said they don’t dislodge until the beast is well into its spurt of growth, often swallowed by Gondragh’s volcanoes since that’s where Sabersythes flock to complete their shed, burrowed away from anything that might harm their delicate state. I also quickly found out they’re worth ten times their weight in dragon bloodstone, serving as a bonding agent most Runi’s use for their etchings.
Wrook’s nose twitches, his scratching foot coming slowly down to rest against the floor. “How big is the t-t-tusk?”
“The size of my leg.”
My gaze drops to said leg, eyes widening.
“Deal,” Wrook spits, his response swifter than the snap of Rekk’s whip.
I smile, pride warming my chest.
Good for him. Love a happy ending.
“I’ll purchase your sentence and have you out by the rise,” the male says, just stalking by my cell when he stops, drawing a deep sniff of the air, his head turning in my direction slower than a setting aurora.
My breath flees.
His gaze rakes across my shadowed form, like he’s trying to sweep past the curtains of filth and shadow to my unveiled face.
I tuck my chin to my chest, loose tendrils of hair falling forward to curtain me.
Leave.
Leave.
Leave—
“It’s you,” he rumbles, and my heart drops, the hairs on the back of my neck lifting. “Come forth into the light.”
“Who died and made you king?” I rasp past my ruined throat.
“My pah,” he deadpans, and a laugh bubbles out of me, tapering off before the excess motion has a chance to rip my wounds and make them weep again.
“Funny.”
Silence reigns.
He steps closer to the bars, arms crossed over his broad chest, the uncomfortable absence of sound dragging on for so long it pecks at me.
“Were you … waiting for something?” I ask, frowning.
“Yes. For you to shift into the light so I can see your face.”
I snort-laugh.
Righteous asshole.
“No, thank you. You’ll have to step through those iron bars and drag me into the light yourself.”
There’s a moment of pause before he grips the lock hanging from my door, knuckles blanching. The metal creaks and groans, and he rips his arm down—
I suck a sharp breath as the lock comes away.
Broken.
He lifts his hand and makes a show of loosening his fingers, letting the useless lump of metal fall to the ground with a clatter that echoes off the walls to the tune of my rallying heart.
Fuck.
“I’m not usually one to take things from a female that aren’t given freely,” he rumbles, swinging the latch off the hook. “However, your voice reminds me of somebody I used to know, and I’ve spent five sleepless slumbers convinced I’m going mad.”
He boots the door open, the sound of squealing hinges carving across my nerves, reminding me of times I was dragged from another cell—feet first, fingernails gouging the stone while I snarled through gritted teeth.
He takes the first step in, and I pull my feet back toward my bum, gritting my teeth against a bludgeoning howl as I push my weight against my shredded back and leverage myself to a wobbly stand. “Hate to break it to you like this,” I hiss, “but I’d never seen you before that slumber on the south side of the wall.”
“For your sake,” he growls, stalking forward, packing the space full of his massive presence, “I hope you’re wrong.”
“And if I’m not?”
He steps into my shadow, almost close enough for me to reach out and touch him, my next breath laced with a drugging punch of his rich, molten scent.
He flips back his hood, revealing that beautiful, hard face.
My lungs snag at the sight of him.
Lips pinched in a line, he steals another step forward.
“And if I’m not?”
“Vaghth,” he whispers, the scalding word a flame against my conscience.