“Want me to say it louder?”
“No,” he mutters, slamming down the Sabersythe I trump with my Moonplume, all the colors leaching from his shard—like the Sabersythe just perished. “Fucking knew it.”
I set my colk down, but he trumps it with a velvet trogg, also winning the following stomp when his miskunn trumps my enthu.
Perhaps high on the smell of impending victory, he slams down the doomquill I’m quick to trump with my hushling before I slap my Moltenmaw on the final slot, knowing there’s nothing left in the deck for him to beat me with.
“You lose.” I fill my glass and kick back in the seater, taking a deep draw, the brandy casting a fiery trail down my throat—my next breath hissed through clenched teeth. “I reserve my right to a favor. To be used at a later date.”
“I’m never playing with you on my own again.” He flops back on the seater, using his bent arm as a pillow. “It’s not so bad when you beat me and Grihm at the same time.” He spits a word beneath his breath that peels a whip of flame from one of the sconces. It flits into his hand where he twirls it between his fingers like a slithering snake.
I look to the ceiling, the pretty bronze, black, and red tiles making up the face of Pah’s snarling Sabersythe, Grohn. Constantly staring down at us. Constantly judging my indiscretions—or so Pah used to say when he discovered I was fucking one of the hutchkeepers after I’d given myself to the Creators to escape any future Tookah Trials.
He called it unbecoming. Disgraceful.
Embarrassing.
He also said Mah would be devastated to know she died giving birth to such a filthy whore.
I called it sweet, pleasurable revenge and decided Mah would’ve smiled at me, given me a pat on the head, and told me I could fuck whoever I felt inclined to fuck. Or nobody at all, if that’s what I wanted. Hard to know for sure since I never met her, but she made me, and I like to think I inherited all my fabulous traits from her.
Certainly not the asshole who sired me.
“Guess I’m going to The Shade,” I mutter, drawing another deep sip of my drink, the liquid burning a spicy trail down my throat, heating my belly. “Yay for me. Wanna come?”
“Shit no.”
“I could make you,” I drawl, lifting my glass above my head, closing one eye to look at Grohn through the fractals—the menacing fucker. “Call on the favor I just won.”
“You’re not that cruel.”
He’s right. I’m not.
Unfortunately.
Sighing, I turn the glass, further fragmenting Grohn’s horrific face, remembering the way Pah used to cue him to chase folk across the plains if they displeased him in any way.
I shiver.
“You’re not gonna wait until Elluin wakes? Reintroduce yourself?”
“Haven’t decided.”
What I mean to say is that I don’t trust myself not to rip at her the same way I ripped at Kaan, despite the unrecognition and confusion I’ll undoubtedly receive.
What she did was, in many ways, completely unforgivable.
Perhaps the diary will shed some light on the black hole she punched through my heart when she left without a word to me and a single pathetic note to the male she supposedly loved.
Iwas singing to Slátra while I dozed amongst her fluffy tail when the gates were suddenly lifted by the guards standing watch over the hutch. Through the door, the biggest Sabersythe I’ve ever seen entered, sponging the light.
A male climbed down off the beast’s back.
Tall.
Broad.
Beautiful.
Creators, he was beautiful.
There was something about the way he moved that made me picture a mountain crumbling.
He looked right at me through eyes like crackling embers, and I think my heart stopped.
His feet stopped, too.
That moment seemed to go on and on, and I almost begged Slátra to lift her wing and cut it off. Give me something to hide behind so I could catch my breath. She didn’t, though she did lift her head and growl in the direction of the massive dragon looking at us like we were in its sleep space.
To be fair, that’s probably correct, but this hutch is the only one Slátra was able to access in her injured state.
I didn’t bother to put my veil on. The male had already seen my face and the Aether Stone latched upon my brow like the disease it is.
He coaxed his beast back from the burrow, though he returned a while later without his dragon.
This time, Slátra didn’t growl.
He stole steps toward us, asking what happened to Slátra’s eyes—his voice so rough and thick and accented that I almost couldn’t understand his words, wondering how often he spoke. By the looks of all the scars on his arms, I’ve decided he spends most of his time screaming, not speaking.
He inquired about the last time I ate. If I was living down here.
I didn’t respond to any of his questions. Not because it’s forbidden for me to speak with strangers, but because I simply didn’t have it in me.
I’m tired.
Tired of losing things I love. Tired of trying to rip this stupid diadem off my brow so I can wield the power I need to get Slátra home and take my throne from the asshole who thinks he owns me. Tired of being spoken down to by males who believe they know what’s good for me and my kingdom I miss so much, now being run by a cruel, selfish, greedy male I wouldn’t trust with my worst enemy.
I’m just … tired.
A scalding word burns hot on my tongue, sputters against my lips, hopelessness stomping me like a world lumped on my chest. There’s an ache in my heart that’s leaking …
Leaking …
I think I’m leaking with it, reaching for something I can’t grasp. Fingers outstretched. Desperate to tangle with— Something important.
Something …
Mine.
But I drain …
Drain …
Gently drain away …
Yanked away too fast. Too slow.
Cold
Empty—
Jerking up, I battle for breath, clawing at my chest, ribs, and belly. Trying to untangle from the tacky tendrils of a slumber-terror that felt too real.
Too painful.
I slap my face, open my eyes, taking in the humid room, shards of light peeking through shuttered curtains I think I might’ve seen before. Somewhere. Perhaps in a dream. But I’m not dreaming anymore. I just woke.
I just woke—
Where the fuck am I?
I thread my fingers through my hair and push it back off my face, trying to piece together the bloody segments of my mulched memories.
The Fate Herder …
The kneeling, motionless colk leaking blood from its slit throat …
Two unfamiliar males slashing each other’s flesh, trying to claim the rights to my body.
Hock’s fist colliding with my face …
Kaan decapitating Hock …
Kaan—
Gasping, I reach for the málmr hanging heavy from my neck and cradle it in my palm, admiring the two embracing dragons …
Creators. That happened.
That.
Actually.
Happened.
“Shit,” I mutter, cutting my gaze around the room again, the walls all made from russet stone, the ceiling a mosaicked clash of black, bronze, and dark red. The space is sparsely furnished, most things grown from the wall or floor—the massive pallet, the twin side tables, the dresser protruding from the far wall packed with woven baskets used as drawers.
Light. Simple. Organic.
I glance down, seeing my attire has been changed, brushing my fingers across the black silk shift buying me all the modesty I could hope for in this oppressive heat. A good sign that accepting Kaan’s málmr is not going to lead me to a life on my back, staring up at stitched-together hides while I grow some mystical offspring meant to save the world from impending moonfalls.
This is good.
I can work with this.