The words lit something in me, and I felt more alive than I have in a very long while, like an aurora had just risen in my chest.
I told her yes—I want some fucking combat lessons.
Her smile was blinding.
Pyrok watches on from the booth seat opposite me—reclined, hands clasped behind his head, an ever-present smirk on his face I certainly don’t appreciate.
I leave the thin metal sharpening tool standing atop the linchpin embedded in my cuff, willing it to stay.
“This is it,” I murmur, attention honed as I move … my hand … slowly … away …
“You think?”
“Gut feeling.” I grasp the rock I stole from the Loff’s bouldered shore and lift it above the rod, count to three, then slam it down—
The rod skitters across the stone like a fucking arrow.
Sighing, I thump the rock on the table, scrambling for the tool to the tune of Pyrok’s deep belly laugh.
The asshole.
“Glad somebody’s finding this amusing.” I reset the scene, trying to get the cuff perfectly level so the pin will stand on end.
Still laughing, Pyrok wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “Thirty-seven.”
“Shut up.”
Feeling the hairs on the back of my neck lift, I slash a stare around the space to see if anyone else is taking enjoyment from my erupting well of frustration.
The cozy, domed building consists of three levels, the outer rim segmented into plush leather booths—one of which we’re currently occupying—with a delightful view across the Loff I wish I could fully appreciate.
Cuff free.
A circular bar dominates the center of the room, surrounded by stools mostly occupied with chatting patrons snacking on meat skewers, sipping from tall glasses of foggy liquid, or guzzling mugs of Molten Mead. Upon my surveillance, I catch two folk looking my way, perusing my cuff, passing whispered words to each other.
Waving with my shackled hand, I flash them an exaggerated grin that drops straight off my face the moment I set my attention back on the task at hand.
Essi would’ve had this off in a heartbeat.
“Vruhn hit a nerve?” Pyrok asks, and I flick my lashes up to glare at him. He shrugs. “Your mood plummeted. Significantly.”
Such a nice way to say I’m being a bitch.
“Several,” I mutter, turning my attention back to leveling my cuff. Think I’ll pay a busker to collect my package when it’s ready so I don’t have to face the Mindweft again. Lately, folk are taking far too much interest in my life—past, present, and future.
I’m sick of it.
Kholu this. Offspring that. Let me peer into your mind and help excavate your past grievances—
No fucking thank you.
“I hear you and Veya got off on the wrong foot,” Pyrok muses, then nabs a honey-glazed nut from one of the three terracotta bowls of snacks he ordered with our first round of mead, tossing it in the air. Catching it with his mouth.
“I hadn’t eaten in a while,” I say, setting the rod atop the pin, trying to release my hold without it toppling. “She ate fruit in front of me.”
“Ahh.”
I pull my pinching hand away, slow …
Steady …
“I think you’d like her if you got to know her.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” I respond, not bothering to mention that I don’t intend to stay here long enough to find out. Nice city, happy folk. I admit I was wrong. But I’ve still got a hankering to punch my fist through Rekk Zharos’s chest and rip out his heart, the urge itching at my bones like a swarm of frost flies.
I pick up the stone, raise the thing, then slam it down. The rod scatters across the table to the rhythm of my sharp-tongued curses while Pyrok chuckles himself into an impending grave.
“A little help?” I growl, waving my cuffed hand at him while reaching for the rod.
With a shake of his head, he picks up his drink and drains it to the dregs. “That thing is on there for a reason, I’m sure,” he says, wiping his lips with the back of his sun-brushed arm.
“Might have something to do with the fact that I bit off the tip of Rekk Zharos’s finger,” I mutter, frowning when the sky releases a heady rumble that seems to shake the air.
I glance out the open window to my right, scouring the picturesque Loff ruffled by the wind. Since this establishment sits amongst the bouldered shore on the eastern hook of Dhomm, we have a perfect view of the swooping city. Of the western point that keeps drawing my eye—appearing desolate of civilization, completely clothed in rust-colored jungle. “What’s there?”
Silence.
I look at Pyrok, who’s now staring at me like I sprouted an extra head.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says, releasing a full-body shiver likely attributed to the finger story.
I get it. I felt the same at first, but I’ve since bonded with the thought.
“It’s walled off.” He jerks his thumb toward the point. “A hushling lives there.”
I frown. “Really?”
“Wanna go investigate?”
I cast another glance toward the point.
Sort of.
“I want this cuff off more,” I grind out, and Pyrok pushes to a stand.
“Another drink for the long battle ahead?”
“Absolutely.” I drain my glass—the mead a rich conglomeration of smoked chezberries, hobs, and burning wood. Not too sweet or bitter. Undoubtedly the most delicious drink I’ve ever tasted. “I’ll pay you back with the change I got for trading the stolen candlestick,” I say, sliding the empty glass into his hand.
“You sure you don’t want a glass of water? It doesn’t taste like dirt here, and your cheeks are pretty flush—”
“Mead,” I murmur, turning my attention back to the cuff, lining up the rod. I doubt my purchased items will be ready before tomorrow’s rise, meaning I’ll probably be escorted back to the Imperial Stronghold for the oncoming slumber. “Please.”
The only way I’m sleeping beneath the same ceiling as his Imperial Highness without saying or doing something stupid is if I’m so utterly smashed I’m too comatose to lift my body off the pallet. I’m not usually one to drown my sorrows, but I see no point fighting the tide that obviously wants to dunk me beneath a pall of mindless oblivion.
I’m just steadying the rod again when movement outside catches my eye, my seat allowing me the perfect view of the domed lookout perched atop the mountain far above. Of the many massive hutch holes burrowed into the swooping cliff.
Twice now I’ve seen the same adolescent Sabersythe leaping from a rocky plateau cut within the bulging Stronghold—the beast’s only adornment a leather saddle blanket, perhaps getting it used to the feel of something draped upon its back.
Though interesting to watch it swoop through the sky in a giddy dance, frolicking about like it’s burning with a belly full of energy it doesn’t know what to do with, it’s not what I’ve been looking for. Sabersythes aren’t typically used for carter crossings since they can’t travel much farther south than The Fade for risk of freezing to death. They can’t stand the snow any more than a Moonplume can stand the sun—and I don’t want to go toward the sun.
I want to go away from it.
Thankfully, most major cities have a reserve of charmed, generally placid Moltenmaws trained enough to cart paying passengers to their chosen destination, escorted by the one who charmed the beast. And that Moltenmaw right there—now bursting into view from behind the mountain range, skimming through the sky as the wind ruffles its pink and red plumage, a double saddle cushioned between its feathered wings …
That’s my ticket out of here.
The massive beast lowers onto a plateau, throwing its head around to gnaw at an itch beneath its wing as Pyrok pulls the booth’s curtains closed, then settles into the seat opposite me.
“Tell me,” I murmur, pointing out the window with my rod, “is that the carter hutch?”