A second dragon?
The shadow hissed and forced her backward, keeping her from Kozu. Through the darkness, Asha saw its forked tail lashing angrily back and forth.
Red-hot rage flowed through her veins. How dare it come between her and her prey!
Her grip tightened on her axe, but she felt light-headed. The ground dipped and rose. Asha looked down. The right side of her body glistened in the darkness.
The quick, chattering sound of dragon speech echoed through the night. They were talking to each other, Kozu and this shadow dragon. Planning their next move.
Quickly, Asha found her sleeping roll and tore off a wide strip. Gritting her teeth, she wound it around her torso, wrapping that hideous gash in her side. She tied it so tight, the pain made breathing difficult.
A roar made Asha look up, expecting to find both dragons bearing down on her.
Instead, she found them . . . fighting.
Each other.
The shadow dragon was smaller and younger than Kozu, but twice as fast. When Kozu lunged, the younger dragon dodged, circling back to keep itself between the First Dragon and the Iskari. Kozu’s tail dripped blood. He swatted and made himself vulnerable. The younger dragon ducked and charged, running circles around the bigger dragon, as if it were a game, as if its plan was to tire the First Dragon out.
If she weren’t weak from the blood loss, Asha would have taken advantage of this. She would have struck while the two dragons were occupied.
But she could feel herself losing consciousness. She wanted to put her head down. Needed to close her eyes. . . .
No. Stay awake.
If she didn’t get back to the city, if she collapsed right here in the Rift, she would bleed out and die.
Unless a dragon got her first.
Her hands shook as she buckled on her slayers. She left everything she didn’t need, including her axe. Asha had plenty of other axes.
Kozu kept charging, trying to get at her, trying to finish what he’d started all those years ago. The shadow dragon blocked, gaining ground, driving Kozu into the trees. Clicking and chattering. Teasing and taunting. It wore the First Dragon down.
Finally, Kozu stopped advancing. Asha felt his slitted gaze on her as she stumbled through the darkness, moving farther away.
A low keening sound split the night, surprising Asha. A mourning call. Usually reserved for a dead mate or slain young, the sound was an expression of sadness or grief.
It made Asha shiver. She looked back, following the direction of the sound, but Kozu had disappeared.
The shadow dragon had not.
“Come near me,” she growled at it, “and I’ll carve out your heart.”
The dragon watched her, head cocked, tail thrashing. When she walked, it walked. When she stopped, it stopped. Like a stray pup following her home.
Asha saw Kozu’s scar in her mind. Heard the beat of his horrible heart. A moment more and Asha would have dealt a killing blow. This dragon prevented her. The moment it came close enough, she was going to kill it.
But as her rage boiled ever hotter, a voice echoed through her mind:
The Old One bestows his second gift tonight.
Asha stopped walking.
She fixed her gaze on the shadow in the trees.
You must keep it from harm.
This—this dragon—was her second gift?
“No. . . .”
As realization sank in, Asha screamed her rage—at Elorma, at the Old One, and at the bloodred moon waning above her. And when she was done screaming, the shadow dragon remained. Head tilted. Eyes fixed on her. As if to say: Where are you going? Can I come too?
Fourteen
Asha dragged herself through the temple, then up the dark and dusty stairway. Leaving the flamelit corridors below, her feet tripped on the steps. The slowing thud of her pulse echoed in her ears. Her legs dragged, heavy as chains.
Stay conscious. Just a little longer.
It felt like years passing before she fell against the door, breathing in the sweet cedar. Asha pressed her forehead against the flower carved into the wood, willing it to hold her up.
“Skral!”
Silence answered her. She slammed her palm against the door.
“Please. . . .”
A match struck on the other side. A lock clicked. The door swung in, creaking as it did, and an illuminated face came out of the darkness. Freckled. Sleep smudged.
With her support swinging away from her, Asha struggled to stand and found she couldn’t.
“Iskari?”
He caught her, pulling her into him.
“What have you done to yourself?”
But no words formed on Asha’s tongue. The skral set down the lantern. He hoisted her up into his arms and kicked the door shut behind them.
Asha woke in the night to a low-burning lamp and the skral bent over her. Someone had changed the yellowing bandages wrapped around his torso. These looked white and fresh.
A sharp pain pricked her side and Asha bolted upright, gasping as the sting flickered through her ribs.
“Hold still,” he said, grabbing her shoulder with a warm hand and pushing her back down. His other hand held a needle. It glinted in the lantern light. “I’m almost finished.”
She tensed against his touch, but did as he said. He let go of her shoulder. Hunching like a hawk, he frowned in concentration as he gently stitched up her wound—which bled now from the sudden movement.
“Who washed me?” Her blood-soaked tunic was gone and her hair was wet and braided tightly over one shoulder. But that wasn’t the worst thing.
She wore a slave’s shirt. The linen was thin and plain and rough against Asha’s skin.
His shirt, she realized.
She wore his shirt and nothing else.
In order to stitch up the gash in her side, he’d pushed the fabric up to her chest and thrown a wool blanket over her waist and legs for modesty. Her entire torso was visible, including her burn scar, which ran down the length of her side, creeping toward her navel.
He met her horrified gaze, saying nothing. He didn’t need to. Asha knew in that moment who had washed the blood from her body.
He’s just a slave. He’s been undressing and bathing his masters all his life. It doesn’t matter.
Except it did matter. He’d seen everything. The full extent of her hideousness.
For the first time in a long time, Asha didn’t feel proud of her scar.
She felt ashamed of it.
Falling still against the cot, she turned her face away from him.
“Here,” he said, lifting a tray from the floor and setting it on her lap. A small plate of olives glistened next to a loaf of bread and olive oil. “You lost a lot of blood. You need to eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Iskari.”
Asha looked up into his face.
“Please.”
Gritting her teeth, Asha propped herself up. She tore off a piece of bread, soaking it in oil before putting it in her mouth.
“What happened?” he asked when the needle went in again.
Asha winced and swallowed the bread. “I found him. Or rather, he found me.”
“The dragon you were hunting?”