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I feel like I’m flying.
My body is learning to move faster, the muscles in my legs looking defined.
I can be useful.
“Shit.”
A gurgling sound echoes through the trees, the stones, the mountains. Then, coughing. Loud, wet heaving. I stop running and look up to the sky.
“Flip her over!”
I jerk upright in my cage, blinking away the sleep as I try to make out what I’m seeing. Warrose turns Skylenna on her side, lightly patting her back to get her to cough.
The phlegm in her chest is thick, sticky as it clings to her throat. She squeezes her eyes shut as her body convulses, clenching and contracting to get out whatever is lacing her lungs.
“You’re doing great, just clear it out,” Warrose says soothingly.
I stroke her arm through the cage, covered in dried blood and sweat.
“Does she have a fever?” I ask.
Warrose shakes his head. “The opposite. She’s still cold.”
Hands bang against bars. Once. Twice.
I stare at Dessin with wide eyes. He looks like he’s seconds away from having a full meltdown.
“She definitely has a broken rib.” Warrose presses lightly on her side.
Skylenna spits to the side as she clears whatever was in her throat.
“She’s going to be alright,” I tell Dessin, trying to calm him down. “We just have to get through the night.” Although my heart doesn’t believe it. I ache everywhere for her. My soul sister. She looks moments away from being swept up by the angel of death. I blink away the tears gathering in my eyes.
Skylenna lets out an agonized groan. Dessin grips the bars, flexing every muscle in his upper body.
“Want me to sing you to sleep?” Warrose whispers.
She tries to nod. But it’s barely a movement. I want to kiss her cheeks. Tell her she’s so brave. Tell her how I look up to her, admire her strength, and want to be just like her.
Wait, sing? Warrose can sing?
He pulls her to his chest again, cradles her softly until his chin rests on the top of her head.
I can’t help but start to cringe as I imagine his rough, deep voice breaking out into a song. There’s no way he’s talented in this area. His natural pitch is a growl, ragged, and baritone.
“Hidden in the red, it’s said he’s made of storm.” The words are edged and flowy, sinking to the pit of my stomach. My mouth falls open.
“Spun of thunder, built of lightning, of a god is how he was born.”
Niles sits up next to me. My skin prickles with goose bumps. That voice. So full of soul. Of emotion. It makes my lungs empty of air.
“He cannot be seen beneath the darkened skies. Can only be felt in a time so dire. Not a dragon that soars the clouds, but an angel that brings fire.”
“Christ,” Niles mutters.
“In the darkness, in the shadow, all alone he will wait. For the RottWeilen belong with a family of fate.”
I gasp with Niles. This song is about
