There were officially two ways out of the city: the north gate, which faced the wild and rugged Rift, and the south gate, which faced the ruthless desert. Both were heavily guarded by soldats.
In truth, though, there was one more way out.
A secret way.
Deep below the temple lay a crypt that led to the Old One’s sacred caves. In the walls of the crypt were the ashes of the dead, sealed up in ceramic jars. But in one wall there was something else: an alcove small enough for a curious child like Asha to find on trips to the temple with her mother. Hidden in the alcove was a tunnel leading straight up into the Rift, far away from the walls where soldats stood and watched.
It was the tunnel that started the trouble with the dragons.
After Jarek made his suspicion clear, she decided not to use either of the gates. Instead, she took a vaulted stairway down into the temple’s depths. At the bottom, she pushed open the old and rotting door. The light from behind her slipped into thecrypt, making her shadow stretch and grow.
Without torches to light her way, Asha kept her hand on the crypt walls, letting the cold rock guide her through the darkness. She’d spent so much of her childhood sneaking around beneath the temple that she remembered exactly how far her tunnel was: ninety-three steps through the dark and the damp.
And just beyond her tunnel? The sacred caves.
No one had set foot in them for years. Not since Asha summoned Kozu and he burned half the city to the ground. Before that, the caves were a holy place. And the sacred flame was the temple’s beating heart.
A draksor could only enter the caves after she fasted for three days and washed herself in the sacred spring. Even then, she needed to go in barefoot and she could never, ever, set foot in the inner sanctum. It was forbidden to anyone but the guardians.
It was the sanctum where Asha first saw the image of Elorma’s face. She hadn’t cared then if the Old One struck her down for her disobedience. In fact, shewantedto be struck down. That day, Asha came angry. She came to rage and scream and break things. To hurl her hate into the heart of the Old One’s holy place.
Her mother was dead, killed by the old stories, just like the raconteurs before her.
Asha’s grief made her easy prey that day. It left a fault line running through her. The moment she set foot inside the inner sanctum, the Old One found the fault line. He broke it open and buried a wicked, insatiable hunger within her. One thatwould turn her against her father, her people, her realm.
From then on, the old stories lived inside Asha, brimming just below the surface. It was how Kozu found her, lured by the old stories buried in her heart. Stories needing to be let out. It was how she almost destroyed the city.
Now, though, the sanctum sat empty and its flaming heart beat elsewhere.
She didn’t like to think back to the days before the fire. She didn’t like to think about how enslaved she’d been to the Old One, sneaking out of the city night after night at his bidding, to slake Kozu’s endless thirst for stories. She might not remember much of what happened the day he burned her, but she remembered the days before it. Waiting for the sun to dip below the mountains. Slipping silently over the rooftops. Taking the tunnel up into the Rift.
As she climbed through the tunnel now, Asha forced herself to remember it all. How she’d betrayed her father night after night. How she’d let herself become corrupted.
When she emerged into the Rift, surrounded by cedars and birdcall, she forced herself to think back further than she had in years as she retraced her steps to the plains where Kozu had burned her.
Asha could see that barefoot child inside her. She could hear the stories spilling from her lips as she ran through the moonlit Rift. She could feel that butterfly heart as her steps brought her closer to an ancient evil.
Asha hated that girl; but she needed her now. There was no room for mistakes this time. She feared if she told an old storyaloud, it would summon whatever dragon was within hearing distance. And Asha didn’t have time to deal with another dragon. Asha needed Kozu andonlyKozu. Remembering was the best way to find him.
By the time the sun started to go down, Asha hadn’t yet reached the plains. It was getting difficult to see, so she found a small clearing, unrolled her sleeping pack, and stripped off her armor.
She didn’t dare light a fire. Instead, she pulled a thick wool tunic out of the pack she’d brought from the palace and donned it to keep warm. The days might be blistering hot, but nights in the Rift could freeze a hunter to death.
Asha wasn’t afraid to close her eyes. Over the years, she’d taught herself to sleep lightly and to wake at the slightest sounds. Even if something did find her sleeping, Asha was the most dangerous thing in the Rift.
There was nothing to be afraid of.
The cavernous darkness of sleep melted into dreams. Asha dreamed of a cave where smoke stung her throat. She heard the crackle and snap of fire in the distance, felt its heat sink into her skin. Louder than the fire were the stories, bright and swarming. They were so loud, it was difficult to block them out.
Asha knew exactly where she was. And she knew before she saw him exactly who awaited her.
Elorma stared into the flames as she arrived, as if reading something inscribed there. When she stepped into the firelight, he raised his eyes to her face and pushed his hood back.
“I thought I made the Old One’s command perfectly clear,” he said gruffly. “The slayers were to be used only for righting wrongs.”
“Iwasrighting a wrong,” Asha said, thinking of the young dragon she killed. “What greater wrong is there to right?”
His lip curled. As if he tasted something sour. “Really, Asha. All this dragon hunting is eroding your imagination.”
