Yes, I messed up by signing that piece of parchment that’s probably already fluttering toward Uncle Kaan, but nothing bad will come of it should I get free and take charge of my mistakes.
And according to this … it’spossible.
I refold the lark, cup it in both hands, and bring it close to my face. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I whisper, then tuck it in the crook of my neck. I rock, side-eyeing my wriggling meal as a surge of determination sets my heart on fire. “I’ll find a way to get us out of here. I promise.”
Even if it means I have to start stomaching that crap.
Isprint down the curl of stairs, my steps thumping in unison with the panicked thrash of my heart—thoughts still pinched between the pages of Elluin’s diary flush against my ribs. Bound in place beneath my thieved bodice with a length of cloth I ripped from the underlayer of my equally thieved skirt.
A Bloodlace has arrived on dragonback this rise. If she’s here to test my youngling’s blood once I give birth, the paternal line won’t draw in Tyroth’s direction.
It’ll draw north—to Kaan.
I stifle a groan, ignoring my strong desire to fold over the ornate obsidian handrail and loosen my guts seven stories down to the gleaming floor below.
Never have I felt the weight of such crushing responsibility, knowing my next actions could bring about a war that might crumble the world. But I can’t keep this diary to myself. No.
Kaan deserves to know the truth. So does Ellu—Raeve.
Kyzari deserves it most.
Determination stiffens my jaw.
Get to the cupboard. Get changed. Get free of the palace, through the hidden door in the wall, around the Forest of Weeping Wisps, up the mountain path, and into the abandoned burrow where my carter is hiding with Furn—her escort Moltenmaw. Get home, back to Kaan.
Break his fucking heart.
“Creators,” I mutter, taming my pulse.
I push my shoulders back, slowing my steps as I move down the flight of stairs that cuts through the atrium, the many windows showcasing the blustery might of a storm now heaving over the city. Full-skirted gardeners crouch over beds of luminous flowers, cutting stems or planting new bulbs while Clode swats bouts of snow at the panes.
My hands fist in my effort not to rush past—not to make a scene or draw attention to myself—pulling steady breaths of air spiced with the zesty scent of Shade-born blooms. A lovely smell that fails to make this place feel like anything other than a pretty, ethereal dungeon I hope I don’t die within.
I move down a tight stairwell, bursting free in the servants’ wing well below ground level. My charge through the endless Warren of cold obsidian halls is constantly interrupted by Thorns and stoic palace workers, forcing me to keep my steps slow. Primped and polished females who swish across the floor like regal sweeps of a broom, each bearing a clipped ear, marking them as a null. A custom Tyroth introduced when he dug his claws into The Shade, like a male dragon pissing on his territory.
Making it stink.
Finally coming to a closed cupboard door bracketed by burning sconces, I check both ways, then pull a small vial from my pocket. I uncork the lid, punched by the musky scent of whatever goes into this potent concoction Roan brews. Some sort of excrement, based on its pungent aroma. I try not to think about that as I tip it into my palm, then smear the brown puddle across the bulging door handle.
The fusing rune I drew earlier sizzles, releasing an angry hiss before it smokes into oblivion.
The handle clunks, then turns—unlocking.
Pocketing the vial, I dart through and pull the door shut behind me. I fold back against it and release a shuddered sigh.
“Fuck,” I mutter, ripping off my bangle, tempted to toss it at the wall. Instead, I tug a vial of moonlight from my pocket, illuminating the tight storespace as my glamour begins to itch, then peels like flaking paper, disintegrating before it hits the ground.
I stare past my blanched fingers to the bangle caught in my trembling fist …
Should’ve let the trogg eat it.
I pocket the stupid thing.
My gaze drifts, landing on Ayda, still unconscious on the ground with my bundled white cloak tucked beneath her head, her features lax, mouth gagged.
I take in her modest gray underwools that look far more comfortable than the suffocating abomination I’m about to redress her in. Especially given her …conditionTyroth made me aware of.
Sighing, I study the gentle swell of her abdomen, barely there. Even so, I’m mad at myself for not noticing, shaking my head as I crouch at her side.
