Kaan arches a brow. “I see managing my mail has been going well these past two daes.”
“I quit.” Pyrok flicks the locks on the wooden box. “Answering your mail, I’ve decided, is not my life’s purpose.”
“Then what is?” Kaan asks, sounding genuinely curious.
“Fuck knows.” Lifting the lid, Pyrok pulls out a Skripi board he slaps on the table. “Gracing you with my presence, probably.”
Kaan gives him the sort of dry look I’ve become accustomed to. Nice not to be on the receiving end for a change.
I jerk my chin at the board. “I see you came prepared to be stripped of all your belongings. And your pride.”
“Pride’s long gone,” he mutters, opens a black jar, and tips out the dice. “Roan, the boring fuck, is too preoccupied with the book to play with me, so you two are it.” He uncorks a bottle and pours the suspiciously murky liquid into a mug until it’s brimming. “I hope you weren’t planning to slumber. Or go on a murder spree—”
I screw up my face. “Feels targeted.”
“—or fuck. You have daes to do that before the sky crushes us all.”
Creators. Someone’s not taking the pending apocalypse well. Perhaps scrubbing his brainisthe right call of action.
Another gutsy scream rips across the courtyard.
“We’re all yours,” I say in the same instance Kaan reaches for the shards. He cuts the deck and hands me half while I edge farther around the seater, shuffling them. Together, we set the board while Pyrok fills the other mugs, drains his, then refills it again.
“How should we play?” he asks, inspecting his fan of shards.
Eyeing my fantastic hand—honestly, this game’s already over—I flatten my features and suggest, “Favors?”
“No,” they both answer in unison.
“Bit swift. Why not?”
Kaan arches a brow. “Because I’m stillbruised, Moonbeam.”
Fair.
I turn to Pyrok. “What’s your excuse?”
“I’m on a losing streak.” He eyes his splayed hand while shuffling itaround, his bland gaze giving nothing away. “I already owe Veya. Fuck if I’m owing you, too.”
Also fair.
“Twos and fours drink,” he continues, slams his shards against the table, then fans them in the other direction. “First loser has to empty their mug in one hit.”
I scowl at my brimming mug and slide it toward him, certain I don’t want to risk tasting that shit again—no matter how good my hand is. “We’re child-minding. Someone needs to stay sober. I heartily volunteer.”
“Korie’s covered.” Pyrok jerks his chin at Kaan. “He’d have to guzzle a river of mead to get drunk.”
“Really?” I look at Kaan. “Built-up tolerance?”
“Overprotective dragon,” he murmurs, flicking me a glance before he gets back to arranging his hand. “He’s quick to absorb my ailments. I’d have to intoxicate Rygun to get more than a soft buzz.”
That’s … interesting.
And inconvenient for my taste buds.
“I miss the daes before he went all Daga-Mórrk on us,” Pyrok drones, chewing the inside of his lip piercing. “We saw some wild shit.”
“Short answer,” Kaan cuts in, like he’s eager to change the subject, “Korie’s covered.”
