“That’s all I got. And apparently one of the Tri-Councilors worked out a way to block him from receiving larks, meaning we can’t even send him one and try to follow it. But I have a plan to track him down. It requires—”
“If you want to blow something up, the answer’s no.” He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “Especiallyif you need my fucking blood.”
“No explosions. And I only needmyblood, some copper sheets, solder, a parchment lark, eahl scales, the seed pod of a dookah plant, the underwing of a carani beetle, two droppings from a—”
“We’ll leave as soon as Raeve wakes.”
Roan’s up in the next beat, book in hand, out the door before I get a chance to flatten the map across the Skripi board, weighting each corner with empty mugs and bottles. I scan the ink etchings, my gaze homed on the broad stretch of ancient forest just north of Bhoggith, standing between the nesting grounds and the mountain ranges we’re tucked within.
The Forest of Harthor.
The final resting place for many who step foot amongst those massive trees on their way to claim a Moltenmaw egg, but also the only possible path to the spawning grounds without getting too close to the wall on either side.
“Since we’re heading in that direction …” I pull a blade from my sheath as I scan the constellation of islands knobbled through the bog. “There’s apparently a moonshard right …here,” I mutter, pushing my blade into the map, digging it so deep into the Skripi board the weapon stands on its own.
I don’t realize Pyrok’s leaning all the way over me until he says, “That’s unfortunate. Not sure anyone has ever successfully raided a nest that close to the center.”
I bring my hands together and use them as a perch for my chin. “I’d worried that was the case.”
To reach the shard, I’d have to build a stone path. Something that would cast reverberations noticeable by every broody beast in the vicinity. That’s if the nesting dams don’t pick up mine and Rygun’s dominant scent the moment I set foot on the shore, then start screeching for their mates to hunt me down.
I can withstand a lot, but a thunder of territorial Moltenmaws would be my end.
“Wait … isn’t that the dam with the sterile egg?”
I nod. “Her mate set himself to rest directly above her. If he drops during the coming fall, chances are the shard will be obliterated.”
My skin prickles with Raeve’s approach even before I’m hit with the sound of her descending footsteps.
My next breath is allher.
I twist around, brow arched at the sight of her coming down the staircase draped in the pearly cloak I gifted her, the visor unrolled and shielding half her face.
The way she wears that fall of floppy material … It looks like Moonplume wings dragging behind her as she stalks toward the kitchen without a word of recognition, a predatory smoothness to the way she moves that has me sitting straighter.
She inspects the stew Pyrok made, grunts in what sounds like disapproval, then clonks the lid back in place, scenting other things until her hand lands on the cooling box. She slides the slate covering aside and begins rooting around.
“Looks likesomeone’sregretting the skulling contest,” Pyrok murmurs beneath his breath, then toasts the air and belts out, “Ready for another round, Raeve? Or are you happy to admit defeat?”
She makes a low rumbling sound that trembles through me.
Pyrok chuckles, though my gaze is all Raeve’s as she removes a clay container packed with the raw colk tenderloins I was planning to cook forfeasting.
I expect her to ask me to fire up the stove. Instead, she strides toward us, drops into the seat Roan vacated, then lifts the lid, revealing several long slabs of pink, bloody meat she roots through with her bare hands.
The smile falls off Pyrok’s face.
He sits up, brows hitched. “That’s r—” He cuts off as Raeve brings a hunk of meat to her mouth and tears into it with her teeth—chewing. Groaning. “Rrreally good meat to eat …raw. And with your hands,” he finishes, passing me a sideways glance that says one thingveryclearly:
What the fuck.
I’m inclined to agree.
Raeve grunts, swallows, grabs a second smaller tenderloin with her other hand, and alternates between the chunks. Blood dribbling down her chin, she feasts with a primal fierceness I’ve only seen once before.
In the meadow, just after Líri slew that bhar.
Perhaps she’s tailored a taste for raw meat?
