I pick up the bridle, letting her have a sniff. She probes it with her snout, making a low rumbly sound as I show off all the straps and loops.
“Not a saddle.” I loosen one of the buckles. “It’s so I don’t have to pull your tendrils anymore, but it’s easy for you to tear off on your own.”
Should something ever happen to me.
A dragon without a saddle is hard to mount, let alone maintain a grip of. I have no doubt that Líri’s saddle was a contributing factor to her accepting Rekk in the first place. The fuck.
Never again.
Humming my calming song, I move closer to her chest. She flops her wings against the ground so I can thread the white leather straps around her neck and behind her wither, securing them.
I’m just reaching for the handles when a slit of pain carves down my spine so achingly
fucking
slow.
By the time it tapers at my tailbone, I’m dry heaving to the side, trembling all the way to my toes.
My hands ball into fists—
The mountain shudders in blasted increments, like Bulder’s trying to blunt the tips with heavy pounds of a Rygun-sized hammer.
I look to the burrow’s exit in time to see the mighty Sabersythe leap free of the ledge overhead, releasing a busty roar. Pyrok’s Moltenmaw follows like a streak of sunshine, Roan straddling the saddle behind his much bigger brother.
Time to go.
Líri helps me onto her back with gentle nudges until I’m fully seated between her wings. I pull steadying breaths as I twist the reins around my wrists. Precautions. If Sereme tortures me while we’re airborne, I don’t want to fall off and cause a scene.
Scenes lead to questions. None of us have time for those.
I brace myself and nudge Líri forward.
She gallops out into a shaft of powdery light, not even taking a moment to pause and scan our crisp, icy surroundings before leaping off the ledge. She flicks out her wings, slicing into the open. A small moment that feels suspended in time as I lean over to see the vibrant, sun-kissed village glistening like a treasure trove tucked between the mountains.
I look to the three large moons above, reminded of Korie’s slumbersuite. Of the Moltenmaws and moons hanging from the ceiling above her pallet. A dangling threat that could very well obliterate this beautiful place.
The thought makes something in my chest pang with such might it fills me with a surge of nausea.
I look away as Líri cuts into the airspace near Rygun’s left flank, sheltered from the boisterous gusts of his wings. Though I feel Kaan’s stare on my face, I refuse to meet it, certain he’ll see right through me. Or perhaps crack through my resolve to shoulder this on my own.
No.
The sky is falling in less than a dozen cycles. We’re running out of time to protect everything we know and love. It’s important that Kaan remains focused on finding this young fae, apparently able to etch most of our problems into oblivion. Rune this village andprotect it.That’sthe priority.
Not my trivial torture sessions.
Irun my thumb over the pinched edges of Kaan’s lark, watching the world beyond through a runed window in the stone. Just big enough to see the smog has far from cleared—still bearing down on the scorched terrain.
Thick.
Oppressive.
I’ve heard of phases such as this, when Gondragh grumbles for daes, heaving like a battlefield before Ignos and Bulder finally settle again. But a fertilized clutch of eggs will only sit for so long before they hatch … given they’re properly incubated. And if the Great Silver Sabersythe has indeed turned rabid as Kilíth’s recounting suggests—leaving her nest for long periods—those eggs will be at risk of not hatching at all.
That, and the world’s apparently fucked. About to be rained upon by a catastrophic amount of moons.
My fist crunches around Kaan’s lark before I stuff it in my pocket and pull the skein from my belt. I pop the cork and toss back a drink, the icy water painting a much-needed trail of relief down my dry throat.
