Silent, he watches me. Letting me drown in the realization.
My gaze flicks to the bloody tips of his fingers, and I picture them ripping into Kaan. Or wielding a blade pressed against his neck,sawing—
“Kaan’s nothing like our pah,” I blast. “OsternberatedKaan for his soft heart. Snapped it at him like a lash—”
“Coddlingcompared to the way he treated me.” A darkness overtakes Arkyn’s eyes, his voice becoming an ax that carves through the cavern. “Kaan grew safe in Kovina’s womb as my mah was raped and beaten blue until she died—alone on her pallet while I scrubbed the privy our brother wasn’t yet tall enough to shit in—”
“Something Kaan would be bereft to learn!”
“—Then he took Pah’s life, ridding me of my Creators-forsaken right to make him pay.”
“Toavengethe female he loves!”
Arkyn’s head tips to the side, like a bird—the motion so predatory a chill scuttles up my spine. “Loves, you say?”
I snap my mouth shut.
Fuck—Fuck—Fuck—
“Whodoes he love?”
I close my eyes. Squeeze them tight.
A long silence strums by before Arkyn clicks his tongue, then shoves up and whips around, charging back to his throne. He settles back in place, lifts the toothy crown, and sets it on his head, cutting me with a cruel smile before blasting an order that rattles me to the core.
“Worin, get me Guíll. Let her know I have a mind I need her to rifle through.”
Ipop the cork on my skein and draw deep, scanning the oppressive gray trees arched over us like leering beasts. Ancient; tall as Rygun’s wingspan and much thicker than his neck. Their dense canopies are unburdened by the many Moltenmaws screeching through the sky above—thankfully out of sight.
A pleasantry that’ll changeveryquickly if they get any sense of our presence.
I tuck my skein back in my satchel and continue forward. Catch up with our single-file pack moving between gangly shrubs, swatting past branches heavy with foliage that looks like dripping mud.
Something this forest has an unsavory abundance of.
That, and clouds of black insects that move through the space between the lofty canopy and the steaming, squishy ground. Their droning buzz is good for disguising our squelching steps toward Bhoggith …somewherein the distance. Close.
I hope.
Unfortunately, I can’t exactly ask how much farther we have to go.
No talking until we get to the treehut, Kaan warned while we slopped mud on our cloaks in hopes of masking our scents and blending with the underbush, leaving our restless dragons in the northern hills before we embarked on this dae-long journey through the muck.
I swat another branch aside, chest aching as I recall the time I sat eating Essi’s buttermin loaf, flipping through one of her smart-folk books that was open on the table. Someone’s travel journal, boasting intricate sketches of all three nesting grounds and their fiery inhabitants.
It spoke of Bhoggith’s ancient law, suggesting this entire place is just one big, boggy bruise on the world. That it was created by a Moltenmaw moon that fell so hard and heavy it cracked the world’s inner shell, causing magma to seep toward the surface. Softening the ground and taking out bits of the wall. Creating mud.
Mud.
More fucking mud.
It suggested the fissure spread until this forest of surrounding trees took root, stabilizing things. Trees the Moltenmaws now respect and protect.
Apparently, they rarely breach the canopy. And they certainly don’t tear at these trees to build their nests. In fact, it’s said that stepping foot in the Forest of Harthor is a dragon-induced death sentence for anyone not stealthy enough—therefore, the path less trodden. Our best hope of making it to the nesting grounds without coming face-to-face with members of The Fade militia.
Though right now, they’re the least of my worries.
Another etch of pain slits down my spine like skipping stones, almost bringing me to my knees for the third time since we began this horrid, silent trek. I pause to brace against a tree, muscles spasming from the swift assault.
