Flamed.
Eaten.
He won’t.
She may smell like him, but he also smells very much likeher.
The Other reaches the end of the trail and slides off Raeve’s iron ring, pocketing it. Huffs when she considers just how easy this would be if shestill had her wings. Though havingalsogone hunting for Bulder’s words amongst her Precious One’s lost or discarded memories, The Other is well equipped, casting commands with the perfect dialect Elluin worked hard to hone so very long ago.
The God of Ground listens, shifting stumps of stone from beneath the muddy depths, pushing them above the bubbling surface like an offering. Shaping a path that leads all the way out to the middle of the bog, where the nest sits unattended.
To where The Other can see that little shard of silver shining like the light of one of her ancestors. A quiet call her heart yearns to be close to.
She moves from stone to stone, disappearing into the fog with Kaan some distance behind—a fierce, protective fire in his eyes that burns like a blaze of Sabersythe flame. Above them, Moltenmaws swoop and scream, the sky alive with a thunderous roar of fluttering intrigue.
The Other finally reaches the island in the middle, the one that sits directly below the pink dam’s perished mate—forever slumbering, his solidified wing covering what she senses is a weapon pierced through his chest.
A sadness washes over her at the thought. At the parallels Kaan Vaegor does not yet understand.
The Other slips the iron ring back on and moves onto the moss-covered mound, loose twigs crunching beneath the soles of her uncomfortable footwear as she climbs toward the bouldered nest. Toward that silver shard radiating its cold light.
Stepping into the nest’s rounded shelter, The Other pulls on the scent of dust and embers, moving into the bowl packed with pink and orange feathers. Plucked plumage belonging to both the dam and her lost mate.
Respectful of the shrine, she moves with tender motions, each step precisely placed.
Ignoring the screaming commotion beyond, she crouches by the shard, picks away the cushion of feathers the dam has packed around it, then runs her fingers over its sharp edges …
A piece of wing. The one she used to shelter Allume and her Precious Little One.
Her gaze is lured to the plump pink egg beside it, softly colored. Like the base of the mourning dam’s beak. She reaches out, brushing the tips of her fingers across the egg’s feathered surface, warm despite the coldness within.
Empty of life.
The Other tunes into the scents of the nest, overpowered by the strong notes of the dam’s deep grief. Realizes this egg was not unfertilized as others may believe but heartbreakingly left too long without warmth. Perhaps when the dam first lost her mate.
Sadness fills The Other’s chest like a stone too heavy to lift.
She, too, knows how it feels to sit on an egg void of life, forever bidding it to hatch. Formanycycles … until the silver ribbon splashed her heartand changed the color of her hide, planting a song within her chest—impossibly vast and infinite.
A song weighty with life.
Withexistence.
A luminous fiber she once shared with her own egg in the hopes that it would sing the same tune to her Little One forever slumbering within. Again, she feels the desire to share it. A gift she knows is temporary, as they always are.
As everything is.
Settling her hands on the egg, she leans forward and presses her lips against the warm shell, expelling a frosty breath—lids sweeping shut as she unspools a tendril of that luminous thread from deep within. And passes it over.
Gifts it.
When she opens her eyes again, the egg is no longer pink, but silver.The exact shade as her little Allume.
A sad smile pulls at The Other’s lips, and she picks up the shard, cold in her hands.
A gift for a gift.
She turns with the treasure hugged close to her chest. Follows the same cautious path out of the feather-filled bowl, stepping free just as the dam returns, hovering over the nest now swallowed by a churn of mist.
