But I don’t think of the war as I hack through Pah’s tendons to the weakening lament of his burbling screams. I think only of those I’ve lost, remembering Mah’s beautiful smile and warm hugs. Elluin’s fierce love and wild spirit.
Both taken from this world too soon.
The spurt of blood weakens, slowing as I grind through his spine, putting a little more pressure, moreintentioninto each jagged drag.
Until the heft of his body overpowers what little flesh I still have left to saw.
The rest tears free.
Pah’s body drops to the ground with a heavythump, my fingers still tangled through his hair as the frayed flesh drips, drips, drips all over his already bloodied chest.
I toss the saw and exhale, squeezing my eyes shut.
Some of the heat seeps from my veins, the itch at the end of my fingers dissolving, little by little, sharpening my mind with a clarity I haven’t felt since Borg told me Pah orchestrated the downfall of Elluin’s entire family. Since I discovered the male who spawned me conspired to use her as a pawn to dominate the world.
I try to revel in the cool, flooding relief of served vengeance, stomped by disappointment when I realize it’s done nothing to fill the gaping hole in my chest. In fact, that hole feels bigger now that I have nothing else to pin my focus on.
Rygun makes a scratchy sound, some of his flame easing from my bulging veins as I swallow, looking down. Crack the melted crown from Pah’s head, finding it heavier than I expected it to be. Weighty in my hand.
A crown I never wanted. Not once. All I wanted was Elluin.
Her touch.
Her love.
Her beautiful, dimpled smiles.
Pah’s unconditional love.
I pinch my lips against the tremble clawing across my chin, threatening to untether me further.
Instead, I’ll make the world a better place. Because that’s what Elluin deserved. That’s what her daughter deserves.
Better.
Imove two steps toward Rygun. Pause.
Slowly, I look over my shoulder at the headless body of the male who sired me, opening myself to Bulder.
I whisper a mortared tune, dipping to a hollowed note that smooths, rounding.
The ground trembles before a fist of clay emerges like a sprouting bloom, thick fingers unfurling to reveal a small stone mug resting in the dipped palm. Bulder squeezes the water free, leaving a puddle at the base that’s quickly wicked by the sun—the mug lightening to a brighter shade of orange, hardening.
I drop Pah’s head and the crown I can’t bring myself to don, then take the mug, admiring it from all angles. Perfect, I guess. By sculpting standards.
Personally, I think it lacks character. Lacks the same love as the one I made him as a youngling without the use of Bulder’s words.
I set the mug in Pah’s lap, place his burnt and bloody hands around it. “Try smashing that,” I mutter, grab his head and crown, then make for Rygun without looking back.
Only once I’m sat between my dragon’s wings do I urge him tofeast.
“Oh my Creators—Fuck me,” Pyrok grits out from where he’s sprawled across the seater. Chin to his heaving chest, he watches Roan dig for the pin wedged deep in his pectoral. “I thought you’d be—goodat this. Kaan didn’t—make a single sound when you—got his one out.”
“I’m literally not doing anything different,” Roan says on a sigh. “You, however, are movingmuchmore than he was.”
From the opposite side of the hook-shaped seater, I glance at the trapdoor in the ceiling overhead; snapped shut after Kaan charged up the coiled staircase the moment Roan finished de-pinning his arm.
Not a word was uttered in my direction as we made our way back. Not even when we entered the safety of the tree. But I canfeelthem there, wedged between us. As tangible as the explosive rage welling behind my ribs, building a little more each time I think of the fucking note still in my pocket.
