Furn—Rasha’s yellow-and-orange Moltenmaw—suspended midair, pinned in place by shards of obsidian piercing her from all angles. Like she tried to take flight at the first sniff of danger but was immediately impaled through her chest.
Wings.
Abdomen.
Neck.
My heart unspools, veins, arteries, flesh stripping loose until it feels like there’s nothing left.
I sway, looking at her head—hung at an unnatural angle, eyes wide, red pupils gone dim. Her beak is open, blood dripping from the forked tip of her tongue andsplat, splat, splattingon the ground.
The sight splits, converges again. I wonder if I’m seeing things—if the drain has taken me a nip too far—until someone speaks a series of seething words that raise the hackles on my soul.
“Jisthh et aagh. Et zist fiyah ke!”
The flame from Kaan’s weald erupts, burning my palm.
I drop it, jolting back from the inferno as it surges skyward, gushing against the ceiling like a plume of dragonflame. Igniting the chamber with such fiery ferocity that I’m forced to squint, using my hand as a meager shield to protect my face from the radiant heat.
The hot, hungry light illuminateseverything.
Numerous Thorns line the walls, long swords pointed toward the ground between their feet, their faces guarded by silver headgear—eyes gleaming like gems tossed in the firelight. Single beads dangle from their lobes, glinting like silent threats.
Another command hisses through the cavern, spoken by a broad male more decorated than the others.
I’m flayed by his cutthroat gaze as fire siphons down upon the beautiful, broken Furn. She ignites with such ferocity the chamber becomes a kiln, the air souring with the pungent fume of charred feathers and dragon flesh.
Unable to watch, I look away, seeing Rasha bound and gagged, held inplace between two hefty warriors more than twice her size—her big green eyes so wide with pain and fear that a coarse sound claws up my throat.
“Traitorous whore,” a Thorn seethes, jostling her.
She barely manages a muffled scream before a blade punches through her throat from behind.
“RASHA—”
She chokes, blood staining her gag.
My face twists, lips pulling back, neck muscles tightening as I pour all my rage into a single grinding command.“Gurn ed akin, ah—”
Something strikes my left ankle.
Bulder abides by my command and collapses part of the ceiling, crushing three Thorns. At the same time, I crumble, his song vanishing. Washed away by the iron arrow that barely missed my Achilles. A pain that pales in comparison to the deep ache in my chest at the sight of Rasha being tossed to the ground like a doll. Limp.
Dead.
My surroundings become a burning smear.
The Thorns converge as one. A silver noose tightening on the fate of the precious diary bound against my abdomen. A relic that has the power to change …everything.
I grip the hilt of my dagger, looking between the armored soldiers, wondering which of them will grab me first. Who will end up with my blade in their eye.
I’d rather die than end up face-to-face with Tyroth. Would rather burn beside Furn and Rasha so my soul can pass messages to Kaan via his pet waif.
My breath hitches as I glimpse a tight cleft in the wall that cuts off to the right andcertainlywasn’t there before. That likely leads deeper into the mountain, but—
Better than death.
Quietly thanking Bulder, I lift my leg and plant my good foot, digging through the pocket of my cloak. I scour my approaching persecutors. Take a final look at poor Rasha on the ground at their backs—eyes wide and so heartbreakingly flat. Take a final look at Furn’s skeletal remains, Ignos feeding on what’s left of her feathers and flesh.
