Dammit.
I fill my lungs, hold my breath, then rip out the bolt, plugging my mouth with my fist so I don’t scream. I toss the fucker, blood oozing from the gory puncture as Bulder’s song hammers me like a drudging lament. As it always does when there’s lava around.
He doesn’t enjoy being melted.
We have that in common.
I tear a strip from the hem of my cloak and bind my foot, about to beg Bulder to build me a bridge of salvation across the landscape of doom when something catches my eye, tucked amongst chips of obsidian. Something black, shiny, but suspiciously round and perfectly shaped.
My heart stills.
It looks like one of Bharon’s scales—Tyroth’s massive, majestic, and very boisterous Sabersythe.
Surely not. Surely he’s hutched in one of the outposts closer to The Fade, where there’s at least a bit of warmth in the air. Nobody in their right mind would hutch a Sabersythehere.
In fuckingArithia.
I look closer at the cavern, at the mounds of obsidian clustered in places, some scuffed into shards. Like something’s been using them to tend its overgrown claws. A behavior I’ve only seen in dragons kept in confined spaces for too long.
Small, silver runes are etched in the many crevices about the walls … around pools of lava … on islands of stone …
“Creators …”
This place is no accident, forged into existence by some volcanic anomaly. It’s a brimstonecage.
Again, I glance toward the distant exit. At the frail ridges woven between the volcanic pools.
I can’t call on Bulder to build me a bridge and risk rousing Bharon, but potentially having my flesh melted off to get free of this place is a risk I’m willing to take.
Sketching out the best, hopefullysturdiestpath, I rip another strip from the hem of my cloak and bind the bottom half of my face so I don’t choke on the fumes. I turn, edging down the craggy cliff when a low rumble echoes from deep within the burrow …
Fuck.
I don’t stop. Don’t even slow.
It’s been a long while since I last saw Bharon, but I recall his broad stature and fierce territorial nature. Can’t forget his heavily spiked tail he used to bludgeon anyone who stepped into his personal space, or the way he went through handlers like roast colk haunches back when he was hutched in Dhomm.
If he emerges from wherever he’s coiled up, I’m dead.
Leaping the final few feet, I land in a crouch that sends a shaft of pain up my leg, unleashing a wild scream that echoes in the cavernous space.
Panic pitches me into a hobbled run, the undersides of my boots threatening to stick to the hot stone as I weave down frail paths that crumble in my wake, dodging spits of lava bursting from brimstone pools. Thick exhaust clouds my vision, but I power forward, Clode a gusty beacon Ihunt.
You can do it.
You can do it.
You can do it.
I scramble up a pile of loose obsidian fragments, drop to my ass, and slide down the other side, slicing my hands and arms on all the sharp edges. Pushing upright, I keep moving, coughing despite the bind, eyes stinging from the steam and sulfur-laden stench.
Just down this hill, a quick dash to the burrow’s mouth, then out. I can hide in the steep forest. Wild waifs are known for nesting amongst clusters of weeping wisps, but the risk of having my soul slurped is better than the alternative.
Death.
Losing custody of the diary.
I leap onto more sturdy ground, sprinting toward the exit when another gust of wind shoves into the burrow and sweeps the smog aside—
