I wonder if he’s seeing Pah, too aware that of us all, I’m the one whobears the most resemblance. Perhaps he even thinks I’m about to pull on our Daga-Mórrk bond and cast him in Rygun’s dragonflame.
But I’m not Pah.
Even if Rygun had any flame to spare, I wouldn’t. Nor will I gnash words at the Creators until Ignos finally listens, offering him this male’s flesh like he so eagerly offered Raeve’s. But I will avenge my family and put an end to Arkyn’s misery; the only cure befitting one so irreparably riddled with bloodlust.
My hand tightens around his jaw.
Arkyn’s eyes widen as he blasts another series of sounds against his clenched teeth. Silenced, in the way he silenced me while I watched him burn Raeve to the bone.
“You hurt my love,” I grind out, then release his arm, crunch my hand into a fist, and swing at his face, feeling his cheekbone crater.
He makes a pitched sound that trembles, his hand slashing about, trying to snatch and shove at me. But I’m a mountain of iron will.
Immovable.
“You hurt my daughter.” The words rumble with the ferocity of a growling dragon, and my fist collides with his jaw this time. Strikes so hard his entire face changes shape, blood and teeth spraying as his head tosses.
Another slash and strike of his hand, weaker now.
“You imprisoned my sister.”
Punch.
“Maimed Rygun.”
Punch.
He chokes through a series of gurgling noises while he claws at me with nails too blunt to rip at my skin, legs thrashing, body contorting. Eyes wide and shot, blistering with panic as he no doubt realizes his moments are precious few.
His heartbeats limited.
I’m struck with a pang of pity that reminds me I’m not dead inside. Let it fester. Let it leech any remaining warmth from my heart before I lift my blood-soaked fist again. “You are no blood of mine,” I snarl, then punch my knuckles so deep inside his face that his brains mulch free, blood splatting my cheek and chest as I’m struck with the reek of his piss and shit.
Without pause, I crack his neck, then fist his hair and lift. Rip out the dagger he struck me with, using it to slice through his neck in short, slashing drags.
It loosens much slower than Pah’s did, without the help of a serrated edge, the snow stained with a pool of red by the time his upper body finally flops back, still leaking like a faulty spigot.
I drop his head.
The act doesn’t need a moment to sink in. Its claws are already entrenched, wrenching my guts up my throat.
Moons are still striking the ground as I twist to the side and vomit.
My lungs labor as I chase the near-constant blow of smoggy, blustering wind through a warren of juddering tunnels, up, up to an exit in the mountainside.
I skid to a stop, eyes wide. Stare through the strange, rippling waves in the air to the busting world beyond.
Moons pitch through the flushed sky, leaving burned streaks that look like open wounds. Every time one strikes the ground, a mushroom of fire and stone erupts to Bulder’s aching laments. Such pained sounds that I picture his bones being dismantled, smashed, and melted.
I look up. Map the sky still riddled with moons.
How many more blows can the world take before it’s uninhabitable? Before—
A chill swishes through me as my Other perches high. Something urges my gaze south, to where Hae’s Perch is wobbling in place, as though invisible hands are trying to jiggle it free—thieving a most precious silver egg from its nest in the black.
“No …”
Please, no. Please stay right where you are—
