Pyrok’s head whips around. “But he politically fucked you. And The Burn. Probably set a war in motion, too.”
“That was not his objective.”
He came here with the best intentions—to protect my folk from future moonfalls. Now he’s been sentenced to death. Had I given him the attention he deserved that dae, it’s quite possible he would not be burned and beaten, being dragged to his death. The fault is mine.
Pyrok stares at me, unblinking, jaw stiff.
I let some of Rygun’s flame rise within me. Feel its heat prickle the underside of my skin, warm the air. Sense the embers igniting in my eyes.
Pyrok sucks air between his teeth, yanks from my grip, and drains his flask in three deep gulps—hand trembling with barely contained rage. “Fine,” he hisses past clenched teeth, stoppering the cork. “Guess we’re all dying this dae.”
Sleet batters my hood as we journey through Bothaim’s outer city, following a somewhat private path I made myself familiar with in the daes before Rekk arrived.
This city isn’t like anything I’ve visited before. Not linear, but a scribbled labyrinth bored into the tan-colored stone. Like Bulder grabbed a handful of different-sized tree trunks and dragged them through the ground before it set in place.
Some paths are wide, like the Ditch back in Gore, others are more like this one; windowless alleys that cut from one main thoroughfare to another, so tight Utris is forced to shuffle sideways so his shoulders don’t get stuck.
I pause to peer back down the thin cleft, flipping my hood so I can feel the sleet on my skin. “Everything okay?”
“You know,” Utris grits out, edging forward, “he didn’t look that big, but I’ve grown thankful so much of him was left on the floor back at the Velvet Snog.”
I would bow, but I can hardly take the credit.
A lark darts past me so unnaturally fast I trace its path, another closely following.
Another.
Another.
I frown at the distant roar of a Moltenmaw, the cold heaviness within me shifting, perching high. “Stay close,” I mutter, flipping my hood forward again.
Utris grunts as I sidle around a bend close to the alley’s exit, pausing to peer onto a main street beyond—tall walls littered with window holes, rusty chains threaded from side to side, heavy with fruit and vegetable vines.
The streetstreamswith flitting parchment larks and a hurried flood of nulls all moving in the same direction. Toward the Citadel.
Some clutch unfolded parchment larks, others hold their younglings close—on hips or backs or pressed chest to chest. Most carry bags stuffed with belongings. Though it’s a quiet rush with many cutting glances around the rushing crowd as they jostle to keep their loved ones gathered, fear bleeds from wide eyes and slack faces.
“It’s gotten worse,” Utris murmurs from behind me.
“What do you mean?”
“On my way back to the Velvet Snog, I noticed a few folk hurrying around. Lots more larks than usual. Whatever the news is, it’s spreading fast.”
Cold dread digs its claws in.
I snatch a lark from the air, the poor thing wrestling, slitting me with paper cuts right up until the moment I flatten it on my palm. “Sorry, little guy,” I murmur, skimming over the script. “Desperate times …”
Sister, horrible news.
Multiple moonfalls have been foreseen, including some directly above Bothaim. Parts of the city may be left in ruins.
Rhikoth’s brother (who was scribing for a trial this dae) believes there are new runes on the arches that somehowprotectthe Citadel from moonfalls. Should this rumor be true, I’m certain the Tri-Council will open the gates to a number of city folk. We’ll want to be some of the first in line.
Given Grandpah was a blue bead, I’m hoping they’ll let us and the girls through since they’re not yet clipped or beaded. Same for your unborn.
I was told to keep this information quiet, but I can’t bear the thought of losing you all.
Please come.
