I ignore the uncomfortable shaft of jealousy, wishing it were myownegg sitting in there. Focusing instead on the fact that my nest is saving a life that would’ve otherwise been forfeit.
I gather more runny magma that he pours over the precious treasure; a process we repeat until the pile is bulging, the egg smothered. And we wait—standing either side of the nest, arms crossed as we watch for any changes.
Moments pass, the air growing heavy with tension and a silence I should fill but don’t. Ever since Inkah passed, I lost the desire to fill space with anything but my bare minimum.
Grief is greedy. Sometimes a wound is too deep to patch up. But if words did come easy, I doubt voicing my concerns would be very helpful.
Was the egg away from the heat too long?
Was the magma hot enough?
The nest too shallow? Too deep?
I see in the stranger’s eyes, narrowed on the steaming mound, that he’s thinking the same. So perhaps silence is best. After all, we’ll know the answers soon enough—once a dark crust forms atop the cooling heap. If a hatchling doesn’t claw free, that’s that. And so many mourn themselves into an early grave after a failed hatch, making it a double death sentence.
“Name’s Kilíth,” he murmurs, dropping onto the large stone I use to sharpen my blades. His gaze briefly meets mine. “Just in case.”
In case he needs someone to carve it on the wall upstairs in the common space.
A heaviness settles between us, like death just sat beside him, waiting. Watching the nest, too.
I nod, sitting on the ridge I’ve been using as a pallet, elbows on my spread knees. The silver blade in my pocket is being shaped with similar thoughts in mind.
I came here to get an egg. I leave with a hatchling or not at all.
Kilíth unbinds the rest of his face covering. Reveals a gnarly burn up the side of his neck and across his right shoulder, his runed leathers melted into his skin.
It’s hard not to look, knowing how that feels.
Burns are common in Gondragh, unlike skilled Fleshthreads who so rarely venture past the Loff into this hostile part of the world. With nobody around to patch folk up before their wounds set, he’ll probably live with that for the rest of his life.
He unlatches a skein from his belt and offers it to me. I accept, swallow an icy mouthful, and pass it back.
“Guessing you’re waiting for the smog to clear?” he asks, eyes on the mound as he tips water on his wound, making my insides knot.
I nod, looking away.
He corks the valve, knee bouncing. Either to disperse his nerves or distract himself from the pain. “You’re not planning on scaling the Vihn Peaks by any chance?”
Another nod.
He grunts, raising both brows. “So you’re aware, you’ll likely end up dead. There’s a rabid dragon set on making a mess of anything she can get her claws on. She did this,” he says, pointing his thumb at the burn. “Tore apart the hut I was at and blew fire through the tunnels. I barely escaped.”
He’s either telling me this to deter me or as a warning to get my affairs in order. Send larks. There’s only one message that comes to mind, but things have always gone unsaid between us. Probably best to leave it that way.
I pull the silver scale from my pocket—purchased off a merchant in exchange for most of my gathered riches—rustling through my pack for clamps and a file.
“You’re afterhereggs?”
I look up.
He jerks his chin at the scale. “The Great Silver Sabersythe. You’re not mad enough to attempt to raidherburrow?”
I let my silence answer.
“Creators be damned. Well, good fuckin’ luck.” He chuffs and points at his burn. “I’ve gotherto thank for this.”
I frown, looking at the scale, then past it to the mound that’s no longer steaming. Beginning to darken off.
