Creators, it’s time.
Kilíth pulls a steadying breath. “Fuck,” he mutters, bouncing his knee with renewed ferocity. “It’s not going to—”
Part of the hardening crust bulges, then splits away from the hotter, brighter magma beneath. Cracked bits of golden shell spear up, slowly pushed to the surface.
The first signs of a successful hatch.
The molten blob jolts and stretches, like a womb, splitting as a thorny head pushes free—the size of my fist, bearing a hint of gold scales visible through the magma slurry.
The hatchling draws breath then releases a scratchy lament. A good, strong sound.
I nod to myself and stand, pocketing my scale. Wave my skein at Kilíth, then turn down the tunnel, leaving them to bond without me watching, chased by heavy words of gratitude drowned by my churning thoughts.
There’s nothing more important than those primitive moments. Perhaps I’m greedy for seeking this great honor a second time, but I’ve never been one to battle fate. I have to believe everything happens for a reason, otherwise I’d have found my way back to Inkah’s grave and curled up beside her long ago.
The air is charged with the persistent chant of city folk.
“Let us in! Let us in! Let us in!”
“News flutters fast,” I murmur, scanning the outer wall from one of the third-floor hallways, looking out on the long courtyard that hugs the Citadel’s cluster of peaked buildings like a moat.
Sleet has turned to snow, the sky a dark smudge Bothaim’s elite battalion are tearing through. All Moltenmaws. Such bold strokes of color against the dull sky.
“MOVE BACK!” guards bellow through amplifying sticks, dragons dipping in turns to spew flames. Violent intimidation tactics meant to deter the panicked population converging on the thick wall of Bothaimian ore, desperate to get past the gates.
“Let us in! Let us in! Let us in!”
None of the ground guards move, like white-armored statues—three rows of them atop the wall. So many I can’t possibly count the helmets that all but blend with the snow. Then there are the organized groups down in the courtyard, packed before the Rygun-sized gates. Over three hundred soldiers, if I were to estimate.
Too many for Clode to suffocate in one swoop were we to try to bust a way through. Unfortunately.
“That’s the only way out?”
“It is.” Roan straightens his glasses. “If I’d just kept my mouth shut—”
“This is not your fault,” Kaan growls beneath his breath, jaw set, eyes colder than I’ve seen them before. “The Tri-Council have had this coming for a while, and they know it. It’s the reason they built the wall. You shit on folk long enough, they toss it back.”
A red Moltenmaw turns, soaring in our direction like it’s about to scale the arches, putting the rider directly in our line of sight.
Shit.
We pull away from the twin windows, hiding behind a column, only to see a trio of pale-eyed Wardens moving down the hall.
Towardus.
“Void your mind and keep your head down.” Kaan gestures for us tofollow him straight toward the Wardens, walking with the smooth gait of a resident Runi.
I stuff my emotions, thoughts, and anything else beneath my lake. Focus on the itch at the tips of my fingers, following with smooth, unhurried steps, hand in my pocket, poised to push off my ring at the first sign of danger.
We move past the trio, around the corner, into a shallow doorway carved to look like an arched dragon’s tail. Not even a drop of relief seeps through me as I toil over our meager options.
“We can’t stay here.” Pyrok takes a swig from his flask. “It’s only a matter of time before someone notices we’re voiding, recognizes Kaan or Roan, and then we’re all fucked, caught red-handed with the book in our possession.”
They’d have to strip my shirt to see it strapped against me, something they wouldn’t manage without having their intestines knotted into bows. But sure.
“What if we go into the underground tunnels, then smash free?” I ask, peering left and right down the lofty hallway, fingers poised against a sheathed blade. “Kaan can tell me which words to use, and I’ll try not to crush us all.”
Not the most inviting offer, but it’s important to be honest about my meager shaping skills if three other lives are about to depend on them.
