“It’s almost impossible for Bulder to shift Bothaimian ore because it contains such a high percent of iron, and it veins well below the tunnels,” Roan says, moving his spectacles up and down his nose. Probably trying to find the best viewpoint through the web of cracks. “We’d starve down there before we found a way through, so it’s not a viable option.”
“Probably for the best,” I say beneath my breath, mainly to myself.
I’m about to suggest we go back out through the anthe den when Roan looks sidelong at Kaan, a single brow quirked. “Remember when I almost blew up my research chamber?”
“Which time?”
I frown. “It happened more than once?”
“It’s a common occurrence,” Kaan mutters from the side of his mouth.
“I mean the time I accidentally etched—then accidentallyactivated—a new, previously unknown rune that melted my bench,” Roan continues, using his robe to clean his spectacles. As if rubbing them will remove the cracks. “Remember, it hardened into a puddle Pyrok slipped on for an entire phase before he got fed up and dragged a rug down the stairs. It was made of—”
“Bothaimian ore,” Pyrok drones, rubbing the back of his head. “That thing almost caused me a fuckin’ brain bleed. I still have a bump.”
Kaan crosses his arms, stern eyes on Roan. “You want to blow up the wall?”
Roan nods slowly, smiling so wide his entire face lights up. Like justthethoughtof making something go BOOM shot him full of life force and alleviated ninety percent of his problems. “Just a bit of it, though,” he corrects, holding his thumb and finger close together. “Small chunk.”
Pyrok groans, tosses back another swig, then shakes his head. “Won’t work”—Burp—“we’ve got no supplies.”
“Aside from Kaan’s weald and a parchment lark, all I need is a drop of fresh dragon blood and some melted snow to make it spread farther.” Roan looks at Kaan again. “Or somethingequivalent.”
Tension thickens, my gaze sliding from Kaan to Roan, back again—both watching each other, having a silent conversation I’m quick to unscramble.
Kaan’s Daga-Mórrk. His blood’s bolstered by his connection with Rygun, making it the next best thing on Roan’s ingredient list.
“Absolutely not.”
All three of them look at me.
Roan’s shoulders slump. “Why not?”
Because something deep beneath my ribs is snarling at the mere suggestion that Kaan host a rune combustive enough to blast a fucking hole in a wall of Bothaimian ore.
“I had a friend who used to etch a lot,” I force past gritted teeth, checking down the hall again to distract myself from the annoying lump of emotion welling at the base of my throat. Something I blame on the drips of Rayne’s language infesting my system, like a terminal sorrow I wish I could ignore. “When she mixed her blood through a tincture, she’d sometimes end up passing out.” I let my gaze slide to Kaan, struggling to maintain his sturdy eye contact while speaking about something so …raw. “If you faint, we’re all screwed. You most of all.”
His eyes soften.
He steps closer, the rest of the world smudging as he dominates my space, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
I frown, straightening.
He passes me a sentence with slow, tender poise. Not that it softens the blow.
“If I don’t do it, we’re as good as dead anyway.”
We gather near a massive white urn, the tree it holds big and weepy enough to shield us from the sight of circling mercenaries—the western side eerily quiet compared to the east, farthest from the gate. Far enough that it’s almost possible to pretend the city isn’t in a panicked uproar—begging to get into the very place we’re trying to escape—were it not for the cacophony of airborne dragons verbalizing their dominance with shrill screeches and gutsy growls.
Kaan reaches out a hand. “Pyrok, I’ll need a flask.”
Pyrok mutters beneath his breath and tugs one from his pocket, drains the remaining contents in three deep gulps, then hands it over.
Kaan pulls a blade from somewhere within his robe and drags it across his palm, slitting flesh. I feel that same wound open on my heart, something inside me growing still.
Silent.
He scoops a wad of snow into his wounded hand and makes a fist, squeezes it over the open nozzle, and drips a steady stream of diluted blood into the flask.
