I hit the ground so hard my breath stops. My ears ring and my head goes light. I drag in a breath, feeling another hurt in my chest—like something broke inside me, now digging into important things.
I look up at the light above, round and pale like a Moonplume moon—
Pahpi leans over the edge. His neck muscles strain as he says a phrase I’ve never been able to get right, no matter how many times he’s tossed me in this hole.
Bulder shudders around me, then chomps shut—caging me in a darkness so hot and thick it clogs my throat. But I manage to speak, stuttering a command that only makes Bulder break into bits that slam into my head and almost crush me. I try again, so much dirt and broken stone packing around me that I can barely move.
The scared feeling in my chest takes over.
I scream, cry, claw at the jagged darkness. Beg Bulder to listen to my broken words. Not that any of it helps. Not that it ever does.
Because my words don’t work properly.
Because I’m not a tri-bead like Pahpi.
Because I’m weak, soft-hearted, useless—
Borg stops drinking, loosening his hold on me. Like hooking a fish through the guts, then releasing it into the Loff despite the fact that its innards are hanging out.
I gasp, eyes wide open as the memory slithers down and coils back amongst my insides, frantically checking my surroundings. Reassuring myself that I’m not trapped beneath the ground, trying to stutter free. That I’m in my suite where I’m safe and alone, excluding my gluttonous waif.
Borg gusts back with a groan. “Poor sweet boy,” he drudges out, seeping down into a misty cushion of satiated glee. “That wasdeeeeeeelicious.”
With trembling hands, I pour myself another half glass I toss back, then slam it on the table. “Glad it sufficed,” I grit out, leaning forward to knead my eyes. “Roan?”
“My brothers who dwell in Bothaim’s dungeon have spoken with him.”
My spine snaps straight. “What do you mean the fuckingdungeon?”
“Don’t murder the messenger,” he drones, far slower than I wish he’d speak. “Roan regrets to inform you that he—and this is a direct quote—‘messed up and will go on trial before the Tri-Council for allegedly stealing the Book of Voyd.’”
My heart plummets so fast it makes my head spin.“When?”
“Three daes,” Borg drawls, yawning as he shrinks to a small thread of fog, feeding himself into his vial without another word. Leaving me alone with the silence.
I stare, mind spinning, unable to waft away the reek of impending war.
“Dammit,” I mutter, then cork the vial and stand, pocketing Borg. Istalk to my door and yank it open, coming face-to-face with Pyrok at the threshold—red hair askew, hand raised in a fist like he was just about to knock. Looking like he rolled off his pallet, then stumbled straight here.
I meet his gaze, preparing to break the news that his younger brother is awaiting trial in Bothaim, when I notice his pale complexion. That, and the uncharacteristic panic in his wide green eyes.
My gut drops.
“What is it?”
A furry miskunn hand comes up to rest on his shoulder, gripping gently.
I frown. “Lumo?”
She peeps into view, her pale-pink eyes so big within her small face. “I’s here.” She clambers higher, pulling up until she’s crouched on Pyrok’s shoulder, her colorful smock gathered around her small trembling body as she reaches out her hands.
Frowning, I take her in my arms, quick to tuck her against my chest.
She bundles her long limbs and nuzzles in.
I stroke the pale fur on her face, glancing back at Pyrok. “Has she seen something?”
“Yuuup.” He reaches back and scratches his head. “There’s, ahh— There’s a moonfall coming.”
