“He doesn’t step away from a fight, even if it’s futile. And I’m not leaving here without him.”
We sprint through the thickening mist, past disoriented parchment larks turning in tight circles and bumping into walls. I barely feel the pins in my back, as though my flesh is thick and strong as stone.
Strong asdragon scales.
A temporary fix—as is the energy flaming through my veins—but a welcome one.
There’s a roar. A guttural scream. A ground-shudderingthumpbefore … silence. No thunderous pound of Rygun’s wings, which could only mean one thing.
He’s on the ground.
Fear squeezes my heart so hard I’m certain it’s going to burst, the mist growing too thick to see more than three feet ahead. Something Rygun hasn’t flown near since I found him in that sinking sand all those phases ago. Something he purposely avoids even if it means daes of extra travel to reach our destination.
But he flew into it this dae. For me.
For Raeve.
The panicked thrash of his pulse rallies within me as I cut down a wider alley, chasing my internal intuition. “This way.”
“The Tri-Council are going to have a fuckin’ ball with this mess!” Pyrok belts out from the back of our pack. “Might as well bang the dusty war drum and arm the borders.”
He’s not wrong.
I did much to avoid this. Caught a carter in so nobody would know I’m here. Walled Rygun off to prevent him from thinking I needed help at any stage, only for him to charge forth with a chest full of flames the moment I fell unconscious.
He attacked a member of the Citadel’s battalion, something that willabsolutely be seen as an act of war. Given the impending moonfalls, retribution may not be swift, but it will come.
I’d stake my life on it.
“All that matters right now is that we all get across the border, Rygun included,” I growl, hunting my intuition down another thin alleyway.
I can’t lose him. I don’t know how to exist without him.
I won’t.
A streak of yellow tears through the sky above. All four of us jerk toward an arch of stone to shelter beneath, when the Moltenmaw releases a familiar high-pitched shriek. Feminine.
Panicked.
“Fuuuuuck,” Pyrok says, bursting into a sprint, chasing the small dragon coasting through the mist. We explode into a courtyard the moment Maell drops to the ground, fluffing her gold-threaded plumage at Pyrok rushing forward.
“She didn’t want to stay behind on her own,” he tosses over his shoulder as Maell nuzzles his chest and coils her tail around his waist, seeking comfort. Looking like she’s preparing to climb into Pyrok’s arms despite being a lot fucking bigger than she used to be. Twice the size as Líri, minus all the growl and bite.
Rygun snarls from somewhere within the Mists ahead—a graveled chastisement.
“You’re old enough to know better,” Pyrok says, and though his tone is nurturing, I agree with his words.
Maell is too young and sheltered, her nature too sweet and delicate to have flown into such a hostile situation.
“Will she carry Roan, too?” I ask, eyeing the male leaning against a fallen branch, working hard to catch his breath. “It might be easier if we ride in twos.”
“We’ll be fine. Just worry aboutthat,” Pyrok says as a gust of wind parts the mist, revealing Rygun posturing atop a flattened tree. And beneath his fierce claw gouged into the woody remnants … the red Moltenmaw pinned in place, splayed across the ground.
The Moltenmaw’s chest rises and falls in fast, panicked beats, eyes bulging. Easy mark when there’s only one, but if the entire battalion turns their beaks in this direction and works out where we are, Rygun won’t hold up so well. Especially if he’s discovered on the ground.
I look at the Moltenmaw’s rider now hanging from Rygun’s maw like a scrap of meat—limp and burnt.
Dead.
