I curse beneath my breath.
Rygun growls past his ravaged prize, eyes on me as I draw closer, his breaths ragged, heart quickening every time the Mists sweep close.
“Dath doon ah, Rygun …”
We’re okay.
A lie, of course. Neither of us are okay.
The only reason I’m standing is because he saw me on the ground from a distance—saw Raeve get pinned, then charge into battle—and pumped me with so much flame and energy I almost combusted. Still might if I can’t get him tocalm down.
Keeping my posture strong and steady, I edge forward another few steps, hoping to ease some of the panic blazing in his chest.“Dath doon ah, vueh to nahh de. Hast ata.”
We’re okay, but we need to go. Fast.
Through our bond, I show him an image of Raeve climbing atop his saddle blanket.
He rumbles low, drops the soldier, and dips his head, smoke billowing from his flared nostrils. Quiet acceptance of my request.
I move forward until my hand meets his blood-soaked nose, the Moltenmaw still squirming beneath his claw. “Raeve, climb his ropes.” I hold Rygun’s eye contact while rubbing the space between his nostrils, buffeted by hot breaths. “Quick. We need to get him into the sky.”
Raeve scans the misty courtyard as she moves past his left flank, grips the ropes, pauses.
Snarls.
Rygun does the same, the sound of scuffing boots coming to me from the south, west, and eastern alleyways.
My stomach drops.
They’ve located us despite the heavy cover of mist. Sneaking up, probably arming the famous ballistae crowning the city.
The moment Rygun beats his wings, the mist will gust away, exposing him. It doesn’t matter how big or strong he is, his wings will be vulnerable. As will his tender underbelly.
Which leaves me one choice. A decision that feels like swallowing a seed that’ll grow into something ugly. I just hope the stores surrounding the courtyard are empty. That any innocents cleared out the moment Rygun brought down the Moltenmaw.
I meet Raeve at the ropes, seeing a blade pinched in her hand. “Keep climbing,” I murmur.
Though she frowns, for once, she doesn’t argue—offering a clipped nod before she tucks away her blade and continues climbing. She settles atop the saddle blanket, binds the strap around her wrist, and grips tight.
I swing my leg around the back of her and settle into place, thread my hands past her waist, and take hold of the reins.
The grinding crank of a lever judders the silence. The only warning we get before a large iron spear shoots through the sky, skimming past Rygun’s left wing.
A growl shreds my throat.
Raeve turns, looking at me, those big eyes exploding with icy wrath. “Let me dow—”
“Varough duht ah, Rygun …”
Burn it all.
My dragon inflates his chest, kindling the embers within.
Raeve pales, then turns, tucking deep in her cloak with swift and panicked motions she probably thinks I don’t notice. Little does she know I’m currently brimming with Rygun’s flame, his strength, hissenses. All I can hear is the panicking pump of her heart. All I cansmellis the sharp taint of her fear.
Her entire body tenses as Rygun stretches his neck, opens his maw, and blasts a torrent of flames—sweeping his head from left to right. The Mists rear back, cowering from the eviscerating might swallowing soldiers, softening the storefronts until they’re bright red, dripping into growing puddles of magma. No longer able to support the dragon-killing ballistae in the immediate vicinity.
If anyone screams, I don’t hear it, deafened by the internal flames billowing through me, pumping my muscles so full it feels as though my skin’s about to shred … until nothing is as it was.
