There’s something about seeing this strong, independent male so broken down, being quietly held together by his dragon, that makes me feel like I’m bleeding inside. Makes me want to leap off Rygun, charge back to Bothaim, and mulch some lungs. I’m struggling to convince myself it’s not worth the risk.
“Of course,” I murmur, turning forward, the lie hot on my tongue.
Kaan’s grip tightens, then loosens entirely, his hand moving back to the reins as more words sear the back of my throat, like fiery beasts caged behind my teeth.
But now’s not the right time to spit them free.
What Kaan needs is to focus on himself. On keeping together until we’re somewhere safe to patch him up.
With that in mind, I wrangle my lashing emotions around a rock I stuff beneath the surface of my icy lake, knowing they’ll eventually slither free. For the time being, I settle into a calmer state of mind, letting Kaan’s immense body heat flood me with ease rather than concern.
He’s here.
He’s okay.
We made it out alive.
We soar over peaks that seem to go on and on, the aurora wriggling farther across the sky. Almost inching toward middae when the too-close screech of a Moltenmaw makes my heart hitch. Even harder when I notice the clouds churning to our left, like there’s somethingmovingbeneath them.
“There’s—”
A Moltenmaw gusts up in-line with us, gilded like the clouds it skims just above, sunlight kissing the shimmery tips of its sleek plumage. The rider perched between its massive wingspan is garbed in shapely leathers with buffed panels that match her dragon’s tones—her stance strong and poised.
She leans back and looks up at us, holding a startling resemblance to Veya; bearing the same rich skin tone, the same beautiful features and determined cut of her jaw.
The same brown beads woven through her hair.
Almost identical, were it not for her moss-green eyes, bulging belly, and the long umber braid that trails her like a rope.
She signals for us to follow, coaxing her dragon back down through the clouds.
Kaan’s body presses into me, forcing me forward. The only warning I get before Rygun tucks his wings and plummets into the blustery churn like some questionable trust exercise.
We dive with such velocity my skin stretches across my features, flakes of snow stinging my cheeks. The moment we explode free of the cloud, Rygun flicks out his wings. My guts compact as we soar across a wide chasm pinched between two mountain spines, trailing the large Moltenmaw with Maell screeching in our wake.
I’m still battling the urge to tilt left and empty the meager contents of my stomach down the side of Rygun’s saddle blanket—messy up Kaan’s bags—when I notice a waggle of air draped over the chasm below. Something that reminds me of the domes that capped the platforms during the Great Flurrt in Dhomm.
We descend a little farther, and a pressure slips over my skin as we pass through, like we just pierced a bubble.
The vision of the chasmchanges. Goes from rocky slopes void of color or life to a vibrant village that’s sprouted from the parallel mountainsides, cut through by an azure river with frosted banks, yoked by an ornate bridge.
Snow dusts the trees that soften the architecture, orbs of white light dangling from gnarly branches, but it’s the buildings that charm me. Hundreds of peaked homes reminiscent of the one Kaan took me to in the mountains north of here … but these arecolorful—each stained a different hue, their windows like shattered rainbows.
Energetic Moltenmaws scribble above the village, each smaller than Maell and saddled with simple blankets, tossing themselves around. Playing.
Adolescents …
But why so many?
Beams of golden light break through the clouds, making the frosted village sparkle like a treasure trove. Highlighting the flattened parts of buildings that look very much like landing patches—most only large enough to support a small dragon.
This place … It’s fordragon rearing.
I’m still marveling at the sight as we soar past the river to the western side, to where burrows are dug into the upper mountain, making it look like a honeycomb.
With Pyrok and Roan still perched between her wings, Maell tucks and plunges toward a lower section of the hutch; typical of submissive or younger beasts, leaving the crowning burrows to the dominant, more protective dragons. Leaving me entirely unsurprised when Rygun trails the other Moltenmaw toward the highest landing—the largest—two separate burrows dug into the cliff beyond. Between them, a trio of orange towers jut from the stone, clustered together. A hutchkeeper’s hut, I realize; perhaps three stories high yet dominated by the two burrows gaping at their sides.
Despite the Moltenmaw’s heft, it lands with all the grace and poise of a softly falling feather. Rygun does the opposite—drops like a rock, his head whipping around the moment all four claws are on the ground, eyes on Kaan, nostrils flared, teeth bared in a manner that suggests they’re having a tense internal dispute.
