All the breath escapes my lungs.
“A bads one,” Lumo murmurs from where her face is hidden amongst the folds of my shirt, her voice barely audible over my thundering pulse. “Lumo scared.”
My heart squeezes, arms tightening with protective urge.
Not for the first time, I wish her visions had started when she was a bit older, not fresh from the cold pouch of her slain mah. Seeing such things is hard on anyone, let alone such a young pup.
“Do you know where it’ll land, Lumo?”
“Notonemoon.” She snuggles deeper into my chest, like she’s seeking comfort. “Manymoonses.”
Creators …
I spare a glance at Pyrok still scratching the back of his head, his complexion almost green, making it look as though he’s about to fold forward and vomit—a quiet conversation passing between us.
“How many, Lumo?” I cup her cheek and rub behind her ear, hoping to bring her comfort. “Did you see how many will fall?”
She peeps up.
Eyes brimming with tears, she curls her tufted tail around her head, trapping my hand against her cheek. “Too many.”
Curled atop my straw-stuffed pallet, I stare out across the filthy ground of my small, compressing cell, through bars barely visible in the dull lantern light. Watch a puddle of gathered mildew get attacked by the slow drip … drip … drip loosening off a stalactite, churning over my interaction with the Scavenger King.
What have I done?
I should’ve told him to eat shit and die, rather than race to hide a call to arms amongst the whorls of my signature. If the lark is going where I think it’s going, I’ve implicated someone I love. And for what?
Me?
I wallow in my mistake, suffocated by the immense weight of the mountain above, realizing what I am.
Bait.
Plump prey that found refuge in a trap. There can be no other answer.
Perhaps the lark won’t make it to Kaan? Perhaps it’s going to Pah instead and my uncle won’t be dragged into this?
The thought brings little relief. Certainly not enough to lift me off the ground and reinvigorate my hunger to escape this horrible place.
I tap my foot against the cold stone, jingling my chain, trying to stimulate my mind. Dredge up a single drop of hope or energy todo something. To work this problem over and find a way out.
Tofight.
But the silence has never been so loud.
The walls so close.
My shackle so tight.
Maybe Pah’s miskunn has worked out where I am. Maybe an army is coming for me, ready to break me free and drag me back to Arithia.
A bigger, prettier cell to suffocate within.
I groan, then glare at the rusty pan of slop by the bars; the last meal I was dished up. Offal and stale bread garnished with gorging grubs.
Perhaps I’ll get sick and die before anyone gets here at all?
I squeeze my eyes shut, spiraling with the scenario. Picture myself dead in this cell, the diadem cracking free like a tick thirsty for another host strong enough to contain the Aether Stone.
