Nobody’s getting past the Chieftess, and if they do, I’m confident they’ll regret it.
Ikeep two steps behind Kaan as we make our way down the steep stairway that connects the different burrows, hunting every rise and fall of his broad shoulders, every hand clench and boot scuff like some leering beast.
I realize his motivation for wanting to stay in the handler’s hut might’ve had less to do with causing a stir and more to do with its close proximity to the burrow Rygun’s hutched in. Something that does nothing to soothe the restless energy that’s resurged with a vengeance, like a blow of dragonflame churning in my chest. Nor do the bloody holes in the back of his white Runi robe. Holes I count—over and over.
Five.
Fiveiron pins that were meant for me. That hetook.
We’re halfway down when Kaan begins running his hand along the jagged wall, like he’s seeking its stability. Certain he’s one wobble away from plummeting down the cliff, I edge closer, reaching for a strap on his saddlebag—
He tightens his grip so much the leather creaks, then heaves it up and flops it over his shoulder. “I’d have to bedeadto allow that,” he rumbles without so much as looking back. “Even then, you’d have difficulty prying it from my cold, stiff grip.”
I bristle, sucking air between my teeth.
Stubborn male.
We collect Roan and Pyrok from the lower burrow Maell hutched in, then pass into the village, the stairs growing less steep and twice as wide, framed by gnarled trees dusted in snow and blotted with orbs of light. And just off the paths, vibrant homes that look like miniature stone castles, their colorful windows lit, chimneys chugging spiced smoke that flavors the air like an apothecary.
The pathway opens as Siharna stalls, folds forward, and plants her hand against the lofty wall on our left, pulling slow breaths—in through her nose, out through her mouth.
Kaan radiates an instant surge of heat, straightening. He nudges Pyrok to the side and pushes through, just reaching for Siharna’s shoulder—
“It’sfine,” she grits out, raising a hand. “If you can carry your saddlebags while looking like you’re dead on your feet, I can damn well carry myself.”
It’s almost enough for me to drop a knee.
She clears her throat and charges on, walking with a sway so deep the motion swings her braid. “Due in seven cycles and he’s already making himself known. Creators know he’s going to test me, too.”
Pyrok chuckles, looking sidelong at Kaan. “In case you missed it, that was directed at you.”
Kaan grunts, nipping a glance back at me through firestorm eyes before he continues forward.
We follow the path’s bend until we come to a stone archway carved to look like nuzzling Moltenmaws draped over a crisscross of metal bars. The guards on either side bang thick wooden staves on the ground. Fists to their chests, they bellow,“Hagh, aten dah!”
The bars grind up, opening in slow, juddering increments, like a widening jaw. Something that reminds me of …otherthings.
I crack my neck, unable to mollify that broken part of me that’s half convinced I’m about to step out into a brimstone battle pit. Beat my conscience into a bloody pulp of burnt flesh and sunken skulls.
Siharna passes through and Kaan moves to follow. Wanting to see for myowneyes that this isn’t some sort of trap, I edge past.
Ignoring Kaan’s arched-brow perusal, I move into a snow-covered courtyard overlooked by numerous buildings crouched close, like a colorful puzzle, each wing boasting a unique character of its own.
The bars of the gate clamp shut with a weightythud, caging us in.
I whip my head around, hand twitching to the hilt of a blade. Only realize I’m snarling when Kaan steps close enough to prickle my skin.
“We’resafe, Moonbeam.” His hot, gravelly words caress my ear. “I meant it when I said there’s no need for weapons. This is a peaceful place.”
Certain that once I open my mouth a flame of excess words will blast up my throat, I don’t answer. But in respect, I do lift my hand from my dagger-laden sheath, watching Siharna sway toward a yellow-toned building, its windows alight with a warm glow.
“This way,” she calls without looking back.
Kaan moves past, brushing against me—fire to my ice. A touch I feel all the way to my marrow, teeth gritted as I scan those bloody holes in his robe again.
“You can stay in the green wing,” Siharna says, gesturing behind us to a small mossy building on the far northern end—delicately shaped and half covered in a tawny vine, its big windows a shatter of powdery hues. “My sister, Creators cradle her soul, wouldn’t have it any other way.”
… Is she talking about Kaan’s mah?
