I look to the sky. Squint against the snowflakes that immediately begin to gather on my lashes, scanning the dense gray clouds for anything abnormal. Though I struggle to see much beyond the cold, blustery churn of white and gray.
I make for the gate, wait for the stoic guards to crank it open before I slip out, moving down the path that twists between colorful buildings and snow-laden trees.
With the village slumbering, no folk are about. No adolescent Moltenmaws busting through the sky, screeching. Just the distant gush of water and soft patter of snow to attempt to ease the tight spool of tension in my chest.
A peaceful quiet that feels anything but.
Trying to rub away the strange, slightly concerning silver light still tangled around my wrist and fingers, I keep my ears strained. Keep scanning the sky through gaps in the foliage, seeing the odd loose tendril of mist tumbling down the face of the eastern range. Not yet thick enough to house waifs, but certainly bad enough to confuse any parchment larks the Moving Mists happen to swallow.
Terrible timing, given the coming moonfalls, though hopefully it means news of Rygun’s renegade actions will take a while to flutter south.
The path takes me all the way down to the wide azure river that ribbons through the gully, the sleepy waterside buildings appearing to be stores locked for the slumber, signs hanging from their ornate eaves garnished with the wordclosed.
I move out onto a mossy bridge that arches over the water, kisses adiamond-shaped eyot standing strong against the gushing force, then leaps to the eastern side. Stopping to lean against the handrail, I take full advantage of the open view of the cloud-packed sky, snow pattering my upturned face as I watch.
Listen.
Something inside me listens harder.
The distant sound of beating wings stills my heart, the organ thrashing again at the sight of something moving amongst the clouds like a smudge of light. There’s another screech before a small Moonplume punches through with a slash of its luminous wings, its elegant body a pale strike against the gray—snatching my breath.
Líri.
I smile, dashing my hood back as a trio of saddled Moltenmaws chase her free of the clouds, herding her into the gully to the tune of their riders’ orders.
Líri tilts sideways, allowing me a perfect view of her empty saddle, the holes from Rekk’s spurs still gouged through the leather, yet to be patched up.
She appears to scan the village with keen intent, nostrils flaring. Scenting. Her stare strikes me with such force I feel it in my gut, a cool shudder raking me through.
She cranks her maw and screeches, like numerous metal blades being dragged across the face of a glazed plate.
The Moltenmaw riders scream words too muddied for me to make out before Líri tucks and dives so fast it looks like she’s going to plunge into the water. She flicks her wings wide just in time to slice parallel to the river … coming straight for me.
I frown, our gazes colliding through the swirling snow.
Time stills.
All I see are her glitter-kissed eyes, fathomless orbs shaded by fans of pale lashes. All I feel is the strangled thump of my heart and this heaviness in my gut that tells me something’s not right.
Líri’s maw begins to part, revealing her fierce sabers and the glow of a blue flame brewing in her chest … surging up her throat …
Creators, she’s going to fry me.
Time whirs back into motion—too fucking fast.
I barely dive onto the island in time to tumble behind a rock and shield myself from the eviscerating carnage that explodes from her maw, clapping my hands against my ears when she screeches with such shrill ferocity that even the air seems to shudder.
A deep rumble shakes the ground, morphing into a warning roar that could only belong toonedragon.
I pull my arm back, looking up past billows of stone dust and snow in time to see Rygun launch free of his mountain ledge far above. He extends, catching the air, his wingspan so broad my heart skips a beat—his stretched silhouette dominating the sky like a barbed stain.
He roars again, short blasts that seem to call the Moltenmaws off, scattering them toward the burrows. Like a robustI’ve got this. All very well, except Líri pivots, realigns herself with my proximity, tucks her wings, and—
Charges.
“Fuck,” I mutter, realizing there’s nowhere else to hide and nowhere near enough time to run.
I’m about to call on Clode despite being ninety percent certain she won’t hold against a Moonplume flame, when Rygun tucks and plummets into the gully with the force of a falling moon.
