Slowly, Einar turns his head, his narrowed stare grazing the side of Arkyn’s face. “Impossible …”
“But if I did?”
Time stretches as Einar studies Arkyn, perhaps seeing him in a new light.
Anopportunisticlight.
“It would very much depend on your stance on the untapped bloodstone stores in the north.”
“I have no interest in it.”
Einar goes still as stone. The first tug on a cast line.
“No need to split it three ways, then split it again between your beaded brothers,” Arkyn clarifies. “The Tri-Council could have itall.”
Once Arkyn has The Burn, he has no need for the bloodstone the Tri-Council craves. He’s amassed enough in the pits to fund a war and sustain a territory for eons.
No.
All he wants—all hecaresabout—is watching Kaan’s blood spill and claiming his rightful throne.
Einar’s smile is musing, a ravenous glint in his eyes. “Well, my friend. Thishasbeen an interesting conversation.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
A razah rips into the throat of the null that stood so strong and composed when the drums began to beat. Blood sprays as the beast drags his fresh meal toward the molten boil it spawned from—gone.
“Conclusion?” Arkyn presses.
A hungry quiet slips by.
Einar swallows, perhaps trying to hide the fact that he’s salivating. “Should you achieve the impossible, I’m certain you’ll earn the Citadel’s favor. And the Tri-Council’s …eternalrespect for being more than just an underground handler of monsters.” He raises both brows, studying the melted half of Arkyn’s face. “Worthyof the bronze crown.”
Iscour crumbled bits of bridge strewn through the raging river, wishing the water hadn’t risen above the parts I used as stepping stones earlier, dammit. Now I have to smush Bulder’s words together, attempt to shape some semblance of a path so I’m able to reach the pillar extending from the large eyot like a growth.
With a village-sized audience.
Sighing, I tighten the bind on my braid, drop my knee, and sweep snow into my hands. Crushing it into a ball, I peer over my shoulder at the scatter of folk who’ve tucked beneath snow-laden awnings, gathered in the steep village paths that cut between clustered buildings. All a cautious distance away, either watching me or looking up through the soft snowfall while they murmur between themselves—cloaks hugged tight around their shoulders, dusted in flakes of white. Not wanting to miss the show despite the glacial anomaly shadowing their village, chilling the air so much it stings to breathe.
I get it.
It’s not every dae you get to see someone attempt to mount a semi-wild, murderous Moonplume. That sort of stupidity is rare, as is seeing a perch this far north. In fact, I’d argue it’s the first. A pretty impressivefuck you, Raeveslammed right in the central fold of the village.
Impossible to miss.
I look at said perch surrounded by a nest of frozen, shattered trees that didn’t survive the blast. It’s leaking a wispy fog that’s begun to gather in the gully, the structure a little wider at the base, the tip lost amongst the clouds. A few fledgling Moltenmaws have eased from their burrows, soaring close enough to sniff at it, but none seem brave enough to investigate the top. Probably wise.
Líri might be small, but there’s a reason Rygun herded her into a burrow near the mountain’s peak. Something attributed to the stiff silence bearing down on the village, like even the birds and the insects know we’re in the midst of an apex predator. Beautiful, but lethal.
Without Rygun’s intervention, I’d already be dead. If I survive this … well. It’ll only be because she deems it so. But I made a promise to that dragon, and dammit, I’m keeping it. I’d rather risk my life than watch her fly off to Netheryn believing she’s unworthy of the best of me.
I feel Kaan’s approach rather than hear his steps.
Clearing my throat, I drop the snowball from my blissfully numb hands and stand, loosen my cloak, then drape it over my arm. “Sire.”
“Moonbeam.”
His voice travels across the back of my neck, making me shiver.
