Ineedto talk to him.
But I also never want to see him and his insufferable face ever again, because he has to have known at leastsomeof what was happening underneath the Temple of the Mouren Flame, yet he hasn't bothered to tell me any of it. Our worldis on the cusp of war, dragons are going rogue, the gods are pulling strings in ways we can only guess at…
And I’m caught in the middle of it all whether I want to be or not. As is he. So I once again find myself on a collision course with the Mouren King.
He once again proves a difficult target to track down.
Eventually, I find myself pausing at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to his private hall and bedroom, gripping the banister with all the strength I possess as I try to talk myself into climbing the steps.
Standing invitation, he told me the last time I visited his room. Of course, it was a standing invitation to come to his bed to fuck him whenever I liked, and not necessarily to discuss the dark, devastating things his kingdom has done, and all the bloody, complicated consequences of those things.
I'm sure he'd rather we focus on the former.
It doesn't matter either way, though, because when I find the courage to go look, I find that he isn't in his room. The guards patrolling the hall outside of it inform me they haven't seen him for hours.
No one seems to know where he is, despite the fact that foreign dignitaries are filling his guest suites, and I know he's been busy all day meeting with those visitors; he expected their conversations to last well into the night.
It seems like an odd time for him to vanish without a trace.
I make peace with the idea of not sleeping any time soon. I return to my room again, but only long enough to put on a coat and some proper boots before heading outside.
The night air offers little reprieve from the suffocating atmosphere of the palace; it's just as heavy out here, and theheaviness is accompanied by a damp chill and blustery winds. Another storm seems to be brewing—the third one in as many days. I try not to think of that as an omen. I try not to think of anything at all as I draw my hood up and stuff my hands into my pockets, following the winding creek at the edge of the palace grounds.
Sesca soon appears overhead, though her body is difficult to pick out amongst the rolling clouds, lost as the moonlight flickers and wanes with the building storm; I feel her more clearly than I see her.
Something is wrong.
It's not a question she presses into me, but a statement—one punctuated a moment later by the sound of a dragon roaring somewhere in the distance.
My heart skips several beats as Sesca dives down from the clouds, pulling up just before she hits the ground, her wings flaring wide. I'm momentarily distracted from my worries, transfixed at the sight. It's astounding how much her flying is improving with every passing day; I can hardly even remember the wounded, stumbling hatchling she was when we first arrived here.
She flexes her wings before folding them at her sides, fixing her golden gaze on me in that expectant way she does—the way that always seems to draw my words out, even if I'd planned on keeping them to myself.
“I can't find the king,” I tell her.
She settles into a sitting position, lifting her head toward the sky.
Another distant roar rumbles through the clouds.
“But maybe it's for the best,” I add, pulling my coat more tightly around myself as the first drops of rain begin to fall. “Idon't know what I'm going to say to him, anyway. I don't even know where to start.”
Sesca extends a wing, shielding me from the drops as they fall faster.
“You should go find shelter from the coming storm,” I tell her.
I like the rain, she informs me.
I watch the water shearing off the tips of her wings for a moment, catching what little light the clouds allow through, and the way her wet scales shine like the surface of a calm sea.
“…I do too, actually,” I say with a shrug, and then continue my walk with her at my side.
Even though she steps lightly, her feet still leave imprints in the damp ground, mud squelching between her claws and splattering up her legs as she goes; it's a sensation I know she doesn't like—she's not a fan of being dirty, I've learned. I can feel her disgust ripple through me with every particularly mucky step she takes.
But she endures it and stays at my side, slogging through the mess rather than elegantly twisting through the sky like she'd prefer to do.
It feels appropriate to be down here together, given the messy things we've unburied today.
We're halfway between the palace and the distant forest when my thoughts about altars and bloodstains get so overwhelming that I find myself slowing to a stop, lifting my face to the sky, closing my eyes and fully embracing the rain. Like this cold water could wash me clean, somehow. Maybe erase the haunting, miserable feelings that have been clinging to me since I first stepped into that dark tunnel underneath the arena.
