I burn and ruin everything I touch, in the end.
Alone in the dark, with nothing for company but the weight of all these things, I begin to wonder what it might take to become someone else. Not for the first time, but with more desperation than ever before, I ache to rid myself of the bonds I carry. Not just the mark that ties me to Malachi, but the invisible threads that tether me to Sesca, too.
The problem is that I don't know who I would be without these bonds.
So maybe it would be better if I just found a way to erase every possible version of myself.
Mere moments after this thought crosses my mind, a surge of furious heat burns through me. My head pounds, and I know it's Sesca trying to force her way in. Likely trying to tell me I'm a fool for having these desperate, human feelings.
I go on having them anyway.
I pull back from her warmth like I’m closing a door, curling tighter into my misery and shutting my eyes until sleep finally takes me.
Some time later,a boot nudges me in the side.
“Get up, Owyn.”
I recognize the voice as Mal's, and all the pain of the last few hours returns, all at once.
I shut my eyes tighter.
“Up.”
“Why?” I whisper.
“Because your dragon is raging and making a mess of my camp. And it's time you proved yourself to my doubting soldiers, anyhow.”
I still don't move.
I hear him take a step back, but I can feel him continuing to stare down at me. The frustration that rolls off him is palpable.
“The woman I knew wouldn't spend so much time wallowing in self-pity.”
“I'm not the woman you knew,” I hiss.
He seems to consider this for a long moment. Then hekneels beside me, setting down the lantern he carried in, shining light over the chains binding me, which he begins to undo—or reconfigure, at least.
I want to growl at him to not touch me. To spit in his face. To kick my one unbound leg at him with whatever strength I can summon.
But I'm a weak, stupid fool, because I don't do any of these things. Because all I can focus on is how carefully his hands are working against me, and how impossible it still seems to be feeling his touch again after all this time.
When he's finished, my hands are still bound to each other—behind my back, now—but not to the weighted block that was holding me in place. He moves to unhook my ankle from the other weight that was holding me down, too.
I could stand and walk out into the night on my own two legs, if I chose to. He doesn't say this. Doesn't say anything at all, just gives me a final, pointed look before leaving again.
As if whatever happens next is up to me.
But like everything else about him—every choice he seemingly made or offered where I'm concerned—it's an illusion.
I can hear Sesca hissing and snarling in the distance. Can feel her anguish twisting through me, impossible to ignore no matter how desperately I might want to. And there are enough voices outside to tell me it's no small army holding the two of us captive, so it's not as if I could simply slip away and not look back.
My only real choices are to confront the dragon as Malachi asked, or to find some way to reach a cliff edge and hurl myself off it.
I spend a very long time debating between these two options.
With grueling effort, I uncurl my aching body, make myself stand, and slowly walk outside.
I don't know how much time has passed since I was brought here, but it seems to be the dead of night now. It's not storming any longer. There are still plenty of clouds, no stars that I can see, and the rocky ground glistens with pockets of ice that make every step treacherous.
