No clear flames. Only embers.
The words have haunted me since the moment Sesca first spoke them. For weeks now, I've carried their weight. In the cold and the dark of this cave, they've taken on a particular cruelty—because a clear flame is exactly what I need right now, in more ways than one.
Another hour passes in darkness.
I close my eyes, nearly delirious with exhaustion, but sleep won't come. I don't try chasing it for long; it's better to stay alert if I can, anyway.
With eyes wide open, I try to imagine that I'm simply in the middle of a job that's gone wrong, and all I need to do is recalculate. Reassess. Focus on the things I can control, and catalog the answers I have, rather than losing myself in an endless mire of questions.
One revelation in particular keeps circling in my mind.
I've gotten skilled at using our bond to control the dragons in Mouren's skies, Malachi said. Which means the erratic dragonbehavior Lucindris has been enduring these past weeks…he’s the one to blame for it. He's been drawing closer to the capital, closer tome, using whatever power the Flamebound mark gives him to exercise control over the beasts.
A bitter laugh escapes me when I think back to the beginning of all this—how I wanted to become the greatest threat the Mouren King had ever faced. I wanted to destroy Reave from the inside out. To get at the heart of him and his kingdom and its dragons and bring all of it crashing down.
Now that goal is dangerously close to being realized.
I gave Malachi the power to do these things, unwittingly, and if I don't cooperate now, I risk him using that power to finish the job I blindly, foolishly started.
Miserable grief presses in from all sides once more. The only thing that keeps it from overtaking me is thinking of Reave's face. Of his voice. Of his touch, and how devastating it would be to never feel his hand in mine again. Of how much those hands have been holding up for so long, and how I swore I was going to help him carry it all.
I don't know how I'm going to fix everything that's gone wrong.
But I have to.
Not for myself—for him, for Kestrel and Arlo, and for Briar and all that's left in this world that I want to protect.
Little by little, my stubbornness gives way until finally I close my eyes, reaching for Sesca, and I begin again.
I say nothing of real importance at first. I just stop guarding my thoughts so she can find her way back in, if she wants to.
After a few minutes, I direct more specific things her way. Small things. The memory of our first meeting. Of how it felt to triumph in the arena with her sight and her strengthpushing me. Of the way my heart soared as I flew with her, clinging to her back while stormy skies raged all around us.
Then heavier things. Things I'm afraid of. Things I'm ashamed of. Things I don't think I've ever told anyone, but that seem pointless to keep to myself now that everything is on the verge of collapse.
Hours go by without any answer. Yet I'm certain she hears me; I once asked her how far our bond could stretch, and she told me she could reach me from the other side of the stars, if only I called out to her.
My voice may be weak, heavy with fear and regret, but it gets louder as the night goes on.
She doesn't answer directly. But at some point, she begins to pass images into my mind—glimpses of what she sees and hears. When I settle myself and open up to these flashes, it's as though I'm outside, leaning against her warm body, breathing in sync and watching the night pass alongside her.
I see the soldiers rotating their guard, tense and watchful. I see smoke rising from what I assume are other encampments in the distance. I hear hushed conversations with occasional bits of useful, orienting information, and snippets of orders being given.
Malachi pays me another visit just as the first pale swaths of daylight begin to bleed into the overcast sky. He strides in with an easy casualness that feels like an insult to my cramping, aching muscles, and crouches before me, offering a dented canteen.
I don't take it.
“Stubborn as ever,” he chides.
“I can't be certain you haven't poisoned it.”
“I have you under control; why would I bother with poison? I have greater plans than that for us.”
“Plans I have no intentions of cooperating with.”
He considers me for a moment, adjusting the sleeves of his coat with slow, exaggerated care. “Would it make you more cooperative to know that the Mouren King appears to be planning something very foolish as we speak? Something you'll likely want to put a stop to, if you value his life at all.”
I fight to keep my expression impassive.
