My attention falls first to the scattered scales and feathers she's lost. My 'crow tendencies'—as Marta called them—resurface, and I can't help kneeling and collecting some of these fallen pieces, shoving them into my pockets. My mind is already turning over possibilities, thinking of things I could make, how I could use these strange, beautiful materials to embellish works of art.
The dragon watches me curiously, her head tilted.
Let her in, Gareth keeps saying.
Eight days of trying, and I don’t feel like I’m any closer to being able to do that.
A crushing sense of hopelessness threatens. I continue to kneel before Blight, wondering if I could put this feeling into words. Into an explanation she might understand. Her gaze is intelligent enough; I've always thought she couldunderstand the words I was speaking—though I’ve rarely tried to have an actual conversation with her.
“I can’t let you in.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, quiet and trembling over my dry lips. “I don’t know why.”
The frill around her neck rises slowly with interest.
“Maybe because I don’t know how. Because I’ve built so many walls between myself and your kind. I’ve cursed and raged and buried feelings to protect myself and everyone I have left from the likes ofyou.”
Her nostrils flare.
“Maybe because your kind took everything from me.Everything. Do you see this?” I gesture to my ruined eye. “Every day, I have to look in the mirror and see it. Every day, I have to be reminded of the night the dragons came to my city, of what happened to me just before that, of…” My breath catches in my throat. “Of the secret that I’ve never told anyone before.”
She's perfectly quiet. Still. Expectant. Somehow, her patient, focused stare is worse than her usual smugness and begrudging attention.
My gaze drops to my arms, first to the mark of my engagement, then to the Ashwalker symbol on the opposite wrist. Symbols of what I lost. What I became. Two marks I've defined so much of my life by, and nowneitherof them feels like the anchors they once were.
I feel tears welling up, threatening to spill down my cheeks—from both eyes. It's always seemed like a cruel joke on top of everything else, that the right eye itself was damaged, but not the ducts that allow me to cry; so the most useless function of it is the only one that remains intact.
Blight shifts closer, lowering her head until her snout isonly inches from me. She inhales deeply, exhaling a warm breath intense enough to make me close my eyes.
When I open them again, I notice a ribbon hanging out of her mouth. She opens her jaws like she’s offering this piece of her hoard to me. She’s insistent, dragging it across my clenched fists, trying to get me to pull it free. I take it—mostly to get her to leave me alone.
I'm still feeling unsteady, my legs shaking from exhaustion, but I force myself to my feet, walking away while angrily swiping the last of the tears from my face.
After making my way back into the palace, I halfheartedly search for the king; I still plan to confront him and demand we discuss Briar's release. But there's a good chance I'd end up vomiting and passing out again in the middle of our conversation, which isn'texactlythe formidable impression I'm trying to make.
He's gone, anyway. Dealing with some sort of unrest in the heart of the city, I'm told.
So I stagger up to my room instead.
Inside, I find a gift waiting for me on my bed: A small tin full of tea leaves. I mentioned my fondness for the drink during one of Arlo's visits, and, just like that, the little charmer has gone and done something about it. He's left a note as well, letting me know that this particular blend is helpful for pain relief.
His handwriting is tiny and perfectly neat, as one would expect from a prince who was probably taught to read and write the instant he could hold a pen. But there are several messier drawings scribbled in the margins—dragons and flowers and what might be Ruffus. I smile as I trace those illustrations.
Once again, he proves to be a spot of sunshine amidst the storm.
And maybe I should sleep, and maybe it's terribly silly in the midst of those bigger storms I need to focus on, but I decide I want to use my evening to make him a gift in return.
I take out Blight's feathers and scales, adding them to the other interesting bits and bobs I've been collecting during my palace wanderings over the past days—everything from discarded wire, to buttons, to broken pieces of decorative trim. I also grab several pairs of gloves from my wardrobe. Dainty things meant for formal occasions, but layering them makes them more protective, more useful.
Settling down in front of the fireplace, I heat a piece of wire until it's pliable, then bend it carefully into the shape I think the prince will most enjoy: a dragon. He's so enamored with Blight; I like the idea of him having a figurine of her to keep him company when he's too sick to come visit us.
I work late into the night, twisting wires, fashioning wings out of feathers, adding tiny details with heated metal until my fingers ache. Once I’ve finished, I consider wrapping the ribbon Blight gave me around the figurine's base, but decide against it. That goes back into my pocket.
I'm excited for the chance to be able to give Arlo something. But it's therapeutic to me, too, working with my hands like this. Controlling something. Taking broken pieces and making them into something whole.
I need to know I can still make beauty out of ruined things.That's how I once explained this hobby to Marta, after she grew exasperated with the piles of materials I'd started leaving scattered around our shack.
In so many ways, this was the reason for my chosen profession, too. To be able to walk through the ashes of thebroken world we’d been left with and connect other survivors, to find something worth salvaging between us all…it’s the only thing that kept me going most days.
And it’s the only thing keeping me going in this moment, too.
