A strange sensation stirs inside me. A call, waiting for an answer.
I touch the snowflake token on my chest. It should be Farron, the scholar, in these ruins. Rosalina, whose intuition never fails her.
I can’t help but feel like I’m overlooking some hidden truth. The heart of all these questions.
But maybe I’m searching for the impossible.
There’s no simple answer to winning this war. No simple way to get Rosalina and Caspian back.
I’ll do what Rosalina taught me—protect my realm. Protect all the realms.
I don’t need the Sword of the Protector to win this war.
I just need us. Together.
14
Ezryn
“I’ve told you ten times now, Tilla. I don’t know how to fixan airship. If you need repairs, you’re going to have to ask Kairyn.”
Tilla levels me with a glare. At least I’m pretty sure it’s a glare. I know her well enough to sense the fury radiating from beneath her dark gray helm. As steward of Spring, she cannot take it off in front of anyone but her family.
We stand in the small storage room turned sleeping quarters at the back of Draconhold Forge. This has been my, Kairyn’s, and George’s home for the last four weeks since we left the Winter Realm. Our makeshift mattresses are filled with itchy straw, and the heat of the nearby hearths makes for sweltering days, but it’s not such a bad setup. At night, when all the smiths have gone home, we creep out to work. Draconhold is the only forge in all the seasonal realms with strong enough equipment for our needs.
Tilla’s the one person in Spring who knows we’re here. Given her role as steward, she deserved to know everything that had transpired—the rose, the underfae, our new missions. She visits often to keep me abreast of the efforts to rally Spring’s forces,but she’s not thrilled about my decision to stay hidden in Draconhold while we continue our work. I understand, but this is what’s best for all the realms now.
George, Kairyn, and I stay out of sight during the day. At night, we creep out to visit the communal kitchen, where we find jugs of water, flatbread, and—if we’re lucky—half-filled carafes of coffee. Then, by moonlight, we work on rebuilding the rose.
The rose that Sira stole from the Gardens of Ithilias. The rose she used to create and control her monsters. The rose that, once rebuilt, we can use to bind their wills to our own. Then, even from afar, we can help Rosalina.
Rosalina. The mere feel of her name in my mind is enough to quicken my heart. What is she doing now? Is she safe? Hurt?
I squeeze my eyes shut, thankful Tilla cannot see the play of emotions beneath my helm. Rosalina held fast to her courage, and so must we.
“Are you listening to me, Ezryn?” Tilla snaps, and I realize I haven’t been. “I’d rather throw myself into the heat of a forge and let my armor melt around me than ask Kairyn?—”
“Ask me what?”
My little brother walks in and leans against the doorframe. His giant form fills all the space, and the horns that jut from his brow are so large, they nearly skim the ceiling. He takes a bite of a mango with his sharp canines and flicks his bloodred gaze from Tilla to me.
His massive size, I’m used to. He was always taller and broader than me anyway. Even the horns, I’ve become accustomed to. But his eyes…
Though they swirl like the coals in a hearth, they’re softer than I expect. So much gentler to look at than the dark void of the helm he previously wore.
At Kairyn’s presence, Tilla leaps back and points her morning star at him.
“Are we still doing this?” he sighs and ambles to his too-small straw mattress before collapsing on it. “Youareaware I’m currently unarmed?”
In fact, he hasn’t touched his weapon since we reached Draconhold. Our mother’s sword, the one he wielded to protect me in Frostfang, rests untouched in the corner of the room.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m sure you’d love to cave my chest plate in with those horns,” Tilla retorts.
Kairyn doesn’t respond; he rolls over and faces the wall.
I may be getting used to Kairyn’s appearance, but I know he’s not. Every time he catches his horns on a doorframe or accidentally knocks something over with his skin-colored tail, a great silence overcomes him. Not sadness or rage.
Shame.
