Page 69 of Under the Iron Sky

He blinked, the source of his pain coming steadily in and out of focus. A silver dinner tray with his blood marring the edge.

Blood that was precisely the same color as the red berries Golla had served for breakfast this morning.

Fucking idiot.

One hand braced on the wall, Ikarus dragged himself to his feet. He cradled his head in the other hand, forcing himself to concentrate on drawing deep breaths through his nose and not on the agonizing pain in his temples that made him fairly certain his head would drop off if he let go.

Pain that did ease a fraction, however, when he lifted his head enough to see the cell bars and realized his mistake.

That in his panic, he’d ripped the iron right out of the floor, meaning there was nothing standing in the human’s way when she’d knocked him unconscious.

White-hot rage burned through him, and he staggered to the window just in time to see her sprint across the courtyard.

Ikarus ripped the dungeon wall away with the sharp slice of his hand. He stepped out onto the open air, his powers reaching out to pull stones from the wall to create a walkway down to the ground, his head pounding with every step.

She was already halfway across the courtyard by the time he reached the ground, just about to pass the water fountain.

Ikarus threw out a hand, summoning lashes of his power like angry whips to peel up the stones beneath her feet and drag her back here. It was usually so easy, but agony pulsed across the right side of his skull and he lost his grip. He clenched his teeth, bending over slightly as the pain rolled on and on, echoes of it reverberating inside his head like a gong.

Still running, the human turned just enough to smirk over a shoulder. “What’s the matter, Dar’rak? Head a bit sore?”

He raised his hands again, intent on ripping that fountain right out of the ground and smashing her into a bloody pulp with it, Ancient One’s rules be damned, but it barely vibrated beneath his magic.

A roar screeched from nearby, and Ikarus smiled as Serone crashed onto the far end of the courtyard, blocking the human’s path. There was no getting away now.

Still, the human ran, sprinting forward as though no force in the world could stop her. Not a wall. Not an army. And certainly not a dragon.

He was sure that she’d slow down when she neared Serone, that her instincts would take over no matter how much she hated it and stop her from getting too close to the creature that could rip her in two with a swipe of its claws.

She did not.

She ran closer, closer, until even Serone backed away a step in surprise, snarling as the human barreled toward her as though she were no more than a mouse.

Talons cracking into the stone floor. Serone opened her mouth, orange flames dancing at the back of her throat—

“No,” Ikarus commanded. “The Ancient One needs her alive.”

And it seemed the human was relying on that, because without so much as a pause in her step, she slid beneath Serone’s body, seeming to know those fangs snapping inches from her raised arm wouldn’t actually pierce her flesh, and sprinted away.

Ikarus tried to follow but black spots overtook his vision. He fell to his knees, groaning at the never-ending boom ringing against the side of his head, and caught one last glimpse of golden hair far in the distance before the world went dark.

Ikarus woke to a wall of warm black scales curled around him.

Wincing, he braced a hand on Serone’s front paw and pushed himself to his feet. The pain was still there, now reduced to a dull ache rather than the roaring symphony it’d been before. “Where did she go?”

Serone lifted her head, gray eyes shimmering like storm clouds full of lightning, and huffed over a shoulder.

Ikarus stared in that direction. Why would she go east?

Because the vast majority of Ramapheal’s army weren’t able to phase, spiraling walkways called checkpoints were carved into the mountains beneath every crack to the surface, each one heavily manned to ensure no one passed through without proper authorization. One way or another, the human would have to pass through one to leave Belvador, a feat that would be virtually impossible without a weapon—even for her.

She knew that, though. So then what was her plan here?

She was a sly thing. He’d seen that in her memories. Even at a young age, she knew how to skulk about in the dark. How to turn anything she could get her hands on into a weapon to punish those she felt deserved it.

She’d planned her escape with those berries. Deduced, no doubt from that little waltz around his memories, that if she smeared their juices down her chin, if she lay perfectly still, he’d think the worst. That he’d let his guard down enough for her to strike.

She knew she’d have only one chance, and she would not waste it on a whim.