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Tell me what ails it.
“My mother—” He stops, tries again. “The Regia is dying. I don’t know why. No one does. I need the Regia’s mark, the true mark, one that will give her strength.”
I have the power to save your mother,the serpent says slyly.Do you wish this power?
“What do you want in exchange?”
Her tongue flicks out in a strangely human gesture, as if she’s licking her lips.You have given me much, though you value it not.
Dalca crosses his arms as if protecting himself.
The serpent laughs, a strange sound in a dozen voices—crows cawing, the crush of a tidal wave, an earthquake rumbling, a rodent’s chittering, and underneath it all a woman’s soft, charmed laugh.
For the boon of freeing your mother of what plagues her, this is the price. I will keep this piece of your heart, so that what you love you will also fear. Let the dark go with you, let it grow within you, let it become you.
Dalca shakes his head. “Speak plainly.”
That will cost you more.
Dalca’s face twists in vexation, and for a heartbeat, I think he won’t go through it. He’ll see it’s too high a price. For a heartbeat, I hope.
And then something blots out the light. It lets out a savage howl that echoes in the dark, but it echoes wrong: each repeat grows louder instead of softer, each repeat adds sounds from dark dreams, murderous screeches and nightmare screams.
A berserk Izamal falls onto the serpent. All that’s left of his humanity is the hate only a human could nurture. His eyes shine with feverish wildness, and though his body is covered in the bloody evidence of a brutal fight, he pays his wounds no mind. His eyes lock on to Dalca with the force of the inevitable.
On all fours, Izamal bounds toward Dalca. The serpent draws itself back into shadow, as if it would slip away.
“Fine!” Dalca shouts. “I accept!”
Lay this mark upon the Regia, and your mother will be saved.
The serpent bends and touches Dalca’s forehead with hers. Like a puff of smoke, something silver passes between them. She rears back into shadow as Izamal races up the steps to the platform. He’s grown larger; powerful muscles ripple under his silver coat as he circles Dalca.
Dalca stands with eyes squeezed shut, as if committing something to memory. His eyes open, and Izamal strikes.
I have to stop this. My feet slip in the ash as I sprint toward the stairs, wishing the serpent hadn’t dragged me so far from the platform.
Izamal and Dalca grapple on the platform in a flurry of ash, fighting with intent to murder. There’s none of the finesse or showmanship of the Wardana practice fights. This is primal.
Izamal’s body shifts, fur peeling back to reveal his tear-streaked face, his arms corded with muscle and his fingers tipped with claws.
“Iz?” Dalca falters. “It’s me—”
“I know who are, Dalca, I’ve always known who you are,” Izamal growls.
Dalca skitters back, keeping out of Izamal’s range. “What’s happened to you?”
“You killed my sister,” Izamal growls, knocking Dalca off his feet. “I’ll kill you for her.”
Dalca rolls and springs back up with practiced ease, but behind his raised fists, his expression is dumbstruck. “Iz—that’s what you think? That I killed Nashi?”
Izamal springs through Dalca’s defense and pins him to the ground.
“I didn’t kill her,” Dalca grits out, Izamal’s arm crushing his windpipe. “I would’ve done anything to save her.”
Izamal roars, and his clawed hands tear into Dalca.
I reach the top of the stairs and hesitate. Maybe they need this—maybe Dalca will get through to him.
