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Where can a runaway Fae-blooded omega about to go into heat run to?
What am I going to do?
Fighting despair, I walk further, looking for a way up, trying to catch a glimpse of Kiaran, or maybe a sign from the gods.
“Artume!” I yell, stumbling among the trees. “I served you for so long. Won’t you speak to me?”
But she never has. Why should she start now?
“Artume!”
Her name returns in echoes, mocking me.
I scream in frustration, my voice bouncing. “Answer me!”
But she doesn’t.
It’s becoming painfully clear that I’m lost. Hopelessly lost. The trees all look the same, the faint animal trails repeating themselves in an endless loop, sending me round and round through the woods, or so it feels like. Impossible to tell without a landmark, without knowing which way I came from and which way I’m going.
Much like my life right now, and the gods love a good metaphor, don’t they? As well as good punishments and blood.
Blood. I stop, glance down. A cut on my leg is sluggishly bleeding. And then I think I see patterns flashing on my hands. I stare at them, mystified.
What’s happening?
“I need to find them!” I call out to the trees, the clouds, the skies. “Help me! Why won’t you ever help me? Up there, in your crystal spheres of cloud and rain, mighty and useless! Help me! Help—” A branch hits me in the face, leaving a long burning scratch on my cheek. “By the dragons of old!”
Wait.
The unnamed god. He spoke to me, the only god who ever has.
‘Sidde Drakai,’ he’d said. ‘Drakai evenen.’
Whatever that means.
So I should dance for him. My head is buzzing, spinning, and I feel a pain in my ribs, a pain in my arm. Phantom pains.
I picture the god’s statue. I lift my hands in supplication, bow my head and whisper words of prayer, words of respect.
“Hear me, Sidde Drakai, if that is your name. I danced for you at the Temple, against all the rules, and I was cast out. Hear me now and guide me. Help me find my mates.”
I spread my hands, bow from the waist, slide one foot to the side, bend my knees. It’s a new dance, one I have never danced before, a dance I’m offering since I have nothing else.
Movement and faith.
“Please, Old One. Help.”
‘Drakai,’ the deep, resonant voice whispers inside my head and I gasp, dropping my arms to my sides. ‘Drakai inassa. Drakai inonen.’
More mysterious words, but the voice sounds benevolent, as if the god is somehow pleased.
“Please,” I whisper again, “please—”
And then I smell them.
All three of them.
Although the pain in my belly hits like a sledgehammer, I start walking again, trying to follow that trail, which proves harder than it sounds. I’m not a hound. I’ve never done more than follow my nose to the kitchens of the fort on occasion, but I keep moving, holding on to my faith in the god’s help, to the reality of their scents, like a somnambulist following the thread of a dream, afraid I’ll wake up and lose my grip on what’s real.
