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“I was kidding about the threesome,”
“There is no reality where I’d willingly fuck you.”
I look at her robe, pinched in place by more gold or diamond buttons than I’ve ever seen on a single seam, my blood chilling at the sight of the one closest to her nape. A tiny dragon blowing a mushroom of flames. This Runi doesn’t need dragonfire to ignite the trail of past runes, because she’s blessed with Dragonsight. She can see them with her own eyes. Meaning she’s seeing . . . Everything.
“I’m still intent on killing you, if given the chance,”
“Don’t forget to cut off my head,”
“Or I’ll haunt you for ...
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“I don’t believe ...
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“Then what do you believe in?”
“Revenge.”
“Revenge is the loneliest deity of them all, Moonbeam. Take it from someone who knows.”
I’m not stupid enough to believe this scratchy gift I’ve been given comes without caveats, too. Few folk help others in this world without expecting something in return.
“Why a ball?”
“It’s a moon.”
“Then why a moon?”
“Because they fall.”
Even when we don’t want them to.
I’ll go to my doom shackled by only two regrets: that I never got to flay Rekk Zharos from cock to throat, and that I failed to experience life in the way Fallon explained it before she passed. This beautiful, bolstering freedom that was always just out of reach.
The Queen . . .
Her gaze falls upon me, and she stills, eyes widening with a flash of . . . something. Shock? Disbelief? Recognition? I fail to pin it down.
It spills in rhythm with my galloping heartbeat, my serrated voice cutting through the din. A language not of the common tongue, but something . . . different. Something I don’t understand. And should probably question.
Is the beast doing more than just listening to my words? Is it . . . digesting them? Instead of me?
Rygun . . . Guess this is the Burn King—Kaan Vaegor. Fitting, and just my luck to be snatched by the feared, mysterious King and not the one who’s apparently still mourning his dead queen.
“The only infection I’m suffering stems directly from your self-indignant presence.”
“I . . . really want to . . . kill you.”
“Perfectly aware,”
“But now is not t...
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“You’re right, you do smell bad.”
“Screw you,”
“You wanted to kill me a moment ago. I c...
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“Adorable.”
“I’m going to cut out your tongue with that blade in your boot.”
“I’d prefer you use your teeth, but beggars can...
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“Kaan, no. I did not agree to this!”
His body stiffens, steps slowing, a low, grating sound coming from him.
“Say it again...
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“W...
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“My name, Moonbeam. Say ...
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“Kaan. Kaan. Kaan. Kaan. Kaan! Now put me down. Quick.”
He fills his lungs, his entire chest inflating—like he just took his first breath since he began a deep dive.
“You didn’t say ...
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“Please!”
“Too late.”
I’m going to shatter his bones and use them ...
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Drenched in the smell of leather and the heady blend of his intoxicating scent, this tightening feeling low in my belly yearns for something every other part of me is utterly opposed to, and I consider whether it’s prudent to ask this male if he’d like to fuck before I slit his throat . . . Probably shouldn’t.
Creators, slay this male.
I dare a peek over Rygun’s side, expecting to be severed with fear as I take in the world below, the barren plains stretching far and wide in all directions like a ripple of rusty water. Instead, something tangible swells within my chest. Something that makes me want to spread my arms, tip my head, and release a deep belly laugh that’s raw and real and so fucking wholesome it makes me want to . . . Cry.
Then came Haedeon’s turn. Rather than blow flames onto his body, Allume scooped him up, tilled her wings, then tipped her head to the sky and lifted off the ground with my brother clutched against her. She soared unsteadily toward the deep dark where her ancestors rest, then curled into a ball, tucked Haedeon beneath her gammy wing, and solidified before my eyes—giving herself to death rather than live an eternal life without the one we both loved so much.
Everyone else went inside to feast in honor of my lost ones while I lay in the snow and sang to Haedeon’s moon, tracing the outline of that small, misshapen wing.
“Your hips are sharp,”
“I’ll show you something sharp.”
