When the Moon Hatched (Moonfall, #1)

by Sarah A. Parker

“Again, Raeve, you assume you have some say in the matter. You don’t. You have one job, and that’s to follow my orders. When I say stab, you say how deep. When I say leave Rekk Zharos alone, you leave Rekk Zharos well the fuck alone.”

“You coped just fine without me before you snatched me from the gutter.” “I gave you the option,” she volleys, quick as a blink. A deep belly laugh wrestles up my throat, spilling out in a mirthless tune. “And what an option it was,” I muse. “Die or drip my blood into your runed vial and be a forever slave to your whim, able to be yanked to heel at any given opportunity. Except it wasn’t voiced that way, was it? You offered me revenge. Painted such a pretty picture I was salivating to give you my blood, falling into your web like a plump bug, immediately put to work.” So many empty promises. “Ironically, had you simply asked me to join the cause, I may have agreed, given the drowning amount of injustice I soon discovered in this kingdom. But you just had to slap a collar around my neck.” She sighs, long and deep—the breezy confidence of someone who lives in a bubble of safety I can’t penetrate. “Always so dramatic, Raeve. Truly, I’ve never met someone with so much battle in their blood.” Her elegant hand grips the vial hanging between her breasts. “Perhaps you wouldn’t be so bitter were you not constantly testing me, forcing me to take advantage of the blood bind.” Yeah, okay. It’s my fault. “Can’t you see you’re made for this?” “Sure,” I deadpan. “Nothing quite like the constant threat of a casual torture session to make you feel right at home.” “It’s nothing personal. Everybody puts their blood in the vial—” “Except you.” “—benefiting from its many advantages. Remember h...

Essi called me family and I walked away. After everything she’s been through, I walked away. What the fuck is wrong with me? How can I look at that moon with so much love in my heart—love that ricochets off my ribs every time I look at Essi? Stupid question. I know exactly what’s wrong with me. Loving that moon feels safe. Moonfalls are so rare it’ll likely always be there, accepting my quiet adoration. Loving Essi . . . it makes me feel like I’m handling something fragile that’ll break apart in my hands if I tighten my grip even the slightest bit.

“Kemori Daphidone, traveling bard from Orig . . . What’s your real name?” “Die a slow, traumatic death and perhaps I’ll consider whispering it against your ear right before your heart gives out.” “You’re a handful.” His gaze drops to my bust, lifts again, lips curving into a slimy smile. “More than a handful, actually.” “Much more than you can handle, you pathetic piece of shit.”

“It’s you,” he rumbles, and my heart drops, the hairs on the back of my neck lifting. “Come forth into the light.” “Who died and made you king?” I rasp past my ruined throat. “My pah,” he deadpans, and a laugh bubbles out of me, tapering off before the excess motion has a chance to rip my wounds and make them weep again. “Funny.” Silence reigns.

“You, self-appointed as Prisoner Seventy-Three”—he peers down at me, eyes narrowed, and my smile widens in unison with his deepening frown—“are hereby charged for the murder of twenty-three soldiers of the Crown—” “Twenty-five,” I correct, and the room bursts with murmurs again as the Chancellor raises a brow. “Excuse me?” If he’s going to read out my charge, he might as well get it right. “Personally, I lost count. But the guard who led me here said I killed twenty-five.” The Chancellor opens his mouth to speak again, but I cut him off with a swift “Also, I’d like it added to the record that I bit off the tip of Rekk Zharos’s finger. I only recently managed to flick out what was left of it from between my tee—” “That’s enough.” “Pity.” He flays me with a stare, and even the scribe pauses his incessant scratching. “Do you find this . . . amusing?” “You misread me.” I let all the humor fall off my face, my response a bite of bloody flesh spat at him with a sawtooth snarl. “I find it fucking tragic.” This time, there are no murmurs. Just a gluttonous silence that grates my bones. “Truth.” Yes, it is.

If I’m going out, it might as well be in style. It’s not like I’ve got anything to lose. Not anymore.

“I’m incredibly bored with this conversation. Can we get to the point where you condemn me to execution for taking out the trash? That’s the part I’m most excited about.” “You want to die?” the Chancellor asks, not bothering to mask his shock. “No,” I murmur, picking another curl of filth free. “I’m just so sick of looking at your ugly face that death is starting to sound rather cushy.”

“All those in favor of Prisoner Seventy-Three being drawn and quartered next aurora rise?” I ignore the frantic thump of my heart as over half the Nobles raise their hands, including half the crowd packed into the mezzanine. I lift my hand, too. Most would probably prefer the coliseum, but I’d much rather be sliced open while my heart’s still beating than be served to a thunder of fire-breathing dragons, thank you very much. “All in favor of feeding her to the Moltenmaws?” Another flock of hands rise, and the scribe counts them quietly. “It’s a draw,” he calls out, gaze cast on the mezzanine, appearing to recount. I frown. Surely not. I count, too—looking up in time to watch a familiar hooded “Runi” raise his hand, like he’s lifting a gavel of his own. Casting a vote. “Oh, no matter,” the scribe bellows. “Dragons it is—by one vote!”

“This better be a threesome,” I grind out. “I’m not one to share,” the King says, his voice low and steady. “But if that’s what you really want, it can be arranged once your back is healed.” He obviously thinks he’s hilarious, but I’m not laughing, my pulse a violent churn I can’t seem to slow.

“I was kidding about the threesome,” I snip, releasing the final two while murdering the King with a glare. “There is no reality where I’d willingly fuck you.”

“I’m still intent on killing you, if given the chance,” I warn past clenched teeth. “Don’t forget to cut off my head,” he murmurs. “Or I’ll haunt you for eternity.” “I don’t believe in that.” Not one bit. I’ve cut off very few heads in comparison to my rather large body count, and I’m yet to see a single spirit claw at me from the shadows. He lifts a brow. “Then what do you believe in?” he asks, his voice guttural. “Revenge.” All the warmth sputters from his eyes, like part of him just slipped away. “Revenge is the loneliest deity of them all, Moonbeam. Take it from someone who knows.”

“Why a ball?” comes a rasped voice to my left. I look sideways at the male I thought was asleep bunched beneath his filthy blanket, instead watching me through the bars. “It’s a moon.” He frowns. “Then why a moon?” I cast my gaze forward again, tap-tap-tapping my foot to the soothing tune in my head. “Because they fall.” Even when we don’t want them to.

How can someone you love so much be here one moment, gone the next? Just . . . gone?

“You’re right, you do smell bad.” “Screw you,” I mutter, and he cocks a brow. “You wanted to kill me a moment ago. I can’t keep up.” I snort-laugh. “Don’t worry. Few can.” “Is that a challenge?” he asks, stuffing his blade back down his boot. “No. But I will issue one to let me go.” “Heartily decline.” Of course. I hope he doesn’t mind when I heartily slit his throat.

“Hold the leather strap,” Kaan rumbles near my ear, sending tingles down the side of my neck and making my breath hitch. Snarling, I grip the damn strap. “You know what I hate?” “Being told what to do?” he answers, quick as a blink. “Exactly.” “Well,” he says, giving the strip of leather a yank, like he’s testing my grip on the thing. Something I find deeply offensive, seeing as I don’t do anything by halves. “It’s a relief to know you possess a drip of self-preservation.” “I’d rather possess that blade down the inside of your boot,” I grouse as the beast folds his wings flush against his body.

“Your hips are sharp,” he grumbles, and I bash my fists against his back, knowing there’s next to no point. Doing it anyway. “I’ll show you something sharp.” “Every word that comes out of your mouth is sharp, Moonbeam.” He one-handedly unbuckles one of his saddlebags and tosses it over his other shoulder. “I’m half dead already, bleeding out at your feet. Can’t you see?” I scoff. Please.

I scramble, kicking and thrashing, certain I’m about to be consumed by some waterborne creature that no doubt likes the taste of fae flesh, until I stretch my legs down and plant them on a . . . pebbled ground. Oh. Shoving up, I push my head above the water and gasp for breath, just in time to see a bar of soap spearing at my head. I dodge it, then scramble to scoop it out of the water and throw it back the way it came—the bar thudding against Kaan’s chest, leaving a soapy smear on his tunic. “You smell bad. Soap fixes that,” he says, picking it up and tossing it back at me. Splashing me in the face. I snatch it, pelting it at his crotch. “You need it more than I do!” “I’ve got my own fucking soap,” he growls, catching it just before it can make obliterating contact with his cock. Oh. Failing to muster any more words to wield, I poke my tongue out at him instead. He returns the gesture, and the corner of my mouth threatens to lift. The King just stuck his tongue out at me. Muttering beneath his breath, he tosses the soap again and spins, kicks off his boots, then uses one arm to reach down and pull his tunic up over his head. My heart skips a beat, mouth popping open.

“Not to shock you into strangling me with your hair,” he says dryly, injecting the perfectly viable thought into my head, “but as you so dutifully pointed out, I need to bathe.” He tips his head. “Feel free to evacuate the west side of the plunge pool so I can use the waterfall to rinse myself to your standards.” “You’ll be at it awhile,” I say, scooping up my soap and edging to the right, nipping another glance at the little moon on his back. “Hope you have refreshments in those saddlebags. You’re gonna need them.” “You really do say the sweetest things, Moonbeam.” “Thanks. I try my hardest.” “Hate to see you not trying,” he drones, yanking at what I realize are his pant fastenings when they’re pushed past his muscular ass, revealing his dusky undergarments. “I don’t think my poor heart could handle it. Now, unless you want an eyeful, I suggest turning your attention elsewhere.” “I’m not giving you my back,” I growl, my words chased by his airy sigh. “Suit yourself. But if I wanted to hurt you in any way, I had plenty of chances in the cell I rescued you from.”

“What . . . h-haaappened to . . . him?” “I cut off his head, then fed him to Rygun.” The words land like a kick to the ribs, almost winding me. Deserved, but— “Wh-why?” “Because I was mourning someone I loved very much. I discovered my pah had done something unforgivable, and I took her revenge because I thought she no longer could. Now I have regrets.” “What was . . . h-her name?” “Elluin,” he murmurs, and pulls—yanking the pin free. I open my mouth in a silent scream, certain he just siphoned half my skeleton through the tiny hole. Fucking. Ouch.

I follow his lead, the ropes around my wrists now swollen with moisture. “I think you accidentally tied this too tight,” I say, looking left to right. Trying to trace the chirping sounds that keep scratching through the air—like somebody’s dragging sticks up and down many ribbed, hollow logs. “I assure you,” he says, kicking a fallen branch off the track like it personally offends him, “that was no accident.” “If my hands fall off, so will my iron cuffs, and then I’ll call upon Clode to suffocate you in your sleep.” “Such pretty promises,” he muses, his tone so dry it could wick all the moisture from my body.

“Are you cooking Rygun vegetable soup?” I mutter, wondering how I’m expected to see where I’m walking with my arms packed so full. “I’m making enough so we don’t have to stop at any villages before we reach Dhomm,” he tells me, dumping something that’s particularly hard to balance upon the pile and almost undoing me. “I’d prefer not to be seen with you if I can avoid it.” Fuck you, too, Kaan Vaegor. “I’m not particularly fond of being seen with you, either. Not unless I’m toting a pike with your head on the end.” He lumps another vegetable on the pile without shaking it off, dusting me in soil that peppers my hair and clings to my damp skin. Maybe he’s getting sick of me . . . Good.

“Wait. I’ll unpack you first. Don’t want you dragging more dirt across the rug than necessary.” “Ever heard of a bucket? You just threw me in a pool and tossed a bar of soap at my head. Now I’m more filthy than I was before.” “No,” he grinds out, relieving me of my pile one bulbous, overgrown root vegetable at a time. “Before, you smelled like spew, rage, and dead things. Now you smell like soil. This smell calms me.” “You don’t seem particularly calm.” He removes the final vegetable, transferring it into a large wooden bowl with all the rest of the produce. “I’m calm.” He cuts me a dark look. “You’ve just been lucky enough to avoid witnessing my other temperaments.” Yet. The unsaid word slams between us like a gavel. I hold his pointed stare, clumps of dirt rolling down my cheek and falling from my jawline. I, too, have many temperaments I’d like to test against his not calm. Grunting, he severs our stare-off and strides through the room.

“Is there somewhere else I can spend the slumber?” He pauses what he’s doing, turning his head the slightest amount as he says, “Somewhere else?” Feels wrong to step into a female’s warm, homely dwelling when I’ve fantasized about killing her son. “This feels like a family space,” I murmur, taking in the artwork littering the walls. The crooked alcoves and shelves packed full of bits and pieces that can only be precious memorabilia. “I’m not family.” Kaan’s coarse growl fills the space so abruptly I jolt, stare whipping back to him as he says, “Get in the dwelling, Prisoner Seventy-Three. Or you’ll miss out on this meal.”

“I have nothing to gift in exchange for the time spent under your mah’s roof.” There’s a moment of utter stillness before Kaan turns his head a little more—just enough for our eyes to meet. “Your name will do.” My name . . . I open my mouth, shutting it as I reconsider, then shake my head and blurt, “Raeve.” All the color drains from his face. He pulls a breath—slow. Like he’s consuming a meal he’s been looking forward to for longer than I care to admit. “Just Raeve?” Another name sizzles through my soul like a burning scream. Fire Lark. Fire Lark. Fire Lark. “Just Raeve,” I say, stuffing the other down. Far away. Gone. He nods slowly, the ball in his throat rolling. “Well, thank you for the offering,” he says, followed by a soft, “Raeve. Please, enter my mah’s dwelling.”

“You don’t like fire.” “I don’t like males with cocks bigger than their brains.” I slay him with a stare I hope cuts the head off his observation. “Unfortunately, that eliminates half the population.”

“Foot, Raeve. Before the soup burns.” Bossy and a bad listener . . . Definitely needs to die. “I’m not putting my filthy foot on your mah’s butcher block, King Kaan Vaegor. End of story.” His head cocks to the side. “And I’m not kneeling before you for fear of being kicked in the head hard enough to knock me out cold so you can steal a blade from the drawer, slit my throat, and escape.” Valid concern, honestly. “Foot. Unless you want to keep your pretty anklets on?” he goads, and I kick the damn thing up on the stool beside me instead, tarnishing the surface with a smear of dirt. He glares at me. I flash him a smile. “You’re very stubborn,” he says, moving around to crouch by the stool. “So nice of you to say. I sharpen that weapon daily.” “I can tell,” he mutters,

“You want to play rough, Moonbeam? We can play rough. But only after you eat.” “Is that a command, Sire?” I swear the ruddy specks in his eyes flare, his body a strong, resonant force pressed against me. Too hot. Not hot enough. “There’s a difference between being cared for and being commanded. Know it.” I chuff a humorless laugh, notching my chin forward. “You give me a bowl of soup and expect me to eat it with bound hands? Your perception of caring is warped.” Can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I miss my shackles. Or more to the point, the chain draped between them. At least I could do things, like stretch. And scratch. My wrists are bound so close together that wiping my ass is going to be an experience when I finally make it to the privy. “Try being open to accepting aid, Raeve. You’d be amazed at how the grain no longer chafes. A simple request for my help doesn’t make you weak. It makes you real.”

“Don’t do that,” I bite out. “Do what?” “Pretend we’re cozy. We’re not. I don’t know you, you don’t know me. I’m plotting your death as we speak.” A tick in his jaw pulses, something flashing in his eyes that chills me to the bone. “Of course.”

“Cut me if you want me to stop,” he rasps, his thumb sliding across my cheekbone. “I’ll gladly bleed beneath you, so don’t be shy.” “Touch me,” I groan, my voice shrill with a neediness I don’t recognize. Not in myself.

“But first you have to stop looking at me like it means something.” He flinches, as if struck with the metal tip of a barbed whip. “You want a meaningless release?” I nod, jerking my hips. “Right.” Another flash of lightning, and I see his eyes have shuttered black. “Well . . . you won’t find that here, Prisoner Seventy-Three.” His voice is monotone. Detached. Severed from . . . whatever this is.

All I want to do is slit Rekk Zharos’s throat. Is that too much to ask?

“It was foretold that the Fate Herder would bring you to us. That your offspring will tether the moons to the sky,” she says with a hitch of awe. “Forever.”

“This is a Tookah Trial,” she says, attempting to smooth some of my unruly hair behind my tapered ear. She gestures with her other hand toward the males now grappling in the sand, fists throwing. More blood sprays with the ferocity of their violent swings. “They are fighting for the great honor of being bound to you. The honor of building a life and producing offspring with Kholu is the greatest one could wish for. To pin the moons to the sky for good will ensure the future for offspring of the entire Johkull Clan, and their offspring, and theirs. To secure such peace is a great privilege.”

“Whas being sssaid?” I slur past my clanking teeth, trying to blink away the haze beginning to cloud my vision. “Hock is claiming the victory over your battle, despite the fact that you did not submit,” Saiza says as I’m carried past the Sól now making her way to Hock and Kaan in long, hip-rolling strides. “Kaan is declaring you are not free to be claimed by anyone. That you were not raised in our ways and are not accustomed to such traditions. He is demanding the trial be void. As Hock’s roskr—his greater, in your tongue—he is demanding Hock accept his great victory over Zaran and step out of the battle ring to add a dot to his réidi. Hock, in turn, is challenging the roskr order and wants to battle Kaan. If he wins, he will earn many more dots for his réidi.” My heart dives, the thought of Kaan battling Hock to the death spawning something spiky and uncomfortable in my chest. “Kaan isss King of The Burn,” I force out. “Hock would dare to challenge the crrrown?” “Your crowns mean little here. We claim part of no kingdom. Only the réidi matters. We only pound chest four times for the roskr-éh. The greatest.” My brows collide, and I look over my shoulder at the snarling males still spitting words at each other. “If Kaan is ssstrongest, why is he not Oah?” “He was, until his pah died,” Saiza whispers when we reach the tent. “He offered uith-roskr—second greatest—the bones of our ancestral Oahs. Oah Knok has been a worthy Oah.”

“What’s he doing?” “He is asking for you to place your print upon his réidi,” Saiza rasps, her voice hitched with awe. “He is saying that he respects you above himself and, most importantly, above his honor.” My heart stills, eyes widen. “I—” I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve that. “That doesn’t make any sense.” “He is announcing you as his roskr. His greater. Should you accept this honor, his title will be passed to you should he fall this dae.” Should he fall— A strange piercing pain lances through my chest like a dagger plunged deep. “Wh—” My voice cracks, and I look at Saiza, a question in my eyes that I hope she can see, certain that if I try to speak, everything will come out in strangled bits. What does it mean? Saiza’s eyes soften, and she places her hand upon my cheek, cupping it. “It means that if Kaan loses, any decision you make will not be challenged. You can leave despite being claimed and receive no dishonor because you will be considered Hock’s greater.” Every cell in my body charges with a current of thick, primal understanding, my next breath shuddered. He’s ensuring I get out . . . No matter what. My gaze drops to the male before me, something swelling in the back of my throat that’s hard to swallow past, and I realize just how right I was to run. To leave. He’s much, much too easy to care about. Saiza sweeps some of my own blood off my collarbone and uses it to paint my hand. “You may choose to print upon him and accept this great honor.”

“Moonbeam.” “Hmm . . .” “Please don’t scare me like that again.” Scare? What a nice thing to say. “You shouldn’t spend such lovely words on me, Sire,” I murmur groggily, wishing I didn’t find such comfort in his scent. In the feel of his arms wrapped around me. In him. “You should save them for somebody special.” His guttural growl is the last thing I hear before darkness consumes me.

“Kaan, who’s in your Creators-damn arms?” I turn, storming toward the doorway. “I love you, Veya, but I can’t do this here. I need Agni.” Now. I’m almost through when Veya screams at me from behind—her voice so shrill I picture a blade whirring toward me. “Kaan Llúk Vaegor. Tell me who that is, or I will fill your pallet with hurky beetles every slumber for the rest of your long, miserable existence, so fucking help me!” I blow out a sigh and turn. Cutting me another sharp look, she steps close, gaze dropping. She tugs back the hood, eases Raeve’s blood-soaked hair aside— And gasps. I look down, my heart dropping at the sight of Raeve’s face—her skin so pale it’s almost translucent. My chest stirs full of flames. Her features are too lax, thick lashes fanned across bruised cheeks, her plump lips barely parted. Not pursed with rage. Not peeling back with a lashing sneer. Not battling a smile, as it did when I poked my tongue at her. Veya’s trembling fingers dance around Raeve’s face, like she wants to touch her. Like she’s afraid she’ll disappear if she does. A feeling I know too well.

shaking her head. “The bone is fissured,” she murmurs, poking at the gape of skin in a way that makes me want to vomit. “I’ll have to melt her skull smooth again before I thread her flesh. She’s very lucky this didn’t kill her.” I would’ve split the world if it did. Then split my fucking self.

“Who in the Creators-damn fuck is that, and why does she look like Elluin Neván? She’s dead,” he says, looking from me to Veya to Grihm, his skin turning just as pale as the latter. “Am I the only one that thinks I’m going mad right now?” No. Agni looks between us like we’re all mad, dabbing some purple liquid on a piece of cloth and patting it over Raeve’s mouth. “She doesn’t know herself as Elluin,” I mutter, slopping my cloth back in the pail and dragging both hands through my hair, pulling it back off my face. “To her, she’s Raeve, and she has no recollection of anything prior to the past twenty-three phases.” My words echo through the hall, taunting me. “Well . . . fuck,” Pyrok murmurs. “You sure they’re one and the same? That you didn’t just bring some poor stray home because she looks like Elluin?” “You think I’d do that?” I growl. He shrugs. “Seen some crazy shit over the past eon. Not gonna lie.” I clear my throat. Granted. “It’s her. Any doubt I might’ve had was squashed the moment she told the High Chancellor of The Fade he has a microcock—and at her own murder hearing.” There’s a stretch of silence before Pyrok chuckles, snatching some random chalice off the table. “I’ll toast to that.” He drains the vessel, slamming it back on the table. “Hate that dusty old piece of shit.” “If she has no recollection,” Veya says with slow, steady precision, “how do you explain the fact that she calls herself by her middle name?” I shake my head. “I don’t know, Veya.” “Then ho...

“She’s a dream come true, but she’s not just my dream,” I say, packing the space full of truth-laden stones. “Not anymore.” Even the air seems to still, and an eerie quiet blankets the room, gnawing at me from all angles. I look at my bloody hands, stretch them out, inspect both sides before I crunch them into balls. “She’s so much more than a power play. So much more than the love of my existence. There’s someone out there who needs her more than any of us do, and it’s not our fucking brother,” I growl, looking straight into Veya’s glazed eyes. She blinks, and a tear slides down her cheek. “I will slowly, gently ease her into her truth—painful as it is. Then she can choose her own path. Make her own choices.” Come what may.

“Nobody can suffer what she’s been through and not be pitted with a well of dragonflame—whether she remembers her past or not. Tread carefully, Kaan, or she’ll incinerate herself and turn to ash in your fucking hands.”

“I didn’t get to rip off Pah’s head,” I mutter, reaching for the mug of brandy and tipping myself a glass. “I’ll rip off theirs.” “Well, let me know if you want me to fry their cocks.” “Maybe. See how I feel at the time.”

“My roll,” I say, reaching for the cup containing the dice. “Since your face annoys me.” “You said I was pretty.” “Yeah.” I toss the dice across the table, rolling a six, picking the eighteenth shard from the far left corner. Choosing to add the spangle to my deck, I set my sowmoth face down on the empty spot. “Pretty annoying.”

“You’re not gonna wait until Elluin wakes? Reintroduce yourself?” “Haven’t decided.” What I mean to say is that I don’t trust myself not to rip at her the same way I ripped at Kaan, despite the unrecognition and confusion I’ll undoubtedly receive. What she did was, in many ways, completely unforgivable. Perhaps the diary will shed some light on the black hole she punched through my heart when she left without a word to me and a single pathetic note to the male she supposedly loved.

“Where is he?” She swallows her mouthful, slicing another segment free. “Probably getting threaded back together. He got pretty messed up trying to save you from a life on your back, tits out with a belly full of some brute’s babe.” My other brow lifts. “Let me guess,” she continues, piercing the tip of her blade through the milky shard as she pops her hip against the door, looking me up and down, flourishing the weapon about like a pointer stick. “He took you to a quaint hut in the hills, cooked you a meal, then looked at you like he loves you more than life itself. So you ran away, fell down the waterfall, and ended up being stripped in a skull full of half-naked warriors?” All the blood drains from my face. “How do you kno—” “Because I’m magnificent. I’m also loyal, but intolerable when you get on my bad side.” She brings the blade to her mouth and snatches the piece of fruit with her teeth, chewing through it. “I’m yet to decide where you fall.”

“Kaan was brought up constantly being told he’s not good enough. He’ll never admit it, but in his mind, he doesn’t deserve the honor of that being around your neck,” she says, waving her blade in the direction of Kaan’s málmr. I don’t think she gets it—desperate times and all that. He’s probably looking forward to getting it back. Wearing a sharp smile, she says, “Break him again and I’ll break you.” She shoves off the door and swings it wide, fluidly stalking down the hall while her last words sink their teeth into my brain and gnaw. “What do you mean again?” I snarl, stalking to the doorway, still white-knuckling the candlestick. She keeps walking, just turning the corner at the end of the hall when a word bludgeons up my throat unchecked—my mouth shaping the sound as if from muscle memory alone. “Veya!” She stops, head turning—slow. Precise. Her wide-eyed stare collides with mine like salt to a raw, vulnerable wound that’s not on my body but within. On a portion of the shore lining my icy internal lake that’s not as high as it was before. That’s dropped a foot, leaving a ring of ebony stones achingly bare. Maybe I’m seeing things? Maybe it was always like this? “What did you just call me?” Frowning, I rub my head, wondering who I’m confusing her with. Somebody, surely. Do I know a Veya? I must. “Nothing. I don’t know. Go away, you’re hurting my head.”

“I see you’ve managed to scam your way into being equipped. Quick work.” I drop my hem. “Hidden talent. What’s yours?” “Sweet fuck all.” He dashes his hand at the stairs that swoop toward the bouldered city below. “Let’s go.” My heart drops, frown returning. Am I not as free as I thought I was? “What did I do to deserve an escort?” He flicks me an up-and-down look, both brows raised. “You look like a tourist unaccustomed to the heat. If you’re going to hock off a solid gold candlestick, you might as well get a good deal. A merchant sees you with me, chances are they won’t short you.” Actually, that’s thoughtful. Though I wonder if he’d be so supportive if he knew I intended on swapping said candlestick for an armory’s worth of Sabersythe scale blades? “Thank y—” “Unless they caught me tangled up with their daughters,” he tacks on, shrugging. “Or their sons. Then they’ll probably refuse to do business with you altogether.” Creators.

“Have you traveled elsewhere?” There’s an easy lightness in the way he hands me the question, but it still feels like catching an ember. I consider the cold journey north toward the wall after I finally escaped from . . . there. Consider the horrors I encountered. Fought. The loneliness that bit so deep it gouged bone. “Just here,” I say, batting the memories aside. “Though I was mostly unconscious or inside Rygun’s mouth. I wouldn’t exactly call it sightseeing—unless you count the ball of flame in the back of his throat that kept threatening to incinerate me.” A perfect reminder that this city may glow with a happy radiance, but its beautiful king still toted me around like a toothpick. Perfect reason not to fall too far in love with the place. And it’s hot here—I hate the heat. And Rekk needs to be skinned alive, cured, then used as a fucking floor rug.

“You’re missing something, but you don’t know what . . .” A bolt of chill shoots through my veins, boring all the way to my marrow. “I—” “Oh . . . my dear.” His face scrunches, hand clutching his chest as a tear slides down his cheek. “Something so . . . special,” he sobs, his words a convulsing ache in my belly. A swift stab to the left side of my chest. “The answer is within you. In the place where you hide everything. I could help you drain the—” “That’s enough,” I snap, thumping the candlestick on the counter. His eyes widen, breath shuddering. For a long moment, he just . . . stares—all the color leaching from his face, more tears gathering in his eyes that fall freely down his cheeks. Drips of a truth I don’t want to look at. Don’t want to see. Not when I can already imagine the sad sounds his tears are making just by looking at them. “I said enough.” Please . . . He blinks, crushing his brow together, not bothering to wipe the trails of sadness from his cheeks. “Of course. I’ll do my best to stop. I just—” He shakes his head, then stands, moving out from behind the counter. “I’ll collect your decoy purchases so you can be on your way.”