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.
I look to where a patch of dressing covers the deep gash in the side of her head. A gash that follows the same trail as the scar I saw via dragonflame.
More blood has seeped through the dressing since I checked last …
Fuck.
Perhaps finally noticing that some of the blood on Raeve’s body has been painted on, Veya cuts me a glance, then peels the cloak farther back, revealing Raeve’s red silk attire. Revealing my málmr draped around her neck, the carving rested upon her blood-slicked chest.
Veya stumbles back a step, her wide, tear-puddled eyes condemning me. “How—”
“She’s wounded,” I rumble, tucking the cloak back into place to protect her modesty for my impending charge through the halls. “I stopped by a mender’s hut on the way, but they only had the expertise to stabilize her for the journey here.”
Veya swallows, nods once, then dashes a tear off her cheek, not meeting my gaze as she rasps, “Come, I just passed Agni on her way to the feasting hall.”
Icharge through lofty tunnels lit with flaming sconces, Veya keeping pace. We storm past mercenaries who flatten themselves against the walls—right fists thumping against their chests.
“Hagh, aten dah,” many of them yell as we pass, packing the air with the clamor of welcome and respect.
We barrel down another lengthy tunnel, the Stronghold almost the size of the city itself—a city within itself—tunneling into the mountain range, spilling out in cleverly hidden clefts farther down the mountain range. Enough space to house the entire cavalry, their families, and the dragons of those who have charmed one.
There was a time when the entire place was maintained for the imperial family alone, but I filled it with enough noise to drown out the plague of silence after I tore Pah’s head from his shoulders and took the city haunted by the ghost of her. Blood rained, the Loff blushed, and Rygun feasted that dae.
I thought it would make me feel better.
It didn’t.
We round a corner, storming into the rowdy clatter and chatter of the feasting hall as Pyrok exits the wide-open doorway with a mug of Molten Mead in his big fist. His blaze of rebellious locks is a fucking mess as usual, hanging around his scar-riddled shoulders, black piercings through his nipples, lip, septum, and lobe.
He looks me up and down, whistles low, and spins, charging back into the hall. “Meal time’s over! Grab your plates and get the fuck out. Yes, you too. No, not you—you stay right where you are, Agni dearest. Your miraculous skills are required.”
Nice of him to be helpful for a change. Guess we look worse than I thought.
I barge through the doorway in time to see him reach over the long stone table, using his arm as a sweep to shove everything down the far end—copper plates, cutlery, and chalices clattering to the ground, splashing mead and meat and flaps of spiced dahpa bread all over the stone.
Folk scatter, exiting the vast hall in a silent riot I barely notice, heading for the half-empty table lit by a single jagged blade of sun slicing through the cleft in the roof. I lay Raeve’s listless body on it, directly before a wide-eyed Agni—her white Runi cloak such a contrast to her dark skin, more than twenty gold, silver, or diamond buttons lining the middle seam.
A boast of her vast accolades. Even more than her sister, Bhea.
Agni looks between the still-weeping gashes on my chest and the bloody dressing on Raeve’s brow.
“Her first. Please.”
She nods, tucking a lock of brown hair behind her ear before she peels the cloak away and examines Raeve’s battered body, clicking her tongue.
I look at Pyrok. “Can you find Roan? The extra pair of hands could help.”
“Can’t,” he says, twirling the piercing through his bottom lip. “He’s not here.”
“Where—”