I glance out the open window to my right, scouring the picturesque Loff ruffled by the wind. Since this establishment sits amongst the bouldered shore on the eastern hook of Dhomm, we have a perfect view of the swooping city. Of the western point that keeps drawing my eye—appearing desolate of civilization, completely clothed in rust-colored jungle. “What’s there?”
Silence.
I look at Pyrok, who’s now staring at me like I sprouted an extra head.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says, releasing a full-body shiver likely attributed to the finger story.
I get it. I felt the same at first, but I’ve since bonded with the thought.
“It’s walled off.” He jerks his thumb toward the point. “A hushling lives there.”
I frown. “Really?”
“Wanna go investigate?”
I cast another glance toward the point.
Sort of.
“I want this cuff off more,” I grind out, and Pyrok pushes to a stand.
“Another drink for the long battle ahead?”
“Absolutely.” I drain my glass—the mead a rich conglomeration of smoked chezberries, hobs, and burning wood. Not too sweet or bitter. Undoubtedly the most delicious drink I’ve ever tasted. “I’ll pay you back with the change I got for trading the stolen candlestick,” I say, sliding the empty glass into his hand.
“You sure you don’t want a glass of water? It doesn’t taste like dirt here, and your cheeks are pretty flush—”
“Mead,” I murmur, turning my attention back to the cuff, lining up the rod. I doubt my purchased items will be ready before tomorrow’s rise, meaning I’ll probably be escorted back to the Imperial Stronghold for the oncoming slumber. “Please.”
The only way I’m sleeping beneath the same ceiling as his Imperial Highness without saying or doing something stupid is if I’m so utterly smashed I’m too comatose to lift my body off the pallet. I’m not usually one to drown my sorrows, but I see no point fighting the tide that obviously wants to dunk me beneath a pall of mindless oblivion.
I’m just steadying the rod again when movement outside catches my eye, my seat allowing me the perfect view of the domed lookout perched atop the mountain far above. Of the many massive hutch holes burrowed into the swooping cliff.
Twice now I’ve seen the same adolescent Sabersythe leaping from a rocky plateau cut within the bulging Stronghold—the beast’s only adornment a leather saddle blanket, perhaps getting it used to the feel of something draped upon its back.
Though interesting to watch it swoop through the sky in a giddy dance, frolicking about like it’s burning with a belly full of energy it doesn’t know what to do with, it’s not what I’ve been looking for. Sabersythes aren’t typically used for carter crossings since they can’t travel much farther south than The Fade for risk of freezing to death. They can’t stand the snow any more than a Moonplume can stand the sun—and I don’t want to go toward the sun.
I want to go away from it.
Thankfully, most major cities have a reserve of charmed, generally placid Moltenmaws trained enough to cart paying passengers to their chosen destination, escorted by the one who charmed the beast. And that Moltenmaw right there—now bursting into view from behind the mountain range, skimming through the sky as the wind ruffles its pink and red plumage, a double saddle cushioned between its feathered wings …
That’s my ticket out of here.
The massive beast lowers onto a plateau, throwing its head around to gnaw at an itch beneath its wing as Pyrok pulls the booth’s curtains closed, then settles into the seat opposite me.
“Tell me,” I murmur, pointing out the window with my rod, “is that the carter hutch?”
“Thinking of going somewhere, Moonbeam?”
My head whips around, heart plopping into my guts at the sight of Kaan reclined in the booth—hair pulled back, loose bits hanging around his fiercely beautiful face. He’s dressed in a black leather tunic that fits his frame like a second skin, stitched together with thick thread, the lines accentuating the broad scope of his powerful chest. What little sleeves the garment has are cut off across his wide shoulders, his scarred arms crossed as he watches me from beneath an arched brow.
I suck a breath into suddenly parched lungs, filling them with his molten scent that makes my heart rally.
“Hmm?” he coaxes, and I realize I’ve been sitting here staring at him, cheeks aflame, dry mouth empty of words, marinating in the stiff waves of tension undulating between us.