It’s not until I’m tromping across the Loff’s rocky shore toward the western tip of the cove I’ve been drawn to since I arrived—the city hutch well and truly at my back—that I realize I have no intention of leaving yet …
Another foreign compulsion that’ll no doubt bite me in the ass.
It’s been a while since my last entry. My attention’s been … elsewhere. Tangled in a web of confusion. That’s the only way I can describe this feeling in my chest.
After my first fighting lesson with Veya beneath the harsh rays of Dhomm （which, by the way, is nowhere near as easy as I thought it was going to be）， I moved through the halls of the Imperial Stronghold—body aching, smelling like the sun-deterrent poultice she always cakes me in before I step outside. I came to the grated door that leads to Slátra’s hutch. Only it was closed.
Locked.
Sitting beside the door was the male I now know to be Kaan Vaegor—the eldest son of the King, only recently back from the Boltanic Plains to watch over Dhomm while his pah helps Tyroth secure his foothold in Arithia.
It was the first time I’d seen him since he threw me in the tub then stormed off to let Veya scrub me down.
He was sitting on the ground with a beautiful string instrument resting over his lap, carved from what appeared to be a hunk of emberwood. Such a deep, ruddy tone—like aged blood. He was plucking out a simple tune from the three thick strings, his fingers moving so delicately I felt like they were plucking the chords of my broken heart.
He didn’t look at me, but the instructions were clear based on the key beside him. Based on the massive bowl of red stew and the lump of bread sitting atop a meal tray on the ground across the hall.
I leapt for the key, but he snatched my arm, his grip so strong I was immediately aware of how easily he could snap bones.
He told me to eat first.
One—who does that?
Two—I’m a mood eater, just like Mah was. And this thing on my head makes me feel nauseous ninety percent of the time. Doesn’t make for much of an appetite.
I didn’t bother telling Kaan Vaegor that. He had this look in his eye like it wouldn’t have mattered if I did. The rules wouldn’t change. And technically, while his pah’s gone, I’m living beneath Kaan’s roof.
Kaan’s rules.
Such bullshit.
Furious, yet desperate to get back to Slátra, I did as he asked—slurping down the stew so fast I only realized the meal was too rich and spicy when it was far too late, a small sun burning in my gurgling gut. I made it to the privy just in time for my stomach to turn inside out. Or at least that’s how it felt.
When I came back, the door was unlocked.
Kaan was gone.
The following slumber, he was there again, but this time there was a much smaller serving of a much milder stew that almost reminded me of home—with notes of jumplin bulb and frostfruit. There was also a glass of colk milk which cleansed my mouth and belly from the mild amount of spice.
Every slumber since has been the same strange routine. Me sitting in his vast atmosphere while I fill my belly with meals I can feel flooding me with strength.
We don’t talk. He simply plays while I eat and earn the key that unlocks Slátra’s hutch. Then I leave, his plucked chords chasing me down the tunnel where I huddle within the curve of Slátra’s tail, lulled to sleep by the baritone tune …
I don’t understand what he’s doing. Why he’s doing it.
I don’t understand why I’m starting to look forward to it.
Sunshine punches the side of my face as I climb the jagged stairwell scored into the mountainside, my laden leather satchel banging against my leg every time I take a step. The aurora’s yet to rise, the city silent, the air still thick from the downpour.
Objectively, I should wait a few cycles before I set out for Arithia in search of Elluin’s diary. Take time to prepare for the lengthy journey. But I have the patience of a Sabersythe and twice the energy—making for a sleepless slumber fraught with spiky thoughts and feet so itchy I finally gave up and packed a bag.
The path cuts left, then flattens into a wide stone shelf dedicated to some of the larger burrows. Like cells of a búsinbee hive, the hutch has been integrated into the mountainside, bearing two hundred twenty-seven holes in all different shapes and sizes.
Some Sabersythes like to tuck deep within the mountain, others shallow. Some prefer a wide space, others tight and cozy so they can blow the burrow full of flame, then curl up pressed against near-molten walls like they’re still tucked in an egg.