I grunt, wanting to know nothing about these stops he speaks of.
“Why do you smell like sulfur?”
“Took Grihm to Gondragh,” I mutter as we charge around another corner.
“What?”
“Dropped his sorry ass off at the hatching hut so he can try and steal an egg from the Great Silver Sabersythe.”
A beat of pause as the two sentries standing guard over my office stamp their spears upon the ground at the sight of me, opening the doors.
“He’s going to die,” Pyrok mutters. “And he didn’t even wave goodbye. What the fuck is that?”
I don’t bother responding.
I’ve had a long time to work through these same emotions, and I’m now sitting somewhere close enough to acceptance that I no longer want to punch my fist through a wall or kick myself for letting him convince me to leave him there. Telling me he was going to do this by himself or not at all.
I get it. Going to raid a nest or charm an already grown beast is a deeply personal journey for those doing it for the right reasons …
Still chafes.
I charge into my office, the large space empty but for a stone desk and twin leather seats—appearing exactly as I’d left it all.
Moving toward the wall of curtains at the back, I rip them wide, scouring the view of the Loff beyond and filling the room with a blaze of light. Illuminating the char marks all over the walls.
The only embellishment this room deserves.
I think back to the shelves that used to line these walls, packed full of memorabilia from Pah’s reign. Think back to how good it felt watching it all burn after I stormed the Stronghold still splashed in his blood with his head hanging from my fist.
He put too much effort into this space and not enough into being a decent pah to Veya.
To me.
Now this room resembles a vacant chest cavity, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Anything more would be doing his memory a service he doesn’t deserve.
“I saw Grihm carrying runed boots into his sleepsuite,” Pyrok muses as he lumps into the leather seat opposite my own. “Makes a fuckload more sense now.”
Yes, it does.
I drop my saddlebags on the ground, scrubbing my hands over my face before I turn toward the desk.
“So what now?”
“If he makes it back to the hut, he’ll send a lark for one of us to collect him,” I say, lumping heavily into my seat.
Catching a waft of my shirt, I frown, pulling up the collar, drawing a sniff of sweat, sulfur, and ash.
Definitely need a bath. And a meal. And some fucking sleep—preferably on something other than sand or dirt with only the shield of Rygun’s wing to keep me from being mauled to death by predators. To be fair, I think he would’ve happily stayed north forever, basking in the heat and the vast smorgasbord of creatures that tried to skulk past him and snatch me while I slept.
I’m certain he’s grown.
“Collect him and his freshly hatched dragon,” Pyrok says.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” I reach into my pocket, fishing around for all the parchment larks that’ve been flocking me over the past thirty slumbers I’ve been away. “It’s one thing to steal an egg. Hatching it is a different story.”
I dump around fifty crushed larks on the table, pinching the bridge of my nose as I glare at them.
“Behind on your paperwork, I see.”
“What do I pay you for again?”
“Certainly not that,” he chuffs.
I lift a brow, waiting. Genuinely curious. All I ever see him do is drink mead.
“To sit around and look pretty,” he finally says, flashing me a smile. “Roan’s the helpful sibling, remember? He got the brain, I got the hair. And the cordial nature. And I’m pretty fucking good with my tong—”
“Got it.”
His smile widens, and he crosses his ankle over his knee, playing with his bottom lip piercing. Making no move to help me sort through the notes.
I sigh, reaching across the table for the pile of pre-runed parchment squares and my black quill, flattening one of the larks and skimming the note, wincing when I see the date.
Poor Krove’s been waiting over twenty cycles to have his huttlecrab quota signed off for final approval.
I ink my quill and begin scratching out an apology. “Speaking of which, is Roan back yet?”
“Nope.”
I shake my head.
Might send someone to check on him. Make sure he’s alright.
“So … are you gonna ask about her?”
My blood chills, that stupid organ in my chest impaling itself on a rib.