I leap off the pallet and flatten myself against the floor, waiting for the booming thud of the beast’s wings to ebb. When I finally risk a peek at the ceiling, my heart stills.
High in the sky, almost close enough to graze the spiky bronze moon that sits above the city, a pair of Sabersythes spin together, shrieking as they twist and tumble amongst a spill of aurora ribbons. Too many.
Is the sky broken? And has war come to Dhomm?
Keeping low to the floor, I reach for my small pile of clothes I’ve collected over the cycles, pulling my trusty black slip on and shoving it over my hips. I stuff my feet into my boots, then snatch my leather sheath on my way down the stairs. Blindly buckling it to my thigh, I dash out into the jungle to the tune of another screeching roar.
“Shit,” I mutter, flattening myself against the stone, heart thumping hard and fast. I secure the final buckle while searching for any sign of danger, finding nothing amiss. Though there is a faraway song lilting to the distant thud of drums that certainly doesn’t sound like I’d expect war drums to sound—the beat … playful?
What’s going on?
Dashing my hair off my face, I dart through the jungle, cutting my surroundings into surveyed segments. Hunting for any irregularities.
More near and distant dragon shrieks rattle the air lusted with a sweet, spicy smell, almost like the world is a flower in full bloom.
I inch free of the dense foliage, down the tide’s vertical lip, and onto the Loff’s pebbled shore.
My eyes widen, something inside me going so still I feel like every beat of my heart is an earthquake in comparison.
Terracotta rocks grind beneath my boots as I edge toward the lapping water, taking in the sky …
Definitely broken.
A scribble of silver aurora threads dance to their own pulsating beat—thousands of them. Like the tap that usually lets no more than ten of them dribble free sprung a leak.
A big one.
Dragons soar and spiral through the metallic ribbons of light, some on their own, some paired off with other dragons that match their spectacular motions.
Frowning, I cast my gaze across the city in the distance.
Almost every bouldered structure boasts a silver flag—a riot of lengthy ribbons fluttering about, tangling with each other. The esplanade is a vibrant smudge of motion, the smell of Molten Mead and braised meat brought to me on a whip of wind.
There certainly appears to be no war happening. Just some sort of celebration the likes of which I’ve never seen before.
That, and the broken sky.
I pick apart an old conversation I once heard between two merchants a long while ago. They spoke of something called The Great Flurrt. Said the miskunns were predicting one would bloom sometime this decade, and that they hoped there would be an influx of fertilized eggs at the spawning grounds afterward.
Perhaps this is that? The dragons in the sky certainly look like they’re … flurrting.
My cheeks heat.
Good for them. At least somebody’s fucking in real life and not just in their dreams.
Again, I look at the city, a surge of adrenaline spiking through me, making my heart pump harder. Faster.
Something about those silver ribbons and the drums and the dragons makes me want to run toward something for a change. To rip down the bars of my self-restraint and crack open my hungry heart, crumble it into a silt, mash it together with some moisture, then mold it into something soft again.
Exactly why I should not go there.
Over the other side of that heavily runed terracotta fence, reality prowls like a skulking beast ready to hunt.
To kill.
I turn my back on the city, charging toward the jungle, but something in my peripheral makes me pause.
I look at the tree where I found the carving, a black woven basket now hanging on a short, knobbly branch.
My heart stills, breath catches.
Whoever left it there knows I’m here despite the fact that I’ve been discreet. Most importantly, they know there’s no damn hushling living over this side of the fence.
The riddle’s not exactly hard to untangle.
I move toward the tree, eyeing the basket like the ember it is, knowing one purposeful breath blown upon its surface will lead it to ignite.
To burn.
Swallowing the lump of trepidation rising in my throat, I take the basket’s weight in my hand and lift it from the branch, settling it on the ground. I rip back the cloth draped over the contents, entirely expecting the motion to rip off a scab in some way or another.
“Creators,” I mutter, studying the delicate, ethereal mask tucked amongst a nest of silver silk. An elaborate craft of argent wire and flat pearly disks that glimmer in the sun’s blaze. Ribbons are attached to the sides, perhaps meant to bind it around the back of my head.