“Me,” Colet says from my right.
Good.
Another screeching roar belts through the Stronghold, splintering my self-control.
I grind my teeth, quickening my pace, storming up a flight of stairs. The two guards bracketing the doors at the top rip them wide the moment they catch sight of us, exposing the flat stretch of chapped stone large enough for almost any beast to land, the odd coppery bush growing from the cracks.
One of the earliest hutches, somewhat isolated. Distanced from the rest of them.
Rarely used.
I look out upon the massive kidney-shaped landing patch forged in an otherwise sheer drop of cliff, the hutch’s mouth drenched in a pour of sunlight on the eastern side. The other half is steeped in shadow currently occupied by Rekk’s trembling Moonplume pawing at the stone, coiling away from the sunlight with Rekk still saddled.
I’m not surprised she’s distressed. Frightened.
With the storm clouds dissipating rapidly, there’s a dense, humid heat this creature’s not built to withstand and no hope of the sunshine letting up to allow her a painless crossing to the hutch’s shadowed entrance on the other side.
“Creators,” I mutter, taking the creature in. A black mask is fitted to her face, shielding her eyes and protecting her from blinding, not that it helped the rest of her. Her leathery skin is bubbled, blistered all over, blood and puss leeching from her mottling of sun-exposure wounds, smearing across the stone as she binds herself into a tighter ball.
A shape that reminds me too much of Slátra—solidified in the same position deep beneath my sleepsuite.
My heart pounds as I scour her shredded wings that look barely capable of catching air, and I wonder how she made it here at all.
Hutchkeepers inch toward the broken beast, yelling commands for her to pull from the shadow and move into the hutch. Her silky tail sweeps across the ground, threatening to flick them off the cliff, some leaping out of the way just in time to dodge their plummeting fate.
“Beuid eh vobanth ahn … defun dah,” Rekk bellows to Bulder—a groundbreaking timber that clefts a web of hairline cracks through the stone directly beneath his beast. Attempting to force the poor creature from the small patch of shade.
Rather than scurry from the unsteady ground, the tormented Moonplume tucks into an even tighter ball, almost crushing Rekk against the cliff at her back in her squealing efforts to avoid the sun.
Scowling, Rekk mashes the thorned heels of his boots through gory holes in his saddle blanket. “Move, you stupid bitch!”
The Moonplume tips her head, releasing another deep, droning lament that shreds my fucking heartstrings.
“Wait here,” I growl at my entourage, stalking forward—
A hefty thud-ump pounds the air, an immense, more predatory form of rage swelling beneath my ribs, falling amidst the churning pool of my own violent wrath.
Maintaining a healthy distance from the sweeping reach of the Moonplume’s tattered tail, I signal for the keepers to clear out, stopping in Rekk’s line of vision, arms crossed so I can hide the clenching of my fists.
He meets my gaze, opens his mouth to speak again, the tendons in his neck stretching with the strain required to shape Bulder’s language—
“Do it. Put another crack in my ground. I’ll enjoy filling it with your grated remains.”
He snaps his teeth together, the corner of his mouth curling. He releases a slow, bloodcurdling laugh that snips off the moment Rygun explodes into sight.
Massive, billowy wings wrap around the air as he hovers before the landing patch, oozing bone-crushing strength, every part of his body a heaving mass of motion but for his heavily thorned head. Plumes of smoke spill from his flared nostrils, blazing eyes narrowed on Rekk—now statue still, his Moonplume so small and delicate compared to my hulking Sabersythe. So broken and bound.
She releases another pained lament, this one softer.
More scratchy.
A deep rumble emits from Rygun’s chest, his lips peeling back, flames flickering between the gaps of his bared teeth. His desire to plunge forward and rip Rekk off that saddle folds through our bond, making every muscle in my body feel like it’s at war with itself.
“Order your beast to stand down,” Rekk bellows, throwing me a panicked stare I take far too much delight in, tasting smoke on the back of my tongue coupled with the sweet nectar of his fear.
“Unwedge your spokes from that Moonplume’s hide, get down from your saddle, and I’ll consider it.”
“Imperial cunt,” he mutters beneath his breath, probably thinking I can’t hear him. Like a youngling tossing a tantrum for being told what to do.