“I’ll escort you back to the Stronghold.”
“I’m fine,” she assures, passing me a weak smile before she reaches up and touches the lump, wincing. “This isn’t the first time I’ve come to with an egg on my head.”
I consider telling her about the time I came to with the remnants of Rekk’s finger between my teeth to lighten the mood a smidge, but think better of it.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
She nods, her drab gaze dropping to her spread of tools and tinctures, some shattered, others scattered across the ground. She sighs. “What a Creators-damn mess.”
“I’ll sort it. You go rest.” I kneel to collect the strewn vials, corking some, doing what I can to salvage the spilled contents.
“I’m terribly sorry I can’t work any faster, Raeve …”
“You’re easing her discomfort at the cost of your own health and well-being. Don’t be sorry. Go. Eat. Replenish. Get some rest. I’ll still be here when you return.”
“It’s just …” Frowning, I look up to see her stare scraping across my arms, my legs—tears welling in her eyes. “Anyone who’s been through the process knows how much it hurts, and I understand her suffering must be … hard for you to endure.”
Her meaning sinks beneath my skin, whisking my pulse into a rapid churn.
I clear my throat, carting a bundle of corked jars to the table we had set up on the far side of the cavern, my gaze caught on my task of putting them back into place. “We don’t need to talk about—”
“To me, you shine far brighter than Líri …”
I sigh, set my hands on the table, and stare at the wall. In all my known life, I hadn’t met a single folk blessed with Dragonsight. Now in less than sixty rises, I’ve met two.
They’re supposed to be blessedly rare.
“I don’t want the King knowing,” I say, turning to look at her.
“Veya said the same when I brought it up with her. Your secret’s safe with me. I just—”
“And I have no desire to speak of it. None. I don’t need coddling, Agni, though I appreciate the sentiment. All I need is for you to get some rest before you pass out again.”
Her mouth snips shut, cheeks flushing. “Of course.” With a dip of her head, she moves toward the cavern’s mouth, stepping into the misty curtain of rain.
“Creators,” I mutter, shaking my head.
I make for Líri’s head, her heavy-lidded gaze following my every motion, blinking with a flutter of wispy, pale lashes.
Such a contrast to her dark, fathomless eyes.
I settle before her, doused in the frosty blow of her soft, rumbling exhale. Rubbing my hand back and forth across her rounded nose, I marvel at the unique texture of her skin—like crumpled leather pressed smooth, veined in a web of fine creases.
Her slit nostrils flare, and she whuffs at me, the tasseled tendrils hanging from her jowls fluffing as my hand threads up between her eyes, rubbing. A trilling sound rattles in the back of her throat, and a smile kicks up the corner of my lips—
“What is it you don’t want me finding out, Raeve?”
Though my heart lodges itself on a rib, I keep my features smooth.
Impassive.
Heavy footsteps echo behind me, and every hair on the back of my neck lifts as I realize how close he is, his scent wafting around me like a soothing blanket part of me is desperate to nuzzle into.
Ignoring his question, I reach forward, taking one of Líri’s tendrils and running it through my fingers, her trilling sounds softening to a high-pitched purr that saws in longer, more languid drags until her breaths turn deep and even.
Slowly, I edge away. Careful.
Quiet.
She doesn’t so much as twitch as I ease to a silent stand, walking free of the rune’s frosty embrace, mindful not to disturb the luminous drawings smudged into the stone.
I make for the cave’s clamorous entrance, Kaan’s thumping footsteps following close behind.
Reaching the fall of water, I pause, arms crossed, peering out at the downpour—unsurprised to see Rygun coiled on the landing patch, though barely fitting on it. A single ember eye peers at the hutch’s entrance with lazy intrigue while he rumbles through long, heavy breaths.
“The hutchkeepers confirmed that Líri belonged to Rekk Zharos,” I say, my tone cool and calm. Precise.
It speaks nothing of the well of rage simmering beneath my ribs like a firestorm.
I’ve spent all of this past aurora cycle listening to that Moonplume howl as she’s been forced to relive the sizzling pain of each weeping welt that asshole dealt her, and there’s only one remedy to this brewing fury.