Pahpi said it’s really hard to get a Moonplume egg. That you have to go to Netheryn—the place where it’s too cold for almost everything else to grow or breathe—and climb really high ice towers without being seen. That you have to steal the egg from a mahmi Moonplume’s nest, then get back down the tower fast and quiet.
My brother’s big and he makes lots of noise all the time. He doesn’t know how to breathe soft or make his boots not crunch in the snow. Even his voice is rough and coarse like grain.
He doesn’t hear any of the elemental songs.
Maybe those butterberry chews do give you a bellyache after all, because I don’t feel so good anymore …
I don’t think my brother’s coming home from Netheryn.
Slamming the door shut on The Curly Quill, I charge west through the rowdy Ditch now packed full of merchant carts, folk flocking to claim the cheapest bushels of vegetables they can barter. I’d planned to stop for a cindercream pastry from one of my favorite merchants on the way home, but after having all of Sereme’s purple-toned trash stuffed down my throat, I’ve lost the urge.
A chorus of panicked gasps has me pausing, gaze whipping around, following a sea of upturned stares.
My pulse scatters at the sight of an adult Moltenmaw gliding almost close enough to rip a ballista off the wall with its massive talons. A gust of wind slams down with the might of its magnificent wings—almost unveiling me.
Chest expanding, it lengthens its neck, cranks its maw, and paints the sky in a plume of flame that pours enough heat into the Ditch to turn the snow slushy.
Folk scream, dashing for cover beneath skybridges that are, in all honesty, completely fucking useless. If that beast decided to turn its head and torch us, I doubt a single one of us could do anything to stop it.
Dragonflame doesn’t abide by the rules of nature. Ignos’s language can’t deter it from blistering skin. Melting flesh and bone.
Destroying cities.
Only a Daga-Mórrk can wield dragonflame—one so bonded with their dragon they can harness its strength and fire. Though the connection is more myth than reality.
The beast glides toward the coliseum that’s clamped between both lengths of wall like a ghastly, blood-splattered crown.
“Creators,” I mutter, watching the Moltenmaw circle lazily above the massive structure.
The feeding bell gongs loud enough that I feel the sound in my marrow, and a haunting hush falls upon the crowd, the air igniting with the frantic thump of beating wings. A thunder of Moltenmaws swarm from every direction, clotting the sky with a riot of ravenous motion, charging for the free meal—their sharp maws pointed toward the coliseum like a volley of arrows.
They converge, snapping at each other, talons slashing, vibrant feathers spraying as they battle for whoever’s currently tied to the stake within the structure.
An ear-splitting scream followed by a bloodcurdling howl of anguish echoes into the otherwise silent Ditch with eerie precision, almost like someone willed Clode to carry the sound down just to fuck with us. To remind us of the chilling consequences for those who madden The Crown.
My hands shake with my welling rage, fingers tangling through the folds of my gown, fisting the thick material.
I’d be up there right now, screaming for blood in the spectator seats if the one being fed to the beasts were a monster like Tarik Relaken. But it won’t be.
They never are.
They’re others like me, caught masquerading as nulls. They’re folk who speak out against the King, or parents of gifted children who try to keep their young from being forced through the painful screening process required of every offspring. From being shaved. Pierced. Ripped from their homes in exchange for The Crown’s prescription bucket of bloodstone—gratitude for their great contribution to The Fade’s swelling militia.
A paltry bandage for a wounded heart.
The searing scream is snipped to the tune of splitting wood, and my guts plummet so fast I’m struck with the urge to vomit.
A victorious Moltenmaw shoves from the coliseum, churns its feathered wings, and heaves into the sky. Blood leaks from its honed mouth as the beautiful, monstrous creature glides west, a sea of heads turning to watch it sail along the wall.
All the oxygen wicks from my lungs.
In that direction, the wall eventually dips, half swallowed by the Moltenmaw spawning grounds—Bhoggith. Whenever they fly west with fresh meat, there’s only one place the victim is going to end up.
Spat out in a nest, fed to the dragon’s young.
Live prey.
I shiver from the base of my neck all the way to the tips of my toes, my gaze coasting across the silent crowd, most staring skyward through wide eyes, their mouths pinched shut as if under lock and key.