Another time.
A cell I was born into in my own strange way, bonded with its walls and the smell and the female I shared it with.
I had something to fight for then. Somebody I loved and cherished. All I’ve got now is a wounded heart and this ravenous hunger for revenge that’s as futile as Wrook’s hole in the ground.
I’m trapped in a cell, shackled with iron, a pin in my shoulder, scheduled for a trial with the Guild. The only way I’m getting out of this is …
Death.
Pahpi says claiming a mature Moonplume at such a young age makes me remarkable, but I don’t feel very remarkable.
Haedeon will never walk again because the bones fused back together, but not in the right way. Pahpi says nobody has the skills to rebreak, then fix such delicate damage so deep without cutting him open and risking more harm.
His Moonplume may never fly because her wing is gammy. Because our makeshift hatching camp got sniffed out by a pack of doomquills just as Haedeon’s egg began to rock, and I had to hide it in the warmth with him before it had a chance to fully hatch.
Yes, I fought off the doomquills, but I would’ve lost if the massive Moonplume that had been circling hadn’t shown up and blazed the rest of them. Yes, I then climbed on her back and held on really tight for really long until she listened to my soft song, but I just did what I had to do to get my brother home. Because the Creators wouldn’t sing to me no matter how much I begged them to help.
Now they won’t shut up.
Wrook scratches at the corner of his cell while I hum, sitting in the corner, tapping my foot against the ground to the tune in my head. I trace the dips and spines of the ceiling, hunting the bulbous balls of moisture hanging off the more prominent peaks, trying to guess which one will drip next. A game I’ve played on and off since I was dumped here.
Not sure how long ago that was. Feels like a while.
Perhaps those who tossed me in here think that by leaving me to rot in this shithole, I’ll madden into a pulp. Become pliable enough that when they finally present me to the Guild of Nobles, I’ll mold to their stringent will.
Unfortunately for them, I’m well practiced in the art of existing in a confined space, and there are many ways to bide time in a cell if you have a rich imagination.
Heavy footsteps thump down the corridor, and I dim my sound, a small smile swelling my cheeks as Wrook stuffs his blanket over his rebellious hole, tucks into a ball before it, and pretends to sleep.
My gaze clings to a water droplet I’m certain is the next to fall—disappointment backhanding me when instead one lands atop the peak of my nose, making my face twitch.
I frown, eyes narrowing on the wobbly globule …
Drip, you stubborn bastard!
A different one splats on my knee, and a sigh gusts past my dry, split lips.
I’m terrible at this game. Not once have I gotten it right. So help me, I will crack the code by the time I’m marched to my doom.
A figure storms past my cell in a flutter of thick white material, and a voice in the back of my mind questions why a Runi would bother with a trip into Gore’s septic bowels cluttered with half-digested “traitors” to The Crown. Whoever it is stops before Wrook’s cell, crouching. “I heard you stole the wrong ring from the wrong fae,” the male rumbles in a deep, gravelly voice that skates across my pebbling skin.
A voice I recognize.
My heart flops against my ribs, gaze drifting to the broad, cloaked visitor as Wrook feigns a stretch.
The hooded male from the Hungry Hollow, now dressed like a Runi.
I tuck farther into the shadowed corner …
I was so strong and composed outside the wind tunnel with my iron blade pressed to his member. Now I’m in bits in a cell, chasing drips of mildew, smelling like my own filth and ruin. I’m like a dragon midmolt, and the last thing I want is that assessing stare poking me in my tender spots that are yet to fully calcify.
“Costly mistake,” Wrook forges past a faux yawn.
The male grunts. “I’ve been looking for you all over, you know.”
Wrook’s ears flick forward, nose twitching. He licks his paws, using them to swipe the hairs back on his face as he rocks up into a crouch. “Why?”
“Because someone I’m acquainted with saw you scurrying for the nearest sewer with a moonshard in your mitts.”
My heart skips a beat.
Why in this Creators-forsaken world is he hunting moonshards?
Wrook kicks back his foot to scratch behind his ear. “I don’t know what you’re t-t-talking about.”
“I can get you out. Digging won’t work. This place is runed against anyone digging farther than a foot. And I have a Sabersythe tusk I’m willing to trade for the shard.”