I look to the right, a few tendrils of the aurora still glinting over the horizon, though mostly it’s now out of sight.
Guess we’ll find somewhere to stop for slumber soon.
I’m just looking at the river again, fawning at the way the water appears to flow so freely between the chapped plains, when I notice Kaan put a little pressure on the left tug-rope.
Rygun’s right wing begins to rise.
Anticipating the canting motion, I grip the strap and lean into the sway, finding the movement almost … natural, this time managing to keep my seat between Kaan’s powerful thighs.
The sun now beats upon the right side of our bodies, warming my cloak as we’re carried toward a lofty band of auburn mountains stretched far and wide, north to south, emerging from the distant haze of dust torn up by the wind.
“Where are we going?”
“There,” Kaan says, pointing toward a distinct dip in the mammoth range, which expands a little more with each thud-ump of Rygun’s wings.
Scorched earth gives way to lush, russet jungle, the likes of which I’ve only seen in paintings on shop walls in Gore, the heavily vegetated mountains before us so large and vast they make Rygun feel like a pinprick in comparison.
The only ranges I’ve ever seen have been sheer and sharp, but these are the opposite. Like somebody ladled scoops of stone, then dumped them on each other in big mounded heaps, clouds beginning to gather around their heads like puffs of gray hair.
Rygun banks, aiming for a crevice, its soaring, jagged edges severed by the rushing river far below.
“Hold on,” Kaan growls, gathering both tug-ropes in one hand, threading the other arm around my waist. My spine stiffens as he tips his body forward, forcing me to do the same—wedging me between himself and the hard-packed saddle, pitching my pulse into a bellowing roar.
“Why are you not steering?”
“Because he knows where to go,” Kaan says upon the left side of my hood.
Huh?
A tightening of his dense body is the only warning I get before we pitch sideways, the motion so rapid my innards corkscrew the opposite direction. They finally manage to catch up, though just as they do, Rygun tips the other way. Back again, and again, and again, skimming past sheer, rust-colored cliffs the river appears to have worn its path between, like it’s reaching for something deep. Perhaps the other side.
Perhaps if it gets there, the world will split in two.
Another tip, Kaan’s inhale crushing his body so close to mine that I feel him everywhere. The way he flexes as he prepares for the next maneuver. The way his arm tightens around my waist, muscles bulging, clinging to me like I’m going to somehow slip free and plunge to my doom.
Rygun battles the gorge with such precision I realize he’s done this many times—tucking his wings when the pathway becomes narrow, dropping momentarily before throwing them out again.
We come to a dead end, water pouring down the rounded mountainscape above in wide, gushing steps, gathering in a large basin at its foot. The teal pool glimmers like a gemstone beneath diagonal beams of sun, the northern side cast in a deep pocket of eternal shade.
Rygun swoops almost low enough to drag his tail through the water, scooping skyward—Kaan’s tensing body and my firm grip on the strap the only things stopping me from ripping off the saddle, skimming down the length of the beast and plummeting into the pool.
A smattering of water pelts my cloak as we shoot up, then level so fast a yelp slips up my throat. Rygun thrashes his wings, lowering us gently … then all at once. We thud upon the ground so hard my canine pierces my bottom lip.
The taste of copper fills my mouth.
Kaan pulls back, ripping me with him. He flips the hood, tilting my head until I’m staring straight up at the underside of his scruff-covered chin.
He clicks his tongue, the rough pad of his thumb dragging across my bottom lip with such tenderness every muscle in my body poises for a few rigid moments before my brain has a chance to recalibrate.
Tyrant King.
My captor.
Shoved his finger in my wound.
Snarling, I bat his hand away and push to a wobbly stand, the insides of my thighs so chafed and achy I immediately buckle.
He catches me, making a deep rumbling sound as he flips me over with effortless ease and lumps me on his back, drawing a dense oomph from my tormented abdomen now folded over his stone-hard shoulder.
Being treated like a sack of grain is getting very old, very quickly.
“Your hips are sharp,” he grumbles, and I bash my fists against his back, knowing there’s next to no point.