“Creators,” I mutter.
The cliff is a vertical drop that levels onto another plateau, cradling a churning basin fed into from the now-heaving waterfall. The pool spills over the edge, down another cliff, where it feeds into a second basin far below—the one I saw when we first flew in. Though it looks nothing like it did then.
Now it’s a swollen catchment gushing into the gorge with hazardous force.
I wince.
This is not ideal, but it’s this or the cliff behind me and a probable dead end.
The rainfall tapers a little, a single shaft of light splitting through the bulbous clouds above …
I shrug, taking it as a sign.
Turning, I push my iron cuff farther up my arm so it won’t get in the way, cutting a glance toward the jungle walkway before I fold into a crouch. I ease my feet over the edge, find a foothold in the stone, and drop—swallowing the heart-plummeting sensation that always ensues the moment I’m hanging off the edge of something treacherous.
The stone is slippery but sturdy enough that I’m able to climb in semiconfident increments, making my movements swift and methodical.
Nearing the bottom of the cliff, I leap the final few feet, landing upon the grassy plateau. I run toward the edge of the pool to see angry water lapping at the sides, though it’s still a few feet off from challenging the bank’s generous easements.
Should be fine.
For a moment, I watch the heaving waterfall shoveling over the edge with such roaring might it’s hard not to marvel …
Rayne’s an exquisite Creator. Such a dominant force.
I turn, just easing over the cliff’s edge when a flutter of movement snatches my gaze. A flock of tawny birds ripping from the jungle, squawking as they shoot skyward.
My heart leaps into my throat.
Birds don’t fly during storms, everybody knows that. They hunker down. Hide.
Did something spook them?
A deep seed of knowing sinks into my chest, riddling me with blazing roots of adrenaline.
He’s coming.
Shit.
I begin to clamber down the cliff, not bothering to check my hand placements. Tearing up my fingers and feet with the frenzy of my frazzled descent.
If Kaan finds me, there’s no way I’m getting free again. He won’t take his Creators-damn eyes off me.
A terrible creaking sound fissures the air, and I look up in time to see an explosion of water—a gushing torrent of froth and stones and torn-out trees pouring toward me so fast I barely have time to pull a breath before I’m struck, ripped from the wall.
Something hard collides with my head—
Darkness.
They came for me while I was sleeping, curled beneath the furs in Mah and Pah’s pallet like I did when I was sick. Where they’d sing me songs that always made me feel better.
They came for me—an entourage of beaded guards from The Burn, The Fade, and the neutral city of Bothaim, residence of the Tri-Council.
They must’ve known I’d put up a fight despite my weakened state, because they shot me with an iron pin before I’d even opened my eyes.
Cowardly fucks.
They allowed me to gather a single bag of belongings before I was veiled, shackled in iron, and escorted from the sleepsuite. Mah and Pah’s aides must’ve fought, because they were also bound, on their knees, being guarded along the corridors as I was led outside to where a thunder of Moltenmaws were perched along Arithia’s walls. Upon the rooftops of Arithia’s buildings and gusting through the sky, blowing their orange flames and making the city folk scream.
I’m told they didn’t come to conquer my kingdom. That they’re simply helping to ward it until I’m able to bind with the male who’s been chosen for me by the Tri-Council.
Tyroth fucking Vaegor.
One of King Ostern’s three sons. The one with cruel eyes. The male Pah promised he wouldn’t trade me to for all the grain in the world.
I screamed at them. Told them I’d rather rot. Earned a smack to the side of the head by one of The Burn’s barbed guards.
Everything went black for a bit.
I came to on the back of the biggest Moltenmaw I’d ever seen, Slátra trailing us all the way to the Imperial Fortress near The Fade’s capital where we’re to spend this slumber—screeching without pause.
Now I can’t drift off. Can’t do a thing but stare out the window, nurse this chest full of grief, and watch Slátra flick through the colorful clouds, throwing icy flames while my escort Moltenmaws keep trying to herd her back toward the shadows of The Shade.
Once the aurora rises, we’re set to soar across the Boltanic Plains, straight on to Dhomm—The Burn’s illusive capital. Where I’m to spend the next three phases biding time until I come of coronation age, after which Tyroth and I are to be bound. Until then, it would be “uncouth” for me to be living under the same ceiling as the male now charged with running my kingdom.