My key to acclimatizing: don’t get bogged down by the overwhelming details.
Pick something.
Hone my focus.
Don’t drown.
I’m led down a path that wiggles between the tightly packed tents, clusters of silk-swathed females and bare-chested males milling about the space, forging weapons from bits of wood, bronze, or plates of dragonscale bigger than I’ve ever seen. Others are weaving troves of golden silk thread into draped lengths of material or gathering around smoking fire pits saddled with metal spits, each laden with haunches of roasting meat that season the air with that rich, gamey smell.
Though many of them have red hair and bronze, heavily freckled skin, there are also folk with white hair. Black hair. Brown hair. With skin of all shades. Like folk from all corners of this world have fallen through those holes in the ceiling and found a home in this place.
I notice many of the cavity’s inhabitants boast tattoos similar to Kaan’s but depicting various creatures, some more of an outline rather than a full, shaded rendering.
“Kholu haf comá!” one of the warriors who led me here bellows, the words seeming to echo through the hushing cavern.
Everyone stills, wide eyes taking me in, then the creature following me like a majestic silver shadow I certainly didn’t ask for. But here we fucking are.
Some of the females cry out, eyes watering as they repeat the words:
“Kholu haf comá!”
“Kholu haf comá!”
“Kholu haf comá!”
Everyone drops their tools, some folk pushing from tents and immediately falling to their knees, kissing the ground. Like they’re thanking Bulder for … something.
Aside from my two escorts, myself, and my prowling Herder, not a single male, female, or youngling remains upright.
A surge of nausea spears up my throat, making the underside of my tongue tingle. I’m not sure if I’ve upset them or made them really, really happy, but either option is concerning.
If they revere me, expectations.
If they fear me, death.
That’s the general formula the world seems to be brewed with, and both those things are heavy time wasters. I’ve got a male to hunt down and strangle with his own intestines. I don’t have time to waste.
I pick at the skin on the sides of my nail, cutting another condemning glance at the beast herding me forward. “You’re in trouble.”
It cranks its jaw and yawns, stretching its mouth so wide I could almost crawl down its throat.
Nice to see somebody’s relaxed.
I’m led over a small hump, then down what I can only imagine was once this ancient beast’s throat, its knobbled vertebrae protruding from the ground just enough that a bony tunnel is exposed—a hole I imagine once housed the dragon’s spinal cord. The way is lit by glowing runes etched into the sides, casting the tunnel in a warm hue.
It must’ve taken great affinity with Bulder to find these remains, to excavate them so precisely without disturbing their position.
I’m still marveling as we come to twin flaps of hide hanging from above. My escorts pull them open, stepping aside to give me enough space to pass.
I frown, pausing. “Not sure I want to go in th—”
The Fate Herder headbutts me between the shoulder blades, shoving me through the gap and into the humid embrace of the dragon’s massive skull.
I cut a glance over my shoulder and scowl at the bossy creature before I take in my curved surroundings etched in more of those luminous runes, the ground lined with leathers painted with an array of colorful dots, streaks, and jagged lines.
On the left is a low table that runs the length of the space. Slabs of wood are piled high with hunks of meat being carved up by a white-haired male wielding a huge bronze blade.
He pauses the moment he casts his gaze on me, eyes widening, shifting to the beast at my back. He immediately falls to his knees, kissing the ground.
It occurs to me that it’s probably what I was supposed to do when I first saw the Fate Herder.
Kiss the ground.
Instead, I tried to run from it, yelled at it, snarled at it, and essentially told it to fuck off. It’ll probably give me a shit fate, and honestly, it’s warranted. I’ve certainly got enough blood on my hands to justify it.
I notice a small cluster of golden-silk-clad females perched around baskets heaped with the lanky, blade-like foliage I saw from the sky. They’re folding them around bits of dried meat, though their hands pause as they look at me, then at my prowling shadow.
Their eyes go impossibly round.
They, too, kiss the ground before they rise, nipping glances at the entrance while they gather their things and dash out of the way. Frowning, I look over my shoulder, past my fluffy non-friend, eyes bulging.