A swell of folk are pouring in between the flaps of hide, splitting both ways, packing the space full on either side of the twin bloodstone thrones at the far end of the space. Not sure how I didn’t notice them earlier, given that they’re huge, dominant, and so intricately carved I think they might’ve taken many aurora cycles to construct.
A female occupies the throne on the right, a babe suckling her breast. Her pale hair pools around her like gushing water, her skin so fair I’m certain a single blade of sun would cause her to sizzle like a Moonplume caught in The Burn.
Her bright-green eyes widen at the sight of me, then soften with something akin to relief before she looks to the broad male on her right, placing her hand on his arm. Squeezing gently.
His features are hard and harsh, short beard tailored to his strong jawline, his eyes like mini suns staring out at me from beneath russet brows crunched together in a disbelieving frown. Unlike the other bare-chested males, his broad, freckle-dusted shoulders are draped in strings laden with copper rods, and he wears a bony crown that claws down through his long hair, his ear pierced with a black cuff.
I frown.
It’s the same as the one Kaan wears …
He passes a wide-eyed glance to the female on his left, placing his hand on hers. They dip their heads our way in combined homage, though I suspect that’s more aimed toward the creature that herded me here, considering its mythical status. Certainly not me.
Can’t be me.
I’m wearing a shackle, for shit’s sake. And there’s vomit in my hair.
My cheeks heat as I bring the offending tendrils close to my nose and sniff, my face scrunching up at the sour reek.
Damn. I thought it was more diluted than that.
“This is what happens when you don’t let me jump in the river,” I grind out to my unwanted Herder. “I’m presented to important folk smelling like bile.”
Its only response is to leap ahead and do a prowling loop around me, forcing me to stop.
“Message received,” I mutter, and it lumps itself beside me, sitting on its haunches. It lifts a paw, licks it, and swipes at its face with a smooth sort of contentment I certainly don’t appreciate—surrounded by strangers, standing in a dragon’s skull in the middle of fucking nowhere.
The space packs so full there’s scarcely any hot, humid air to breathe, and the male on the throne lifts his head. His gaze shifts between me and the creature at my side.
Boasting a warm smile, he shakes his head. Like he’s wrestling with some kind of disbelief. “Kholu …”
“Yes,” I say, cutting a glance around all the silent, wide-eyed onlookers. “Folk keep saying that.”
Again, he looks at the female beside him. They press their heads together, both relishing in some form of relief I can see clear in their expressions.
The male cups the head of their babe and plants a kiss on its brow—
I pull my attention from the intimate moment that’s strangely painful to watch, looking skyward, noticing the vast domed ceiling is strung with toothy skulls. Enough for me to come to the swift realization that these folk have no qualms in killing.
We’ll get on fine so long as they don’t try to kill me.
The maybe-King stands—slow. Everyone in the room bar the white-haired female pounds their fists against their chests before dropping into a bow so low their mouths meet the floor again.
I should probably do the same. Don’t want to piss anyone off, given the fact that I’m incredibly outnumbered and still bound in a shackle of iron.
I clear my throat, drop to my knees, then dip my head, holding the stance for a long moment.
The male steps down from his throne, looking between me, the Fate Herder, and the two males who plucked me from the river—both now standing off to the side. “Hagh toth?” he asks, pausing.
The male with the bird tattoo responds. “Rivuur Ahgt at nei del ayh.”
“Rivuur Ahgt … uh surt?”
“Ahn …”
A stretch of silence before the crowned male speaks again. “Teni asg del anah te nei. Tookah Téth ain de lei … Sól aygh tah Kholu!”
My mind drifts, clawed fingers scrambling to cling to the now.
The present.
It all begins to remind me of a different place, a different time. When I was just as confused about what the hell was going on, my vocabulary failing to stretch further than a few huffing grunts I’d use to try and explain my needs.
I recite my calming song internally as the maybe-King moves back to his throne, a tall female stepping free of the parting crowd. She’s clothed in lashings of copper body paint and a black-beaded cloak that clatters as she strides toward us in long, hip-swaying steps. Her feet are bare, russet hair so long it smothers half her cloak.