The crowd begins to disperse, funneling through the exit, my fluffy non-friend herding me in the same direction while uncertainty churns in my chest, making it feel tight.
Constricted.
Pick something.
Hone my focus.
Don’t fucking drown.
I hum my calming tune, stare narrowing on the flow of folk before me as I count my steps, imagining each one brings me a little bit closer to that mystical fucking word that’s always just out of reach …
Freedom.
I’m herded through a warren of tunnels to the beat of the pounding gong, the thick, stagnant air becoming easier to inhale only moments before we spill into a big, dusty crater. My eyes bulge at the impossible height and width—large enough to cram four coliseums in here and still have room to move.
It’s as though something collided with the ground with such velocity the stone was displaced.
Frowning, I recall Kaan’s earlier words …
I spent most of my adolescence and a number of my later phases as a warrior of the Johkull Clan. They have always nested close to these mountains and recently claimed the crater formed by the fallen Sabersythe moon, Orvah.
Guess that’s what this is. Orvah’s crater. The small moon that fell a little over eight phases ago.
Folk pour into the space behind me and my prowling Herder like gushing water, and my mind churns as I take in the chapped surroundings.
There are tents dotted about the circumference, each sturdy structure consisting of four wooden poles plowed into the ground and a flap of patched leather stretched between them—forming a roof. They cast rectangular shadows occupied by woven rugs and many clay urns etched with glowing runes.
Between the tents are a number of wooden racks stacked with weapons, most of which I’ve never seen before: batons with a length of chain attached to the end, topped with spiked balls that look like they could shatter a skull; giant hooked swords; and small flat blades with pearly teeth mounted around the edge. So many weapons it makes Ruse’s armory look juvenile.
The crater’s blanketed with a stretch of sand, though when I look at the grains sifting through my toes as I’m escorted around the perimeter, I notice gray shards amongst the rusty majority.
Iron. To nullify those who can hear the elemental songs, no doubt.
I frown, then cast my stare at the powdery sky threaded with the aurora’s wispy silver tendrils, a scatter of inky Sabersythe moons perched in the distance. The crater’s lip bears a crisscross of fraying rope heavy with skulls—most sun-bleached. One with shreds of decomposing meat and tufts of hair still hanging off the bone, a small tawny-colored bird perched on it.
Pecking at it.
My heart skips a beat.
Unlike the skulls in the tent we just came from, these ones are not from fallen animals. They have rounded heads and tapered canines, the fresher one retaining the rotten remnants of a tapered ear.
They’re fae.
Creators … This is a battle ring.
Is that what my trial is? Am I expected to fight?
The tips of my fingers tingle, unease slithering through me like a serpent.
The gong continues to sound as I’m guided further around the crater’s circumference, past tent after tent, the folk before us threading into a large dome-shaped one similar to those I saw in the chest cavity of the fallen dragon. Though this one’s much bigger than them, and with many entrances, each framed by more of those intricately crafted archways.
Saiza stops before one opening, pulling a woven flower from one of the few baskets dotted around the tent, offering it to me. “Would you like to honor Orvah?”
My heart leaps so high up my throat the next words are choked. “The fallen Sabersythe?”
Saiza nods, smiling softly. “He did not break apart upon impact. It took many warriors to roll him to the crater’s side. We now pay him great respect in the hopes that no other moon will fall on our place of living.”
Pulse pounding hard and fast, I accept the flower, cutting a glance back at my oscillating Herder who cranks its muzzle and yawns again, skulking toward one of the doorways and curling into a sleepy ball.
Guess that’s permission.
Swallowing, I push my hand between the tent’s flaps, steady my breath, then step inside, drawing on the hot, humid air trapped beneath the pelts.
My heart stops.
Nestled amongst the sand before me is the most spectacular mottled moon. Like the Sabersythe was rolled through puddles of black and bronze ink that sunk into his small, overlapping scales.
The backs of my eyes prickle as I take him in, his slight stature and lack of spikes a tribute to his adolescence. The dragon’s left wing is swooped around his body, his sparsely tusked head dug only partially beneath it, still exposed enough that I can see almost an entire half of his face, his lid closed. Looking like he just slipped into a quiet, peaceful sleep he’ll never wake from.