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Death from exposure is not a Blood Dragon’s preferred way to die—battle is. But this is a battle for our very lives, after we just fought the battleofour lives, as I huddle now in the strange underground city with my drakes.
A deathly shiver takes me as I sit on the mossy flagstones of the towering, dark hall. Though we’ve found shelter in this ancient Blood Dragon citadel, our waning energy drags on me in the luminous darkness.
I feel colder than death as my Fourth Drake, Baldur Sigurðsson’s curses haul the very life out of me and my drakes via our Bloodbond. No amount of heating breaths can help anymore, as I fight to remain conscious, waiting for my First Drake, Bjorn Magnussen, to return with something that can save us.
Laying inert upon the stones between myself, my Second Drake, Ström Eriksson, and my Third Drake, Mikkel Thorsen, Baldur is in a deathly trance. Terrible curses still seethe through his blood, bones, and flesh from the Black Dragon of All Souls, as Baldur keeps himself in stasis out in the Void.
He’s drawing strength from our Blood Dragon Ancestors to survive.It’s enough, barely; as we wait for Bjorn and Mikkel’s sister Lærke to find better shelter and food, I set my hand on Baldur’s bare chest, feeling his intermittent heartbeat.
We’ve all got our hands on him, as Ström, Mikkel, and I help him stay with us. Desperately, we push back those curses, though I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to.
Although I banished the Black Dragon’s heart-curse that nearly killed him, the rest of his curses are still creeping back towards that most essential organ, despite how Mikkel and Lærke helped heal them earlier.
I gaze down at Baldur now, laying so still and pale upon the ancient stones. I don’t see his tall, lean physique, nor the luminous white, silver, and blue tattoos that curl over his skin in arcane Blood Dragon runic dialects as I watch him, praying that he’ll live. I only see his struggle for life, as my drakes and I give our everything to help him.
And barely manage it.
The Black Dragon’s diseased crimson-black curses march up Baldur’s arms and legs into his torso now, trying to retake his heart. His blond brows furrow, his beautiful face strained as he fights them with all the power he can access out in the Void.
Though our physical battle against the Usurper is finished, I feel him battle on deep inside, devoured by its taint. Healing the Black Dragon’s curses is taking everything from us also, as Mikkel suddenly swoons and Ström grips his shoulder to help him stay upright.
Even Ström is shaking with fatigue as his lips turn blue and he puffs exhausted breaths into the chill air. As his vivid green eyes flick to me, I feel his unspoken thought through our bond.
That none of us are going to make it, if Bjorn doesn’t find help—quick.
Mikkel needs to rest, Rikyava,Ström says through our minds now as he regards me intently, holding Mikkel upright.He’s been through hell these past few hours, nearly as much as Baldur. He can’t spend any more energy doing this.
I know,I tell him, as Mikkel shakes his head with a growl and refocuses on staying conscious, though he’s unable to put his hands back on Baldur.This is all we have, though, Ström. Until Bjorn and Lærke get back.
“They better find food and proper shelter soon,” Ström says aloud now, because sustaining our mental connection is just too hard in our current state. “Or we’re going to freeze to death right here in this strange underground hall. You know we will.”
I do know, as I nod, feeling what we’re up against. As another bone-deep shiver takes me, I feel how the temperature in this underground hall is just about forty degrees.
Hypothermia is a bitch; a person can die in forty-degree weather, especially if they’re wet. Unfortunately, this strange Blood Dragon-meets-Fey city, lost for countless generations, is as wet as it gets.
A deadly subterranean paradise some place in the frozen north, fresh water burbles out of small fountains in the walls, to run through the floor in channeled rivers, sustaining the plants.
More like a thousand-year rainforest rather than a chamber, the incredible hall’s vast heights are lost to darkness, as gargantuan columns rise from the stone floor.
The hall glimmers, as trees as big as the redwoods in California glow in a dense forest around us. As the trees flicker with their own inner light, they seem likesilberskrae, though their silver-white bark is unlike anysilberskraetree I’ve ever seen, luminous.
Their roots and trunks are far larger, too; their gargantuan roots tunnel right through the stones of the floor, their massive trunks growing up to spread their silver-white canopy across the faraway ceiling.
Luminous mosses and phosphorescent vines crawl up every surface of the ancient alabaster and sky-blue stones around us. Shimmering lizards, moths, and beetles flit through the underground space, scurrying up the gargantuan trees. It’s haunting and beautiful, a lost paradise.
Though one that’s going to kill us, if we linger here much longer.
Because the moss is chill and damp, the humidity like thePacific Northwest in the human realm—fucking cold. Our breaths puff into the chill air, and there’s nothing we might make shelter out of.
The trees have lost leaves but no limbs down here; the vines are slick and wet, and stung Ström as he tried to pull some close for shelter. We’ve made do by gathering a pile of dead leaves around us; we can’t even touch that, though, because it’s so damp and rotten.
We pull close now, shivering as Ström and Mikkel resume Blood Dragon heating breaths to stay warm, which we’ve been doing for the past hour. As my vision fades to black yet again, I shake my head, growling.
I focus on my First Drake—sending to him hard through our bond.
