51
THE DRAGON’S BONES
We kept riding north.
There was no time for a proper burial, so Uther gathered the warriors’ remains, wrapping them in cloth. After Kairos uttered words in Old Fae, we mounted up and rode.
Wraithspine Ridge had always been a jagged silhouette on Skalgard’s southern horizon, a backdrop of a life I’d never escape, and now it filled the sky. I tried to focus on the massive pines and the purple wildflowers carpeting the mountain, but my gaze drifted to the gap in our ranks. Three deaths, and we hadn’t even reached Skalgard yet.
As the trees thinned, Kairos summoned a mist that crawled over our heads, hiding us among the exposed rock. Through the swirling white, I studied the peaks. They were too smooth in some places, too curved in others.
“They look like ribs,” I murmured.
Kairos shifted. “That’s what they are.”
“In Skaldir, they said it was the skeleton of a dragon that their ancestors killed. I always thought it was nonsense.”
Kairos let out a laugh. “The Skaldir like to pretend they’ve slain gods. I think another dragon slew it, then it turned to stone over thousands of years.”
“Which dragon?”
He shrugged.
Now I couldn’t unsee the vertebrae-like rocks and the chunks taken out of rock, like an animal ravaged by scavengers. A strange heaviness settled in my chest. Somewhere in my blood, I carried the same essence as this creature.
“We’ll stop here,” Kairos grunted when we reached a stand of twisted pines below the steeper ascent. The last light had faded an hour ago, and the red-veined sky cast everything in an eerie glow. Everyone dismounted and began unpacking gear.
I slid off Morvaen, stiff from hours in the saddle, and pulled my cloak tighter against the cold.
Kairos gathered with his warriors as I unrolled our bedrolls. I placed them side by side and unpacked food from the saddlebags, spreading them in a neat row on Kairos’s side—dried meat, fruits, nuts, and cheese.
Kairos sat beside me, eyeing the spread. “What’s all this?”
“Dinner. You haven’t eaten.”
He’d stripped down to a loose dark linen shirt, unlaced at the throat, revealing the sharp cut of his collarbone. Beautiful. I savored the sight, a flame flickering between my legs. Gods, what was wrong with me? Three of his warriors were ash in saddlebags, and I was leering at him.
I looked away too quickly.
He grabbed the venison, biting off a piece. His hand found my back, sliding up between my shoulder blades. The touch was meant to be comforting, but my skinprickled with awareness. His fingers splayed wide, blazing even through the thick wool.
“Talk to me,” he said softly.
I swallowed hard. “I keep seeing her face. Barra. How the fire just…took her.”
“She knew the risks. They all did.”
“How do you do it?” I whispered. “Lose people and…pick yourself up each time?”
“When you live long enough to see entire courts fall, loss changes.” He picked up some cheese. “We learn to grieve in seasons. The pain comes and stays for a while. Then it has to move on, or we go mad from the weight of it.”
My eyes burned. “I would go mad.”
He chuckled. “You’re young. Every death still feels like something you should have prevented.”
“Shouldn’t it?”
He shifted closer, his thigh bumping mine. The brush of him was nothing, a fraction of an inch, but tingles skated across my skin.
