“How is it not burning the jerkin away—not burningyou?” Lucan asks.
“Flammable swamp sludge. Flames ride on the sludge, and the sludge buffers the fabric, more or less.” I oversimplify. The fire isn’t going to burn forever…not even for a while, but it’s better than nothing. I scan the dragon statues with new eyes.Not real, I remind myself and charge ahead, dodging more attacks like I dodged the curates’ mallets as the vicar had them beat me while reciting verses of prayer.
I skim the perimeter of the silver dragon’s podium. A claw sweeps overhead, and I duck. Everything in me wants to freeze up. To curl into a ball and hide. Instead, I fight the urge as I search for—
An entry point.
There’s a seam around the base that’s raised higher than the others. A side panel. Tossing my jerkin, I dig my fingers into the opening, seeking purchase, ignoring the pain as my nails crack and snap back.
Another swipe whizzes through the air. This time, I narrowly avoid it. The creature was going right for my head. They really don’t care if we die in here, do they? A horrifying thought occurs to me: How many “cursed” deaths in the Tribunal’s history have been anything but? The notion makes this whole place suddenly feel like a mausoleum more than a testing ground.
“Over here!” Lucan shouts to the dragon, waving his hands. It spins on its stand, swiping its tail. Lucan dodges with surprising grace. Nimbler and more adept than I’d expect of a guy who’s been trained to uphold the Creed, not deliver mercy.
Unless the vicar did train him for Mercy Knighthood so that he could get in and watch me there, too…
Something to worry about in the future. Right now, I’m getting this panel open if it’s the last thing I ever do. I dig my fingers in and really put my back into it. With a shout, I pop the sheet of metal off and scramble inside.
Sure enough, there’s a maze of metal gears and pulleys. The dragon’s underbelly glints in the faint light of my still-smoldering jerkin, as though alive with silver and copper bugs. A buzzing so great it’s almost like a roar hums in my chest. How am I going to find anything in this mess?
It can be sensed…I hear Mum’s words.Ether, the balance of both Etherlight and Ethershade, as nature intended, is a natural flow in us all. In the world itself. It is life and death, creation and destruction—true power is found in the middle. In the balance. To feel magic, you only need to reach out to it with your whole self.
I draw in a slow breath and try to clear my senses. It’s hard when I still hear the explosions of flame, the crackle of growing ice, and the endless whirring of machines. I block out the overwhelming scent of my own blood. My whole body begins to itch, muscles twitching, heart skipping beats. Through quivering breaths and furrowed brows, I keep my focus, even when I feelas if the only relief would be ripping my skin off starting with my scar. I persist further than I ever have before because I’m either turning as a dragon cursed or dying here.
And then, as though I’ve pushed past the point of exhaustion, everything fades, and I feel it—the spark of power she spoke of. A familiar sensation, deep within. Clearer than ever before.
A glint catches my eye.There.
My eyes lock onto a small point off to the side. A tiny panel upon which a simple design has been drawn—a square with a circle inside, a single vertical line. My eyes widen, and my breath catches.
An artificer sigil, complete, unhidden. Forbidden knowledge laid out before me. Time seems to slow, and my thoughts quicken. A hundred constellations are forming in my mind as a dozen seemingly unrelated points connect. It’s like my father gave me all the pieces—I just needed to see the picture.
This sigil hasn’t been carved or embossed onto the metal but rather drawn in what looks like chalk. I swear I recognize my father’s style in it. As if he intended for this to happen—for me to find it.
The thought makes me bolder, braver. Makes me feel less alone because, in a way, he and Mum are here with me. Looking out for me. I track the movements of the gears and pulleys around it, any of which could snap off my fingers.
One…two—three.
One…two—three.
With a grunt, I lunge. My hand smears across the sigil. The second the design is smudged, everything halts. It must’ve been the sigil that was drawing Etherlight into the machine.
I collapse, rolling onto my back with a groan of pain and staring up at the still gears, catching my breath. That’s when I see another tiny sigil. A square with a smaller square inside of it, an X connecting the center of the smaller square to theoutermost points of the larger one.
Reaching up, I rest my fingertips on it. I was right…it’s Dad’s marking. If the first sigil was the primary draw, then this one was…
I follow the threads, eyes widening. Something in me is clicking into place with the same precision as the gears around me.
“Isola?” Lucan calls out, frantic. More bursts of flame return me to the present. A dragon roar—magnified by a copper box—rips a chill through me.
I scramble back out. Lucan’s eyes find mine instantly.
“Do you trust me?” I ask.
“What kind of a question is that?”
“I’m not hearing a no.” I reach around and smear my fingers across my lower back. Using my own blood, I replicate the second sigil I saw inside the automaton on the back of my left hand. Lucan’s eyes widen.Mostpeople can’t feel Etherlight enough to activate sigils until the gilding. But I am not most people, thanks to whatever happened in me that killed that dragon when I was twelve, and I have the dual golden eyes to prove it. “Why don’t we find out what this does together?”
13
