My chest expands as we get closer, and I cup Auren’s cloaked head against my chest. “Almost there. We’re almost there,” I murmur.
Leaning into Argo’s turn, I keep Auren and myself braced as he swoops down toward the craggy tops of the mountains. The tips are shaped like a serrated knife, with cracked crevices that make a jagged sightline and dangerous rockfall. The largest mountain in the middle tilts slightly, like the wind has shoved at it so much for so long that it’s finally beginning to bend to its will.
Mountains should know better than to bow to the wind.
But the ridge isn’t the only eyesore here. It’s the stretch of my magic that truly taints the land.
What once was an empty and bleak breadth on the border of Fifth, is now a crisscross of rot-infected ground. Fetid roots reach all the way from Fourth’s border, delving through the snow to curl around the base of the mountains here like insipid crawling vines.
My magic responds to the massive amounts of power that I’ve already leached into this land, my skin snapping with its presence like it’s welcoming me. I can feel it soaked into the snow-packed soil, can feel the call of it thrumming like bloodlust in my veins. But my power has to wait.
Although the mountains below are cracked and crooked, and though the massive roots of rot have made this land ugly and spoiled, it’s still the best damn sight to see. I brace myself as we drop down below the clouds at a breakneck speed, my stomach nearly coming up my damn throat as Argo dives.
For years, this small strip of land has eluded my control. But now, I finally lay claim to it. With the deal I made with Midas, we are officially out of Fifth Kingdom and in my own territory.
Argo swings wide, heading directly for the tallest mountain, right where the rotted lines of rubbled rocks make up the base.
It’s the combination of all of it, really. The leaning mountains. The dumps of snow and piles of rock. The festering rot. It all distracts, it all hides.
Anyone who might pass by this part of the world would have no reason to linger and no desire to. Argo bypasses the cracked fang-tipped peak, heading for the smallest mountain. It has a side like a mantel, and the rocky shelf overhangs far enough to offer shelter to the hidden village below. This nearly invisible lip in the leaning mountain looks inconspicuous but it calls to me as much as my rot does.
You’d only see the small town if you purposely came poking around or knew where to go. The buildings are all made of the same gritty rock, blending against the mountainside effortlessly, hidden beneath the snowy shelf.
It’s here, shrouded in the forbidden cold, that my greatest secret hides.
Drollard Village.
Just then, the chasing storm lashes out, punishing us for reaching our destination. The clouds slash open and frozen rain pours, soaking through my clothes immediately.
Argo heads straight down to the village, rain streaming off his outstretched wings and freezing against his feathers. He only circles once before his exhausted body slams into the ground so hard my teeth clack. He sways where he stands but manages to stay upright, his talons digging into the snow for purchase as frozen froth batters from his mouth.
“Good beast,” I praise him. He turns his head to blink at me, and though he looks exhausted, the gleam in his hawklike eye is also smug. “Yeah, you earned every fucking jerky strip you want.”
I look around, squinting through the downpour, but all is quiet in the early morning pause. Twenty feet away, rows of rocky houses are lined, lazy smoke rising from chimneys beneath the lip of the mountain, ice gathered on top of the overhang like sheets of shingles.
My frozen hand reaches down for the buckle on the saddle, but it’s a struggle to unstrap myself. My fingers are too numb to get them to work right, and now with the sleet lashing down, it’s slippery. But I can’t risk letting go of Auren with my other hand because I need to keep her dry and secure.
A noise of frustration tears from my lips like a growl. “Come the fuck on.”
“Sire?”
My head snaps up at the voice, and I zero in on one of the villagers walking up from the small pavilion that’s stuffed between the cracked cave of the mountainside. He hurries over, hood pulled up to try and fend off the deluge that’s just started to pour, his bulbous nose showing beneath. “Let me.”
With deft fingers, he quickly undoes the strap, and I jump down with Auren.
“Thank you, Theo,” I say. He’s not as wary of me as some of the others, but he still won’t quite look me in the eye.
“Should I alert the watch?”
I shake my head. “No need. Just see that Argo’s taken care of in the Perch. Tell Selby to give him whatever he wants and as much of it, including extra blankets in his roost. He’s more than earned it.”
Theo tips his head, already walking over to grab Argo’s strap. To his credit, he only slightly balks at the timberwing’s appearance before leading him to the Perch where he can be cared for.
As soon as they walk away, I hurry off with Auren, my booted feet stepping onto the white stone path that blends into the slushing snow. My rot doesn’t spread into the village itself, instead kept strategically around the border like a barbed rampart to keep our enemies out. And although it doesn’t spread here, this place is still steeped in dreariness.
By all accounts, Drollard Village doesn’t exist. Maybe that’s why it’s always felt so dismal. By keeping it secret, I’ve somehow made it feel even more devoid.
This place is by no means picturesque. It’s harsh and cold and gaunt, with lonely homes cut into the hollowed mountainside, cast in perpetual shadow. The people who live here don’t have the conveniences of being in a city where travel and trade are abundant. Instead, they toil to live off this bleak land, while supplemented with the supplies I can bring them. Even so, not one of them will ever leave.
