Zara mutters about the path being a death trap, and I agree.
“It can’t be the only way,” Commander Soto argues. He nods to one of his soldiers, who summons the Death Arcana, but his shadows sputter, never solidifying. The soldier shakes his head.
“All the zenith is blockading portal magic.”
Draven crosses his arms. “We cannot leave this zenith here. Especially if you say there are draugr in the area. Why didn’t you insist we bring wyverns or your bakka?”
“I did mention to your commander that the route was … difficult.” Älvor clenches his hands together.
I’ve never seen Draven so astounded. The elven envoy has annoyed him into speechlessness.
“I think we’re past difficult here.” Draven barely keeps his exasperation in check.
“Should we head back?” Commander Soto asks.
“Just … give me a minute.” Draven looks across the chasm and sighs. “It’ll be tight for some of us, but we’ll manage … everyone without wings, partner up. Rune.” He lifts his hand to me, still not meeting my eye, but I grasp it. To the elves he asks, “Do you need assistance?”
“No, but thank you, Your Highness.” Älvor leads the elves across the harrowing path, running and jumping with such swift ease you’d think there wasn’t a deathly fall beneath them. Draven scoops me into his arms, and my body automatically gravitates toward his.
I push a thought Draven’s way.Draven, can you look at me?But it just seems to echo back.
His wingspan is large enough that he struggles where others don’t in the narrow chasm, but we make it across in strained silence.
When we land on the other side, the ground sifts under his feet. The cavern is covered with moss on the back wall and lifts above our heads like an enormous hollow turtle shell. Little shafts of sunlight pierce through apertures in the cavern roof to illuminate the mounds of zenith. A lurid, toxic odor lingers in the space. Draven sets me down without a word, and the others spread out, investigating the domed space, mindful of every fallen log or overgrown bush.
“All clear,” Commander Soto shouts from ahead. Perhaps nothing lives here, but it still smells like a bog, the air ripe with swampy humidity.
“It stinks like Scorpius’s sparring bag,” Fable comments.
Zara and I both chuckle, though Scorpius shoots his sister a glower.
“How exactly do we move all this out to the pack animals?” Malik asks Draven, looking more skittish than the others.
“Slowly. Zenith can be moved safely, so long as arcane magic is used during the process. But without the ability to portal it, we have to ferry it out of this cavern in chunks.” Draven summons the Emperor, and some zenith rises on invisible hands, a glob of acidic-green ooze stringing with it. “We might have to clear this lovely residue away first.”
Fable holds out a hand, reversing the time on the crystal so that it reverts to a state before it was soaked in slime. “Well … at least this doesn’t take much energy.”
Scorpius takes it from her, examining it more closely.
“Be careful, if you’re touching it and not summoning, it can explode,” Malik warns, watching the small crystal in his hand. A little light activates inside, like an illuminated vein.
“Toss it!” Zara orders as Scorpius stares.
Fable curses, grabs it, and throws it into the chasm. A moment later we hear a loudbangthat makes it certain her brother nearly lost a hand.
“What a fun afternoon we have ahead of us.” I turn to Draven and add, “You sure have a way of picking romantic dates.”
A rat chooses that moment to squirm out of a pile of rubble and race off, squealing.
“Yes, I’m sure it’s disappointing so far, but there’s draugr in the area. Maybe I can show you somerealmonsters soon. Ones far worse than me.” His tone is flat and his smile sharp. The cavern goes silent.
I close the distance between me and the prince, and lead him away so we’re out of earshot. His eyes spark as I turn on him.
“Look, you’re mad, I get it. I am too.” My eyes narrow on his stupidly perfect face. “You want to win the award for most pissed, be my guest. But I found out a lot of shit I’m going to spend therest of my lifeunpacking, and you managed to make it about your own insecurities.”
His eyes flare, the indigo spoiling toward crimson.
I sigh, hating this. “I’m sorry about my family.” I mean it, too, and he crosses his arms, wings enveloping us, blocking the others out. “I don’t think you’re a monster. Though, sometimes, I think you’re an asshole.”
