“Gods Below, your apologies are breathtaking.”
“I don’t hear one given, only rejected,” I chastise.
He clenches his jaw hard enough the bones strut beneath his cheeks for a moment. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more forthcoming. Ihonestly didn’t think it would matter to our pact. I didn’t want to burden you with information I don’t wish to know about myself. Though I realize it probably gives you some important context about my nature.” Spitefully, he adds, “Monster or asshole.”
“Definitely the latter,” I growl. Softening a bit, I say, “From now on, can we decide together what is or isn’t important for me to know?”
“Fine. And I’m sorry for being harsh about your mother. I’m still angry with her. But I meant what I said. I will hold up my end. Will you hold up yours?”
I pause. “Is that all we are for now? Our vows?”
His gaze narrows before breaking away, and he bites his lip hard enough to bleed. “You and I are bound by more than vows and our pasts. More than the claim we marked each other with.” He lowers his voice, wings wrapping tighter around us. “We are written into the other’s stars, our paths unbreakably intertwined. You have entangled yourself in my soul, your thorns rooting between my ribs, and I cannot breathe without thinking of how sharply I want you. You are my vexation, my obsession, and though I would rather cut out my heart than let you continue to hold this power over me, I will always—”
“Your Highness, we need you to look at this.” Commander Soto’s call is firm, and Draven cuts off, red-faced.
I’m breathless beneath what he just said.
His wings clip back, and he nods curtly to Soto, moving to go.
I grab his wrist, stopping him. What was he going to say? “You’re bleeding.” Why didn’t I ask what he nearly said?
He licks the split he bit into his lip. Grasping my hand gently, he brings it against his jaw and my thumb traces the cut. “Only you can fix me, Wraith.”
“Oh, Princeling, haven’t you learned by now? I’m just going to make you so much worse.” I wish I could heal him and all the broken parts of myself, but I’ve never managed to unlock the Empress Arcana. Or give myself the gift and grace of healing. I meet his eyes.
“You are my salvation,” he whispers, leaning in and oh so tenderly pressing his lips to the space he laid his claim.
I can’t breathe or move, the yearning in my chest keeping me frozen.
“And my damnation.”
Draven pulls from my grasp to meet Commander Soto. Emotions battle within me, overwhelming as a tidal wave. No one has ever spoken to me like that, looked at me the way he does, made mefeellike he does. It’s maddening; worse, I can’t name it. It edges toward something I got only a brief glimpse of before with Kiana. Overwhelmed, I barely notice when the elves pass us magical gloves that resist the drake’s stark acidic remnants. I tug on my pair as I walk to a small corner of this former den.
“If you find anything other than zenith, please report it to me,” Draven says to our crew.
I use the Emperor and its power of movement to pick up the black crystal and shove it in a bag. It seems encountering anything living causes it to ignite. The rats set it off occasionally, but the stones stay blessedly dark when it bumps against other crystal, giving me the confidence to keep going.
But despite all the work, I see nothing but more and more unrefined zenith.
Nothing that could resemble a wand.
I overhear Malik arguing with Älvor. “Are you sure it was only thirty feet long? Most grown drakes grow to at least sixty feet.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I saw its body with my own eyes. Dead, yes, but thirty feet from snout to tail,” Älvor replies.
“It must’ve been an adolescent, but that doesn’t explain how it created a hoard of this level,” Malik disputes and Zara shushes him.
“I think he’d know,” Scorpius grumbles. “Pipe down, junior dragonologist.”
“Actually—” But before Malik can continue, Draven’s cohort all echo, “Actually,” as if mocking Malik’s know-it-all retorts is a common occurrence. Malik only grins good-naturedly and continues, “A drake isn’t a dragon because it doesn’t have wings, and an adolescent gaining a trove of this size isn’t likely—”
“Fourteen elves died that day. I promise you, it was a full-grown drake,” Älvor insists, his even tone turning irritable.
Beside me a rat scurries from under a crystal, and Fable jumps, hands fisting in frustration at the popping crack of zenith. I tense up, too, watching it race away, heart pounding.
Fable curses, “For fuck’s sake. Leave it to Draven to volunteer us for this fun little assignment.”
I give a dry chuckle, bending back down to gather more.
