Sprites are coming.
I shrug a shoulder.You’ll just murder them like you murdered Sewell.
I put him out of his misery,he growls.I didn’t murder him.
It’s the same act, just worded differently.
He’s silent, but not the quiet sort of silence. No, Morrgot is quiet like the sea is quiet before a squall.If I could’ve saved him, I would have. But I couldn’t. I fucking couldn’t.He flaps his wings once, his down fluttering in the humid breath of the ocean.Hate me, fine, but don’t waste his death.
Hoofbeats sound, horses whinny. Since sprites don’t ride horses, I imagine Xema Rossi has dispatched guards. I roll my blood-soaked fingers into a fist. Grief and anger fueling my steps, I march forward and leap off the suspended bridge onto the moss-covered footpath.
The black dome.Morrgot’s voice is low, edged in as much stirring darkness as his bird form.
I squint until I catch sight of something smooth and as black as a half-buried marble. The entrance to the obsidian cavern is wide and tall, large enough to accommodate a rider, even though it’s just me. Before crossing the threshold, I squint into the darkness, trying to make out the hole Sewell dug, but it’s like looking at a piece of solid black fabric—completely opaque.
Chest tight, pulse spiking, I step inside. Although I’m on solid ground, the air is so dense and black, I feel like I’ve penetrated an underwater cavern.
I take another step, my lungs squeezing. Squeezing. “I can’t—breathe.” I wheeze. My eyelids begin to prickle. “Can’t—see.”
Get out. Get out NOW.
Winded, I turn and stumble. My arm bangs the obsidian wall, and I sag against it.
Fallon!
I jolt at the sound of my name, my smarting lids bouncing up.
OUT. NOW.
Hissing erupts all around me as the air turns solid with smoke. I press away from the wall and teeter toward the entrance, but the world wobbles, robbing me of my balance. I open my mouth to yelp Morrgot’s name but don’t even manage a squeak.
The memory of Sewell’s gaping mouth and extended arm slams into me in time with something else. Something cool and wispy and yet powerful enough to propel my body. It shoves me out of the dome, and pushes me onto my knees.
My airways are on fire. My eyelashes burn. My blood boils. I rake in breath after breath, desperate for one that doesn’t taste like soot.
Focá.Morrgot’s wingbeats are as frantic as the foreign word he keeps repeating.Focá.
My throat fills with what feels like liquid fire. It streaks from my nostrils and shoots out of my mouth, and I swear, it tastes like hot embers.
I pry my lids up. Tears blur the moss that seems to have blackened.
I cough again, and smoke curls from my mouth.
Oh my Gods, my lungs are literally on fire.
How is this possible?
Faerie smoke. Sewell must have tripped a hidden trigger.
Cauldron, my family is devious.
My elbows wobble and my thighs drum. I slam my lids shut, trying to ease the irritation.
When they open again, the sky is racing over my head, a hazy embroidery of stars, silvered fronds, and inky feathers.
Breathe,Behach Éan. Breathe.Morrgot’s wings brush against my collarbone, my cheeks, cool as silk, soft as rose petals.Breathe.
Before I die, I want to know what Beyockeen means.
