They were a blue that bled into black, and they matched her expression. Moran was angry. Moran had always been angry.
Chunks of rock fell away from the curve of natural cave walls. Chunks of architecture—obviously less natural—fell as well, shaken free from their moorings. If Kaylin couldn’t make herself heard, she could move—and she did. She grabbed Mandoran first; he was still staring, openmouthed, at Moran.
At theIllumen praevoloof the Aerians.
At the Aerians who fell from the skies above. They didn’t dive. Kaylin watched as their wings—which seemed to be flapping—lost the innate magic that kept them in the air. As if they had gained a density, a weight, that their visible wings could no longer support, they were captured by gravity.
It wasn’t clean. Kaylin was almost certain there would be broken limbs and possibly even deaths. But the Hawks who had accompanied Moran remained in the air, flying patrol circles above and beyond her spread wings.
She looked down at the outcaste. She looked down upon the Emperor and Bellusdeo—and Kaylin could now see them both. She could see the Aerians in the distant sky. She could see Diarmat and Emmerian.
She was back in what she thought of as the real world. So was the outcaste—but he’d never really left it. He existed, as Mandoran and Annarion could, in two places simultaneously. Or more.
The outcaste pushed himself off the stone floors of the cavern; the Emperor and Bellusdeo watched him rise. But they were hesitant now. Everything about Moran implied that this was her territory, not their battlefield. They didn’t doubt that thepraevolowas in control of the Aerie.
And they didn’t doubt her intent.
The outcaste opened his mouth. He breathed as he spoke—and he did speak. Kaylin didn’t understand a word, which would have been fine if he’d been speaking his mother tongue—she didn’t expect to understand Dragon. But he spoke almost familiar syllables. He did not speak in rage, but he didn’t speak as a supplicant, either.
Moran looked down at him.
He continued to speak, and as he spoke, the mass of his body shifted; he lost the Draconic form. Kaylin wasn’t certain she would take the chance, given the proximity of Dragons who had reason to want him dead. None of those Dragons were enfolding themselves into their much more human forms. Given the color of their eyes, it wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.
She cringed when she saw his wings. They were as wide as Moran’s, as impressive; they were, however, ash gray, and if there were spots across their breadth, they were multicolored and did not seem fixed in place. Moran’s wings were pale and speckled, as they’d always been.
Moran’s reply, like the outcaste’s, drifted just beyond the edge of her comprehension. It was frustrating. It was more frustrating because, across her skin, the marks of the Chosen began to glow. To thrum. There was almost a musicality to the noise they made, or there would have been had it not been so uncomfortable.
She looked at the Shadow that remained in her hands. It seemed both weightless and inert. It had no temperature, and no actual texture, but it was fine, thin, dark.
Kaylin.
She looked up at the sound of her name. She didn’t recognize the voice that spoke it.
Private.
It was Moran.
Come here.
Kaylin stared at her. She then looked mutely at her familiar; like the actual Dragons, he was large and scaled. Unlike those Dragons, he was translucent. He understood what Kaylin hadn’t dared to ask, and he moved toward her.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Mandoran whispered, proving he could still be heard.
“You think ignoring her is a better one?”
He shrugged, flexing and shaking his hands. “I think we’re going to leave.” Annarion appeared beside him.
“Is Moran okay with that?”
Mandoran grinned. It was weak, but genuine. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”
Kaylin. It was Ynpharion.
What now?
The Consort says you must do as thepraevoloasks.
She’s not exactlyasking.
