Cassandra nodded, gripping Mireille’s forearms.
“They’re my people, too,” Mireille whispered.
Cassandra cocked her head. “What was he like? Your father?”
Even in the dim light, Cassandra could see the love and pride that glowed in Mireille’s eyes. “I imagine he was very likeyou. Kind. Brave. Righteous. I wish…I wish I’d gotten to know him in life rather than only in death.”
Cassandra squeezed Mireille’s forearms tighter. “He regrets it, you know.” Mireille flinched, understanding that Cassandra now spoke of a differenthe. “It was painfully apparent while he told us your history. Obvious that he still?—”
“Don’t say it,” Mireille breathed out. “It doesn’t matter anymore. And even if he did, it would be nothing but a distraction in here. We need to focus on surviving the appeal. Everything else is extraneous.”
HighGods, Cassandra wanted to meddle. Wanted to mediate. Wanted to fix what was broken between Mireille and Ronin. Especially since she couldn’t fix her own broken heart.
Mireille grabbed Cassandra’s hand and pulled her toward the exit. “Come on. You need sleep.”
Cassandra glanced over her shoulder, wishing she had more time, more food, more supplies.
Mireille squeezed Cassandra’s hand as she nudged her through the door, her smile a thing of delicious savagery.
“Training resumes in earnest bright and early tomorrow morning.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Sweat dripped down Cael’s temple and beaded on his wing as he followed the forgemaster down a narrow tunnel.
The heat had been a constant companion throughout Cael’s visit to Typhon Mountain, the manufacturing site of both Ethyrios’s most treasured steel and the other weapons his father sold throughout the territories—stun pistols, snakebites, even those new dragon-fire missiles the Teles Chrysos had been trying to get their hands on.
Cael used to think the output was impressive. Now he just found it tragic, the sheer number of ways the Fae had invented to kill each other over the centuries.
“It’s just ahead,” the forgemaster—a short, stocky mole Beastrunner with a wrinkly bald head and lengthy incisors—grunted over his shoulder. “Mind the ceiling.”
Cael ducked down, tucking his wing and trying to ignore the forgemaster’s glance at the lonely appendage. He wished he could say it didn’t bother him. But the pitying looks weren’t the only inconvenience he’d dealt with today.
Normally, he would have taken this journey by flight. Would have enjoyed being up in the sky, any anxious, depressing thoughts ripped away by the roaring wind and misty clouds.
Instead, he’d been forced to use one of those blasted opals. Sure, it had been quick, but traveling that way made him queasy. When he’d first appeared in the forgemaster’s office, he’d nearly vomited up his breakfast. Not wanting to show weakness in front of his father’s employees, he’d swallowed it down and put on his cold, stoic mask. He didn’t need anyone questioning why he’d shown up here.
In truth, he wasn’t supposed to be here at all. He’d met with Arran this morning and convinced him that a surprise inspection of the facilities would keep everyone on their toes. Arran had offered a rare, prideful look in response to Cael’s devious proactivity.
His true reason for the visit was, of course, quite different. He needed to see the dragon for himself. He’d never had the nerve as a boy, though Arran had brought both Viktor and Tomas for occasional visits. The thought of such a majestic creature being locked up and forced into centuries of servitude rankled Cael’s sensitive nature as a boy.
It still bothered him now. But if the Teles Chrysos were right, and he could find some way to free it, he was determined to try.
“Few more steps,” the forgemaster said, his beady eyes tracking the sweat on Cael’s face. The mole bi-form didn’t display a drop. “You get used to the heat.”
Cael swiped a wrist across his forehead as he followed the small male around a corner. A fresh wall of heated steam blurred his vision as they clomped onto a metal walkway bolted to the wall high above a deep pit.
Across the cavernous space, a veritable hive of forges were carved into the stone. Each was manned by several Fae workers, their hammers clanging a metallic symphony.
“Don’t usually have this many forges running at once,” the forgemaster shouted over the din, “but High Councilor Zephyrus has insisted we maintain a high level of production, what with the rebellion and all. We’ve been running three shifts a day, many of us working overtime.” He side-eyed Cael with a hint of annoyance. “Hope it’s worth the?—”
A ground-shaking rumble tore up from the pit, the walkway rattling so violently Cael feared it would tear away from the rock. The metal railing scalded his fingers as he peered over the edge.
Down below, two enormous, membranous wings were folded against a body the size of a steam ship, covered in black scales. Two heavy chains criss-crossed the creature’s back and wings, connected to an iron collar around its neck.
Cael watched in horror as a group of workers circled the dragon, poking the soft spaces between scales on its belly and haunches with sharp metal rods.
Another bellowing roar shook the facility before an explosion of fire burst from the dragon’s maw, then flowed through an intricate system of tubes into the forges. The hammering ceased as the workers took advantage of the increased flames to heat their steel.
