How is itIam the one looking out for dragonkind and this idiot isn’t?
I see Tage’s face in my mind: the sharp angles and hollows, his intelligent eyes, purply black, deep and intense, his quiet resolve, his duty to the pride, to dragonkind. His fairness with me. I swallow. He’s...decent.
Then I see him as I knew him to once be: a young boy, his eyes soft and pure, starving, freezing, running from monsters, finding this refuge, carving a home for himself out of rock.
I can’t let him lose this place.
I have to stop Cyphus...for him.
Cyphus shakes his head, his face twisting in scorn as he protests, “These pathetic humans fight each other. They’re not looking for us. Why would they even have weapons of dragon bone or—”
“You need to stay put,” I insist. “They could number in the thousands. You are not enough...you cannot destroy all of them. Some could escape and carry tales of your existence andthenhumans would arm themselves for your defeat.” I pull harder against my bindings, leaning forward, and choking out, “Dragon hunters would come into the Crags like generations ago. It is abadidea. You will regret it!”
Cyphus shifts on his feet, and I read his hesitation. “Am I to believe you care about us?” he sneers.
Him? No. “Am I not speaking the truth?”
He goes quiet and stills, and I know he’s thinking on his next move.
Finally, he nods once, a rolling dip of his head. “Fine.”
The thunderous sounds outside the cavern rage for hours, throughout the rest of the day and into dusk. Eventually they grow more and more distant until I hear nothing at all. Until a tomb-like quiet descends on us like a shroud.
The light trickling down from the vent holes in the rock ceiling amid the stalactites thins to faint ribbons, then darkness.
Night arrives, the low-crackling fire the only thing illuminating the space. Whatever battle waged is finally over. For now at least.
Cyphus sits down to a late dinner alone at the trestle table, hishard features pensive as he chews, and I know he’s thinking about Tage and the others out there. He’s worried, and that makes me worry, too.
He glances to me, remembering my presence, and everything in me goes cold. He gets up. I watch warily until I realize he’s fetching me something to eat. I’m to be fed. He drops a loaf on the ground and returns to the table. At least I didn’t have to dodge bread this time.
His voice stretches toward me, a taut thread. “It is possible, you know...they might not return.”
I gulp and hug my knees to my chest. This echoes my own mounting concern. I’d been skirting the possibility, but now he put the words out there, forcing me to look at this grim prospect.
If this is the case, what will he do with me?Tome?
What willIdo, stuck here?
Panic crawls up my chest and lodges in my throat, settling there like a cold lump. What will become of me here with Cyphus?
My gaze moves to the firepit, to the spit erected over it. Would my corpse end up trussed and roasting there? Would I be his next meal?
In the whirl of my panic, another emotion writhes and wiggles, slow to take form. Something akin to fear.Loss.Not just for myself but for Tage. I need him to be fine and whole and alive, not only because I fear for my life but because I want him to be. Because...he has to be.
It’s complicated, this stir of emotions, a hopeless tangle I can’t unravel, but I need to see those violet-dark eyes again. Need to hear his voice again.
Cyphus retires for the night, disappearing down the tunnel leading to his den without a word to me, leaving me imprisoned to my rock. Whatever he decides to do with me, he won’t be doing it tonight. There’s that at least.
I’m grateful he’s gone. My breath flows a little easier without his nearness, without imminent threat slapping me in the face.
Alone in the great space, I settle onto the hard rock floor, shivering despite my tolerance of the cold, and I know it’s not really the chill making me tremble. At least notonlythat.
The fire is too far away, across the room, for me to appreciate it, and Cyphus never bothered to give me a blanket. These last days, I had coped. The temperature of the room feels like the least of my problems. The cold is merely that. Cold.
Trembling, I tuck my hand under my cheek, my palm pillowing the blood-crusted cut from when Cyphus backhanded me.
Closing my eyes, I force my muscles to relax.
