Page 25

Ryon looks down to his chest and sees endless red. His clothes are thick with it; blood is stiff in some places and sticky in others. A hole gapes in his shirt at a place just below his ribs and he sits to inspect it. He pulls back the fabric gingerly, his fingers slow to respond, and beneath is a mottled, pink scar, angry and prominent against his black skin. This is where the sword entered – it should have torn through his lungs. It should have killed him.

And yet he lives.

Ryon frowns. He is insatiably thirsty. There is a bowl, chipped and stained, sitting upon the floor and filled with water. It is only a few feet from him but might as well be a mile away. He has to drag his body toward it, and it is desperately unwilling. It needs rest. Every small movement sends stabs of pain directly to his chest.

“Fuck,” he groans, feeling sweat bead along his forehead. He manages to stretch one arm to the bowl’s lip, and drags it toward him. He pushes against the ground to sit up, breathing like he had just flown the length of the valley. He goes to drink, but even his lips seem uncooperative, spilling the water down his chin and neck. His hands shake, and when most of the water is wasted down his chest, he throws the bowl away weakly. It does not even have the decency to break.

Ryon’s head falls back to the stone floor and his eyes shut. He trembles with each shuddering breath, the newly spun threads inside him threatening to fray.

He cannot escape in this body. He cannot find Dawsyn if he can barely move. He can be of no use to anyone like this.

Where is she?He cannot think her dead. Just the idea invites a consuming rage, taunting him to break down every door, buckle every window, set fire to all of Terrsaw.

“If they took you from me,” he mutters, grappling with his mind as it slips back into its dark reprieve. “I will break them all.”

It is days before Ryon wakes again. Before then, he dreams. He dreams of the Colony in Glacia, where a hand reaches out to capture a younger version of him, traipsing toward the woods.

“Ryon! Damn it, deshun. You’re mighty close to the slope for someone with wings as valuable as yours… You’re practically begging them brutes to cut them away!”

Ryon struggles, pulling his thin wrist in vain. “Lemme be, Ditya. I’ll only be a moment.”

Ditya curses again. Ryon has only ever known him to curse and spit and mutter under his breath, so it doesn’t indicate any real threat. The mixed-blooded male is small, laughably so. The others have only ever called him ‘Ditya,’ meaning ‘child’ – if he has a real name, it has long been forgotten.

“Those wings ought to be clipped anyhow, for all the trouble they cause. Should let you fly off down them slopes and be done with you!” But Ditya does the opposite, and tugs Ryon away from the boundary between the Colony and the wooded slope, where none are permitted to be. “Do you not get flogged enough already, Ry? You need to get back to your bed. Now.”

“Might as well make it worthwhile,” Ryon mutters, but he stops fighting. He lets Ditya guide him back into the maze of the Colony. Ditya’s hand on his wrist doesn’t relent when they get there, and it is only then that Ryon notes the alarm in the man’s furtive glances, the quickened stride. He pulls Ryon again, hastening further still.

“Ditya?” Ryon asks, and the man ignores him. “Ditya, what–”

“The brutes are coming,” he says, and Ryon’s stomach turns to stone.

“For me?”

Ditya grimaces. “Likely. You’ll be hiding inside, understand?”

As they turn a corner, a figure steps out of the darkness. “Ditya!” it hollers. “You found him.”

The mixed-blood before them is much taller than either, less lean, but wingless – many mixed are – but on him it seems strange; a mixed-blood so big and menacing would typically be equipped with wings just as big.

“Adrik,” Ditya huffs, coming up short. He pulls Ryon closer to himself.

“I can take him to the stocks,” Adrik offers, his hand proffered. “The brutes are already waiting.”

Another penance, tonight? So soon after the last?

Bile rises from Ryon’s stomach to his throat. The boy tries not to let his fear show. He holds himself tall, rolls his eyes. But his wings retract of their own accord, unwilling to be within reach of the King’s swords. His hands tremble and he swallows, willing the contents of his stomach to stay put.

“No,” Ditya grunts. “It is too soon. His wounds are barely healed from the last. I can hide him.”

“And what then, my friend? They will look. He will be punished further for having kept them waiting. Even worse if they believe he tried to evade them. There is no other way.” Adrik looks to the slope over the boy’s head, eyes distant, and then down to Ryon. “I am sorry, deshun.”

Ryon shrugs, teeth gritted.

“Come. Bad things are better done quickly.”

Ryon tries to go, but Ditya’s fingers do not loosen their hold. Instead, they grip tighter, they pull him back. Ryon looks back questioningly at the man who currently houses him, keeps him fed.

“We should be doing something… fucking anything,” Ditya snarls, the ever-present spit collecting rapidly in the corners of his mouth. “We can refuse. We should deny them!”