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W ITH ONE ARM , Esme hugged tight to Abresh, struggling to keep the Chanr? huntress in Ruro’s saddle. Earlier, they had strapped the woman’s broken limb across her chest, but pain and exhaustion had left Abresh weaving. They could not keep this up for much longer.

Esme clutched the horn she had recovered from Crikit to her lips. Abresh held out a spear of sharpened bone, one of their last. Over the course of what felt like both an eternity and a heartbeat, the pair had run down two more of the bronze raiders, stabbing and slashing savagely.

Still, their efforts had only slowed the bastards down.

Nothing more.

Ahead of them now, a third ta’wyn had crashed out of the sky into the face of a dune. Its impact buried it to the waist. Taking advantage, they closed upon it.

Ruro pounded up the slope.

As they got near, Abresh shouted. Esme let loose the breath she had been holding. The horn’s blast stung her ears. The ta’wyn, impossibly fast, had already shoved out of the sand’s grip, but the horn’s blow caused it to cringe. Its bronze shivered under the assault.

Then they were atop it.

Abresh speared down, but her aim trembled, from exhaustion, from struggling with only one arm. The tip dropped and stabbed through the creature’s thigh versus its chest. The spear’s butt jolted up, striking the huntress hard in the jaw, knocking her back into Esme.

The horn bobbled at Esme’s parched lips. While she kept blowing, the note faltered, enough for the ta’wyn to break free. A bronze fist snapped out. It smashed into the horn as they swept past, cracking the curl, sending half flying away, leaving a scrap hanging by a strap in Esme’s grip.

Then they were racing off.

Crikit had swung a wide path around the fight and now closed upon their trail, his eight legs blurring over the red sand.

Esme turned, expecting the raider to head off for Tosgon like the others, but instead it reached down and broke the impaled spear and threw it aside. It glared with azure fury—then set off after them.

“Abresh!” Esme shouted, alerting the huntress.

The woman glanced back, then swung forward again. She growled to Ruro and leaned tight. Esme ducked, too. With a powerful bound, the ürsyn sped faster, its claws digging deep.

Abresh guided their path away from the flags of Tosgon.

Crikit followed, keeping to firmer sand off to the side.

Behind them, the ta’wyn gave chase, wounded but still swift and determined. Maybe it knew they were defenseless without the horn.

As they raced, flying over ridges and skidding down the far slopes, the hunter gained speed, maybe repairing itself as it ran. All they could do was drag it farther from Tosgon—for as long as the stouthearted Ruro had strength in his limbs.

Abresh must have decided that would not be enough.

With a final pat on Ruro, Abresh rolled out of her saddle. She landed on the lower slope of the dune and skated down, stopping in the path of the incoming ta’wyn. She crouched with a spear and planted the butt of her weapon in the sand. She braced it forward with her body.

Esme struggled forward in the saddle and gained the reins. She fought against the urge to swing the ürsyn around. She understood the huntress’s gambit. With Ruro less burdened, the ürsyn could fly faster. Abresh had no hope of defeating the ta’wyn, only to delay it, to stretch this chase out even further.

And maybe for another reason.

Esme knew the affection the huntress had for her mount. Maybe Abresh hoped this ploy might discourage the ta’wyn from its pursuit, to give Esme and Ruro a chance to escape.

Unfortunately, Esme and Abresh both failed to account for another’s affection, one returned with as much love and loyalty.

Within a few bounds, Ruro realized who had gone missing, who had put herself in danger. The ürsyn dug and spun back around. Once more, Esme got thrown from the saddle by the sudden unexpected turn. She flew, struck the sand, and rolled down the slope.

By the time she had righted herself, Ruro was racing after Abresh. The huntress must have heard the rip of sand under claws. The woman’s shoulders rose higher, as if accepting this fate, knowing this last stand meant not only her death, but also Ruro’s.

They would die together.

The ta’wyn raced at the huntress, and Abresh dug deeper.

Ruro bounded toward her back, trying to reach her, perhaps to offer her a saddle strap to grab as he passed, intent on drawing the huntress away.

But Ruro lost this race.

The ta’wyn struck the spear, broke through it, and smashed into Abresh. Bones shattered against bronze. The huntress’s body flew high, spraying blood, limbs askew. Then she struck the sand, skidding far before stopping, already half buried in her grave.

Ruro roared his grief and anger, driven faster now—not to rescue, but in retaliation.

The ta’wyn had been knocked to a stop and now crouched to face the ürsyn. Those azure eyes glowed with satisfaction.

Ruro leaped the last distance, but his exhausted legs finally gave out.

He failed to reach the enemy.

The beast struck the sand in front of the ta’wyn, crashing onto his side, but rather than skidding, Ruro spun his body. His quills dug deep, burying his bulk as ürsyns did to hide from the sun. Momentum drove this burrowing effort under the legs of the ta’wyn.

Ruro then burst back up, throwing his enemy high.

The ta’wyn spun through the air, bronze glinting brightly. It crashed hard onto its face, cratering into the sand.

As it struggled to get up, Ruro spun around and reared up behind it, exposing his long claws.

Esme lunged forward, knowing those sharp nails could do no damage against the bronze. The ta’wyn pushed his head out of the sand. Fiery eyes fixed on Esme, responding to the threat of her rush, not worried about guarding its metal back.

Esme did the only thing she could. She swung up the broken half of the horn, still hanging from the strap at her wrist, and brought it to her lips. She blew hard, the note strident—and wrong.

Still, the ta’wyn cringed, perhaps at the sight of the dangerous curl, at the stinging blast. Even its body responded in kind, a reflexive memory of what was expected, like a cur salivating at the sight of an offered bone. The bronze rippled, only for a breath—but long enough.

Ruro landed on the back of the ta’wyn, pounding down with his massive weight. Claws dug deep into the shivering bronze, driven deeper by the impact. Nails meant for ripping through coarse sand now raked wide swaths across its back.

Esme pictured Abresh’s daggers being trapped when bronze had hardened again. Fearing the same, she lowered the horn and hollered at Ruro, “Get back!”

Trained well, the ürsyn responded, retreating a step. Esme could not risk Ruro getting mired into the hardening bronze. For any hope of escape, she still needed Ruro as her mount. They needed to be gone before the bastard recovered—which no doubt he would.

Another responded to Esme’s fear and urgency, too.

Crikit raced down the slope, leaped high, and landed on the back of the ta’wyn. His eight legs sank deep and scrabbled wildly.

Fearing the worst, Esme lunged for her friend—but was too late.

C RIKIT PISTONS HIS eight legs, blurringly fast, but it is not sand beneath him. Digging into hot grains normally sharpens his limb’s chitinous points.

Not now.

No, no, no, no…

This is slag and mire.

To understand better, he waggles his eye-stalks in all directions. He sees through them all. To his Warmth of Heart ahead, to a beast behind, to the dunes around, to the sticky syrup beneath.

He struggles, as if fighting against the sucking sands found in the dark depths of the ruins.

He knows that danger.

Not this.

He fights to free himself, which sinks him deeper. He loudly snaps a claw in distress, rapid in panic. He clicks the same with his mandibles’ palps. They both sound the same plea.

Help, help, help, help…

Then one leg-point strikes something hard, deep in the mire. He knows the vibration that shivers up his sensitive limb. Not rock. Crystal, like a lump of salt.

Flat on top. Too flat to perch.

He stamps at it, rapidly, tapping for a hold.

Too hard.

The salt shatters under his leg’s chitinous point.

His heart quivers just once in disappointment—then the world explodes beneath him. He is flung high. Ligaments tear. His shell cracks. The fine hairs along the hard apron under him burn away in a flash.

Pain, pain, pain, pain…

He crashes, rolling across the sand. Legs crack off. An eye-stalk rips away, going dark. He finally stops, broken and fiery in agony. He does not know what he did wrong. He mewls in fear, in pain, in panic. He tries to snap-click his distress, but he has no claw.

His remaining eye-stalks wave, searching all around.

He sees a wide patch of blackened sand. Farther out, pools of the shining syrup that had mired him. Closer, a beast rolls to its legs in a wave of shoved sand. On the other side, his Warmth of Heart pushes up, wreathed in smoke.

He rushes for safety, for home—as well as he can muster.

His remaining four legs push his belly across the sand. Those grains fight him, but he trenches a path toward his Warmth of Heart. He leaves a wet trail behind him, seeping from cracks, from the ends of missing limbs. He drives on in pain, in determination, in regret.

As he struggles, he waggles his eye-stalks, begging for a scratch, to know he is good.

His Warmth of Heart sees him. A hard breath escapes her that he knows is fear, a fright that matches his own. He hurries to comfort, to get back the same. He balances on four legs and scrabbles to close the distance.

He does not make it. With trembling limbs, he crashes into the sand. He silently calls, using the other name for his Warmth of Heart.

Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama…

O N HER KNEES , with her sight still narrowed by the blast, Esme spotted Crikit struggling toward her, then collapsing. His body lay in ruins, charred, broken, weeping a trail behind him. She choked back a sob and crawled to him. She reached him as he lifted a plaintive limb, showing his missing claw, as if asking her to help find it.

He clicked softly, weakly.

She pulled him to her, hugging her arms around him. She reached and tenderly scratched the base of his eye-stalks, something that always comforted him. She avoided the ripped one.

She hummed, letting the vibration of her chest reverberate through him.

I’ve got you.

His clicking slowed, only tapping now, a sign of contentment.

She stared over his broken carapace to the blasted area of sand. She had been worried about Crikit getting stuck in hardened bronze, but one of his sharply pointed legs must have struck something vital, shattering through it. Whatever it was, the explosion had thrown them all back.

She was surprised Crikit had survived, but he had always been hard-shelled, a survivor like her.

She leaned over him, rocking him gently.

As she did, one eye-stalk slowly dropped, then another. The last one looked at her, shining for as long as it could, then it drooped and fell away, too.

She continued rocking him.

You’re a good boy.

She stayed where she was, the fight and fire snuffed out of her. From her vantage, she could see the battle in the distance. Ruro had led them well off from it. To her side, the ürsyn settled next to the grave of the huntress, lying down, not burying himself, letting the world see his grief.

Over by Tosgon, a flag burned, casting up a sigil of smoke. Horns blared across the desert. Small shapes raced over dunes. She saw Crikit was not the only molag to suffer. Black mountains lay broken out there. Three still moved, continuing the defense.

But it was a futile effort.

Bronze glinted everywhere, like dark diamonds cast across the sand. Movement drew her gaze across black glass. Out there, specks of fiery metal burned across the sky, sweeping toward Tosgon. Others trudged across the glass.

Even farther away, she spotted the wreckage of the Fyredragon, broken on the burning sea, casting up smoke like the flag of Tosgon.

She continued to rock.

Knowing it was all she could do.

To mourn the dead.