Page 86 of Blood Fist

“I’ve spent my life around humans who were capable of love. They had all the parts, the privileges, and yet they were so obsessed with magic they missed it.” He looked back up at Ridan. “Artrax gave the clans a gift the walled city was too foolish to see. He died for you. Not for magic or power, but for love.”

“Magic can build cities. It can fill bellies and win wars. It can do the impossible, but it can’t do that.”

Ridan, like all Clansmen, had spent many nights thinking about Artrax. About his valor, his strength, his sacrifice. But he’d never thought of it like that. But even as Buzzard spoke, he could feel the truth of his words.

Perhaps love wasn’t a weakness. It wasn’t being selfish or abandoning his responsibilities.

It was a celebration of Artrax’s sacrifice, and all those who came after him. Rather than honoring their death, it honored their lives. What they lived and died for. Perhaps finding something so true, so pure in a world where children had their wings broken to fit into cages, was the greatest victory he could ever win.

He didn’t answer Buzzard, just ducked his nose into his shirt and tried to pick out Brune’s lingering scent.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

HALF FORMED PLANS AND UNCERTAIN OUTCOMES

The hearth fires were nothing more than embers when they snuck into camp. Brune had Osmond’s borrowed cloak pulled up over Buzzard’s shoulders, guiding the harpy with a hand on his back. Buzzard kept his eyes straight ahead, uninterested in the camp around him. Or maybe he was justmoreinterested in getting to Schok.

Ridan lingered behind, walking a little slower with both horses’ leads. He’d been strangely quiet since coming back. Brune wanted to ask, but he also knew just how important it was to get Buzzard settled without anyone seeing him.

Derry met them outside the tent they were keeping Schok. He looked tired, a little more worn down than usual, but Brune supposed it was getting late. He offered to take the horses back to the stables. Ridan only agreed after making sure Derry had been lectured on properly caring for them.

Corric had taken over an unused tent. It was small. Brune had to duck his head to get through the flaps. He heldthem open for Ridan and Buzzard before allowing himself to look around.

There was no furniture. Just a hole dug into the dirt where Schok rested, surrounded by six buckets of water. Corric was kneeling beside the hole, hands in his lap. If Derry looked rundown, then Corric looked like he might pass out at any moment. His normally pale skin was nearly translucent, except ‌under his eyes, which looked like black bruises. Behind him, Jonen didn’t look much better. He chewed on his fingernails as his enormous eyes took them in.

Buzzard didn’t greet any of them. His eyes dropped to Schok. He chirped, hand tightening around the feather he’d been carrying since it had been given back to him. The cloak slipped off his shoulders and Jonen gasped, mouth dropping open.

Brune had been able to give them a quick message when he snuck into camp earlier, but it didn’t compare toseeinga magical creature in the flesh. Buzzard paid no mind to him, falling to his knees at the edge of what looked uncomfortably like a grave. His golden eyes were bright in the low light of just a single torch, shimmering wetly.

Schok didn’t look worse than he had at the festival, but he didn’t look better. His hair was still scorched at the tips. Shadows haunted the hollows of his cheeks and neck.

Corric watched Buzzard critically. The harpy reached forward, blunted talons stroking so lightly across Schok’s skin it was nearly painful to watch. Like Buzzard needed to touch him to prove he was there, but was afraid of the answer.

He inhaled shakily, reaching to take Schok’s hand. There was no fear—even with the runes covering the obvious burns on his skin, Buzzard didn’t care. He heldthe hand up, pressing it to his forehead as tears dampened the traumatized skin. Buzzard's lips moved against Schok’s knuckles, apologies for things they couldn’t hear kissed into his skin.

“How has he been?” Ridan asked, his gravelly voice splitting the tension in the tent and drawing attention away from Buzzard.

Jonen didn’t take his eyes off Corric. “Iylah gave us a sleeping draught. He mostly sleeps but sometimes he wakes and…” he nodded toward the buckets. “Bursts into flames.”

“Bad dreams,” Buzzard whispered. “He used to pretend to be so tough. Like none of it bothered him, but…he never could stop having dreams.”

Corric clenched his jaw. “Dreams of what?”

“Best you not ask, little brother,” Buzzard said softly, dropping Schok’s hand to his lap, where he pressed the feather between their palms.

Silence settled between them. Jonen was twitchy, clearly uncomfortable with either Buzzard or the situation in general. He cleared his throat. “Should I get Iylah to look at his wings?”

Buzzard scoffed. Ugly and bitter, like ice fracturing across a frozen pond. “They’ve been ruined since I was a hatchling. What would a featherless know?”

Jonen looked like he wanted to defend Iylah—perhaps suggest the most basic of a tea for pain or inflammation—but he was cut off by Halm barreling into the tent.

Her hair was wilder than it had been when they left. She wrenched the flap open, chest heaving with excitement. Scanning the room, her eyes widened when she caught sight of Buzzard.

“By Artrax’s teeth,” she mumbled, letting the heavy flap drop behind her. “You’re real.”

Ridanrolled his eyes, leaning against one of the tents supports with his arms crossed. His shoulders were hunched. Worry gnawed at Brune. It was acute, a definite scratching at the back of his head. He moved toward Ridan, eager to just…he wasn’t sure what. But the urge to be beside him, to touch him in some way, it was overwhelming. Swallowing back the urge, he looked up in time to see Ridan staring back at him.

There was something new in his eyes—no, his eyes were dilated. Something Brune had never seen before. It was staggering, a heat that seared his soul like a physical thing.