Page 27 of The Cruel Dawn (Vallendor #2)

They’re gone.

Those are the only words that my mind can form.

They’re gone.

He killed them, right in front of me. He killed them, and didn’t care who he’d be taking from their families, from this town, from this realm…

Me. And even though I am immortal, even though I will never know what a human feels as she dies, these deaths feel like…

parts of my lungs have been tied off. Like…

my vision has dimmed—not by a lot, but enough that I notice.

Like…I’ve left blood trailing behind me once again, but this time, I’m incapable of cleaning up the mess and must now accept the ugly.

My face stings as though Danar Rrivae had slapped me dozens of times and bit my cheeks afterward.

I’m too stunned to even cry, and I stand there, in that field, shaking…

Vibrating. My eyes cloud with tears. The air around me rolls with steam.

My hands ball into fists but unclench because I don’t have anyone left to fight.

What has Danar Rrivae gone to do? Find some other mortals to terrorize? Is this his plan? Target someone who I care about just a tiny bit more than the rest? Will Danar Rrivae use anyone vulnerable as leverage to get what he wants from me?

I let my head droop, sorrow washing over me like an icy river.

I cry into my shoulder—poor Jamart, poor Lively—until I’m lightheaded.

My tears fill the sky above me with thunderheads, damp and dangerous.

I stay still and try to take deep breaths—but not moving hasn’t saved those I love. Moving and doing hasn’t helped, either.

Shit.

I dry my face with my cloak and push out a long, hard breath.

I know what I must do. I’ve known all along, but he leaves me no choice. I must kill Danar Rrivae.

…

The moths that Spryte with me stay a little longer—they must sense my sadness and know that I’ve been suffering from vertigo as well as the ongoing effects of Miasma.

Twenty paces away from the raggedy gates of Caburh, I wave my hand and thank them for their care.

Looking at Caburh makes me forget my nausea.

This place…it’s not Gasho with its mud-brick homes and alabaster-smooth walls, palm dates and fancy baths with domed ceilings.

No, Caburh, located southwest of Gasho, remains a riverside industrial trading hub founded by the Renrians ages ago.

The nightstar shines down on a town that stinks of smoke and funk from the tannery and forge. The stench of death has also seeped deep into the soil, into the banks of the Duskmoor River that winds through the town.

Even late at night, this hub of mercantilism, language and culture, travel and recreation buzzes with the languages of a dozen different provinces.

My boots clack against stones worn smooth by others who have walked this town. Back in the day, you could buy spells from women wearing green cloaks, sacred relics bartered alongside spices, onions, and salted fish.

I wrap my cloak tighter around my shoulders to try and blend in—and blending in is possible here.

The streets teem with people from faraway lands, their skin tones representing every realm across Vallendor.

They wear vibrant-hued clothes, and the languages flowing around me are a blend of words, grunts, and clicks.

But they have one thing in common: everyone glows a deep shade of amber.

Some will drop dead from Miasma before I leave this place.

So much has changed since I last walked through this town.

Fire was consuming the tailor’s shop over there. A man’s severed head had bobbed in the fountain across the street. The massive battawhale, Tazara, king of the night-dwelling creatures, had hovered over the town square while smaller battabies had fought fire-spitting cursuflies.

But for once, I’m not here to fight or to purchase leather or to exact revenge on anyone. I’ve come for a fancy storybook-encyclopedia—that’s it.

As I head to the Broken Hammer Inn, I sense countless pairs of eyes following me.

There’s curiosity, yes, but also recognition—and fear.

The watchers know who I am. Some even know that I’m not one to fuck with because they remember what I did during my last visit here.

They remember that I fought both Gileon Wake’s army and the attacking cursuflies.

They remember that I sped away on horseback alongside Jadon Wake, following his brother Gileon and Olivia, who still possessed my stolen amulet.

Those who remember stop their hammering and hawking to scowl at me.

“The abomination is back.”

“How dare she?”

“What’s left for her to destroy?”

“Take her head.”

“No. Take her hands—her hands are the biggest threats.”

I say nothing, shivering, though, as I listen to their most dangerous thoughts.

They look up to me, not because of who I am or what I can do to them but literally because I’m tall and my hair is as big as the wool-haired, bargain-basement effigy someone made that they’re now burning on an installment plan—straw Kai has only been torched to her shins.

Some follow me through these streets not because of their love or admiration but only because they’ve forgotten my strength and power.

Follow a strange dog at your peril, Caburh . Right now, I’m an unpredictable bitch.

Enough townsmen surround me to slow my march to the Broken Hammer Inn. One man with a crooked nose and white, dandelion-seed hair steps in front of me.

My hands go clammy. Come on, guy, I don’t wanna fight you .

He curls his lip and snarls, “You’re dying today, Perversion.”

“I haven’t come to start trouble, sir,” I say. “Yes, my last visit here led to unfortunate losses, and I’m sorry about that, but I didn’t start it. The army of Syrus Wake came for someone else, and I simply defended myself—”

“A hundred souls died that night,” a broken man with a broken voice shouts from behind me.

“Yes, I know,” I say. “And I mourn them each day. My deepest sympathies to you all for those who were taken during the fight.”

The man with the crooked nose and white hair squints at me.

His fists clench and unclench as though he’s already squeezing my heart or my throat, and he’s ready for justice—or vengeance.

“It’s easy for you, isn’t it?” Dandelion-Seed Hair spits.

“To walk into this town with your fancy clothes and fancy swords while our homes still bear the scars of your ‘defending yourself.’”

“What do you want, sir? All of you: What would bring you peace? What would restore the dead?” I ask, scanning those gathering around me, chills dancing up and down my spine.

Soot-covered faces, hands hardened by labor, eyes glinting with grief and rage.

Faces scarred and swollen, amber glowing as intense as daylight.

They look as scraggly and forgotten as the scraps of fabric discarded in the mud.

They look as broken as the shards of furniture tangled up in hedges and ivy that continue to grow around them.

Shoes, hats, and belts are found everywhere except on the feet, heads, and around the waists of the townspeople of Caburh.

And their numbers are growing as they gather around to watch, swelling like a bruise spreading across skin.

Their anger pulses and could explode with one careless word.

I need to move on, but I can’t—their hearts are filled with agony even though their hands are heavy with metal. The townspeople need a goddess, and I cannot oblige. “The deaths of your loved ones were not my intention,” I say with sincerity.

They scoff.

“She is the reason!”

“Cleanse us of her wickedness!”

“Destroy this abomination!”

Cleanse? Abomination? Those two words are never good together.

The angry townsfolk grip their weapons tight. They pull their lips tighter across their teeth, holding their hatred of me like they’d hold a baby rescued from a rushing river. They’re ready to fight and kill me.

Don’t they know? Mortals should never tempt the gods. Doing so surely brings disaster.

Fear fills me, not because of what they want to do to me, but because of what I can do to them without pulling the blade from my scabbard or the dagger from my boot.

They press in closer to me.

“Stop right now.” I lift my left hand as a warning. Flames leap across my fingertips.

Some in the mob gasp. Those holding weapons lift their eyebrows in surprise, but their thirst for revenge compels them to take cautious steps toward me.

“I’m asking you one last time,” I say and lift my right hand. I spot a broken cart and prepare to hurl fire at it as a warning shot.

“No!” a woman yells. “Don’t!”

Separi Eleweg the Advertant, proprietor of the Broken Hammer Inn, stands at the edge of the mob.

She’s the one who just told me not to throw fire.

Her thick braids quiver with anger, and the gold charms clamped on those locks tinkle with rage.

Her eyes are flat and black, but her words are sharp and filled with horror.

She doesn’t wear her silk waistcoat or velvet breeches as she’s done in the past. Like the other townsfolk, she’s dressed in a simple tan tunic and frayed burlap trousers.

Just then, the broken cart creaks, and a little Renrian girl with white hair crawls out into the open with a kitten clutched to her chest.

I gasp and shiver. If I’d hurled that fireball, I would’ve… Exhaustion buzzes through me, another death averted by my tenuous self-control. Too much. This is becoming too much.

“She will kill each of you with her fire and wind,” Separi shouts to the crowd. “Don’t you remember? Don’t you understand? She is no ordinary townswoman or traveler. Have you forgotten the terrible power that the Lady of the Verdant Realm possesses? Do you want her to burn down the rest of Caburh?”

Some townsfolk come to their senses and stow their weapons.

“Forgive us, Lady.”

“What has happened to us? ”

Others shout, “Fuck her!”

“False god!”

“Abomination!”