Page 42

The Blackest

C laws scrape the roots, slick with blood, black as the abyss, born of nightmares. I press myself against the bark, my spine grinding against its rough surface.

I don’t breathe. I can’t breathe. My eyes remain locked.

On the claws. On the toes. On the foot.

It inches closer. Scratching. Scraping.

Half an elf-length from crushing me.

I’m frozen, paralyzed, unmoving. Stunned. My stomach clenches, and my throat aches. I need air. Oxygen! I must breathe. It burns. I’m choking. I can’t… I gasp, forcing in a sharp breath. Oxygen floods in, my heart hammering.

Focus, Iszaelda! You won’t die. Not before saving Naeva, not before killing Akares.

Power ignites within me, surging through my veins, limbs, and breath.

I throw my senses wide open, reaching for the monster’s mind, forcing my way in, but I can’t.

A blockade of churning, thunder-black malice stands in my way.

The mind lurks just beyond. I can feel it, but I can’t reach it. It shuts me out, not like the panther.

This is beyond me. Too strong. My mind is too weak to break through.

I slip free from the tangle of roots. And run. Sprinting into the open. No roof, no walls, no shelter. Only me, the jungle, and the night.

Ahead, the trees rise like ancient sentinels, their trunks stretching skyward, dark and looming as if poised to collapse at any spark.

Where the moon, a fractured shard of silver, swells above, peering through the canopy, its misty blue light threading through the leaves.

Where the stars flicker, restless and hissing, as if at any moment they might be snuffed out and swallowed by the waiting dark.

A roar.

Right behind me. A roar that echoes for several days’ rides in every direction.

Wings beat the air. Not the feathered wings of a gryphon, not a bird’s swift flight.

These are different, bat-like, vast and bare, stretched taut like the skin of a war drum.

Each stroke slaps through the air, heavy and brutal.

They crash against branches, trunks, and roots.

Thunderclaps in the night. But the monster doesn’t fly.

Its claws strike the jungle floor, a low, growling rumble beneath each step.

It shatters branches, crushes roots, and grinds flesh and bone into the dirt.

One step at a time, with several sparks passing between each.

The ground convulses. The trees wail. The earth shudders, and I stagger, my balance slipping.

I leave the path, plunging into a tangle of moss, stones, orchids, and clutching vines. The ground is treacherous, uneven, shifting, harder to move through, and easier to vanish into.

I yank two arrows free, nock them, and keep the bow ready.

Weave. Right, left, right, right, left. Duck beneath a branch, leap over a stone, dive under the banyan’s gnarled roots. Squeeze through a narrow gap, tear past a thicket of twigs, a sea of swaying Hopea and dense Shorea.

I’m fast. The monster is faster.

What kind of beast is this? The same horror that attacked Parae?

I can feel its hot, rancid breath clinging to my skin. I hear the slime dripping from its teeth, pooling and gurgling in its throat. Its tongue’s slow, wet pull retracting, slithering back like the tide retreating into the abyss.

And in a spark of reckless instinct, I turn. One foot on a rounded stone, the other reaching for the next. And I want to scream. To vanish. To drop to the earth and surrender.

It’s massive.

All I see is the maw. A chasm, yawning, endless. As vast as our house in Valeanrae.

Teeth, endless teeth, packed so tightly they seem woven together. Towering, slender, glinting like ivory blades.

Horns crown its jagged snout. Its nostrils, carved into the sides of its skull, seethe with smoke, rising in slow, curling tendrils.

The eyes are higher up, far above me, along with the head, neck, body, and tail. All I see is the maw, volcanic black, lined with lethal fangs, and a tongue coiling and writhing like a serpent.

The monster is reptilian, like the one in Parae. The same species.

Dragons. They must be. The colossal, mythical beasts Daeroal spoke of. Creatures of legend that are said to roam lands far beyond Aarilion.

I shoot. An arrow flies. Then another. I grab three more. Faster! Move! Draw, release.

Netharu’el should see me now, shooting without a blindfold.

I fire left-handed, quickly and instinctively.

It isn’t as fluid as Netharu’el, but now is no time to perfect my aim.

The arrows strike deep in its throat. The beast chokes and snarls, a guttural, ripping sound.

Its tongue whips violently, thrashing in all directions.

Then the force hits. The roar, the shockwave, the tremor splitting the ground beneath me. I lose my footing. Stumble. Fall.

The world slams into me: dirt, stone, twigs, and thorns biting my skin. The sound is everywhere. Echoing. Splitting. Devouring.

Like standing in the eye of a storm. Like a volcano cracking open.

Like the earth crumbling beneath my hands.

I drag myself aside, push back, and nock another arrow as the beast’s jaws snap open and shut. Then the heat comes.

A tidal wave of fire surges from its maw. It kisses my cheeks, burns my clothes, floods my veins with raw, searing power.

I plant my feet wide in the inferno, releasing arrow after arrow after arrow. Flames lash my hair; it burns but is never consumed. Fire can’t claim what is already forged in it. Not just my skin is fireproof.

Everything in our blood is built to endure.

But not the bow.

It’s the wrong kind of wood, like the arrows, the quiver, the clothes on my back. Arenvíss would have survived. This one doesn’t.

It blackens, smolders, turning to crumbling ash in my hands.

Now I have nothing. No weapon. No defense. Nothing.

While I fight for my life, Netharu’el feasts on dusk supper with Jelethia.

I hope it’s worth it. I hope it’s a fine, fiery feast. I hope they savor every last bite.

The wings beat around me, whipping up howling, snarling tornadoes. Fire rumbles, splitting the night into molten reds and furious golds. It scorches my eyes and turns my skin to embers.

The beast roars, and I shudder, quivering like a birch leaf caught in a storm, sinking into the earth, into nature itself.

Nature! I can try again.

“Múr a’akn,” I whisper to the monster, to the spirits of the wild. “Naraada, múr a’akn!” Please, hide me.

They don’t listen. I have no magic. Not yet.

Instead, I clutch a splintered stick, holding it before me. A weapon. A joke. But running won’t save me. Not with the beast so close.

“Sina no vara i, dúrnedon, múera erecn’a isn’ar a!” Come then, dragon. I’m ready.

It lunges, maw gaping. I throw up my arms, a raw scream ripping from my throat, and hurl myself sideways at the very last spark.

Teeth slam into the earth. The ground convulses. Dirt explodes in all directions, hammering me like hail.

The dragon’s head is buried deep in the ground. I lunge, scrambling onto one of its horns, clinging with every ounce of strength.

It jerks back, nostrils flaring, and roars toward the starry sky.

Roars, roars, roars. A sound of agony. Of rage.

Hundreds of bats burst from the trees, swirling like tattered shadows across the night.

Then… fire.

A column of flames erupts, lighting the world in searing gold. The heat roars against my skin, the dragon’s hide blistering hot beneath me, rough, jagged, and burning. It thrashes and whips its head from side to side, trying to throw me off. I lock my legs around the horn, my grip ironclad.

I won’t fall. I won’t die.

Not today.

The stench of burning fills my lungs.

If I do nothing, I’ll fall. If I fall, I die. But what in the flames can I do? Desperation surges through me. I fling my mind outward, reaching for the beast, trying to slip inside.

Blackness. Only black. A wall.

“Let me in!”

The dragon thrashes, snapping its head up and down. Its wings batter the air, and the wind screams, claws at me, and rattles inside my skull.

I’m going to fall. Hold on. Endure.

Fire and smoke. Ash choking the air. Searing heat. Horns like spears. Teeth like jagged ivory. Death, so close I can taste it. I squeeze my eyes shut. Tight. Fingers dig in, nails scraping, tearing at the rough, blistering hide. Then stillness. Silence. Have I died? Is it over?

I rise to my feet atop its snout. Slow. Careful.

The heat sears through my soles, the rough hide blistering hot.

I stare into its vast, feline eyes, each as large as my body and golden as the sun itself. They fix on me, watching and unreadable.

The beast doesn’t move. I take a step back. Testing. Nothing happens.

“Iszaelda!”

I whip around, heart hammering, fear and relief crashing into each other.

Across the clearing, atop one of the massive roots, stands Netharu’el. And beside him, a stranger. Two monsoon-blue figures against the jungle’s darkness.

Netharu’el bolts toward me. The stranger doesn’t. He stands frozen, his eyes locked on the dragon.

What’s he doing? Who is he?

His skin is dull, a sooty gray. His shoulders are narrow like a boy’s. A flash of crimson glimmers on his hand. His gaze is piercing and unwavering. And the beast stares back as if he’s the one in control.

No. That’s impossible.

“Iszaelda!”

I climb down quickly, my feet hitting the ground too hard. My legs give out beneath me. Now that the fire is gone, so is my strength. The flames have passed, leaving me empty and hollowed out.

I collapse into Netharu’el’s arms.

The way back dissolves into a blur, my body weightless, my vision swimming. I want to look back. I need to see what’s happening to the dragon and what the stranger is doing. But I can’t focus. I can’t turn around.

We’re back in the hut. But not for long.

Netharu’el grabs something, then lifts me again, carrying me outside.