Page 54

Of Bones Being Crushed

W e cross Nimuala, heading toward the far side of the field, ready for aftenday’s training session.

The landscape glows, bathed in golden light.

The clouds have vanished, leaving nothing but an endless expanse of azure sky.

In a single daytime, the grass has dried warm beneath my feet, its edges crisp and brittle.

I scan the field, searching for my master.

And then I see him. At last. Standing close together with some… woman.

My throat tightens. My fingers curl, nails scraping against each other, and my stomach knots like tangled branches.

Who is it this time?

Her skin is silver-gray, and her hair is a gleaming white, swept into a high ponytail. And she’s tall, her head nearly level with Netharu’el’s. Not like me. I barely reach his shoulders.

She moves her feet against his, shifting slightly, her legs impossibly long. She wears an olive-green cloak over her fitted leather clothing, its hem flicking against Netharu’el’s ankles.

I think she’s Kes’raa Taa. Salahfar’s master.

They stand against a tree at the heart of the gathering place. She whispers something, and he laughs.

It burns. Sparks flicker beneath my skin, smoldering under the surface.

Watching him stand so close to her. Watching him laugh with her.

I want him to laugh with me. I want him to see me.

He looks at Kes’raa as if she’s the most beautiful woman in all of Sarador. As if she’s everything he’s ever wanted.

Maybe he’s just naturally charming. I don’t think he tries to flirt with everyone he meets. But if he’s unaware of it, does that make it worse?

“Zel, don’t you agree?” Acranta tugs at my arm, over and over, like a restless child.

I nod without thinking, turning away. I keep walking alongside my friends, but my gaze stays on Netharu’el and Kes’raa.

“Are you serious?” Fax exclaims, sounding hurt. “You’re taking her side? Think about everything I’ve done for you. Everything we’ve been through together. This is… this isn’t right, Zel!”

“Are you surprised?” Jelethia sighs.

“What have you done for Iszaelda?” Salahfar asks, raising a brow. “Why don’t you tell us? I’m very curious.”

“It was just something I said… I mean… Hello? Zel?”

“She’s wandered off again, hasn’t she?” Jelethia says. “Get used to it. Seems like her new thing. So charming.”

“Oh, poor Fax,” Acranta purrs. “Zel will always take my side. And do you know why?”

“No?”

“Because she likes me best. I found her first.”

“And what does that have to do with anything?”

“Zel and I have a bond, one you could never understand. Poor thing, right?”

What are they even talking about?

Doesn’t matter.

Kes’raa focuses on Netharu’el, oblivious that he’s like this with everyone. Oh, Kes’raa. I can’t help myself. I must do something.

She takes his hand, running a fingertip across his palm. Slowly. Deliberately. As if she’s reading his fate. He watches her, eyes following the movement.

And then he smiles. His gaze sharpens, widening with interest.

“Sep ver,” I hiss softly. It’s barely more than a breath, with words forming in silence. Darkness swells inside me, a shiver spreading like tiny needles beneath my skin. Then it bursts free.

Kes’raa jolts, dropping her hand. A sudden cough tears through her. Harsh. Violent. One after another. I don’t look away.

Netharu’el leans in, rubbing her back.

No! Let go of her!

“Ial bay.”

Netharu’el moves away, grimacing as if hit by a foul stench.

Which, knowing me, there probably is. He steps back.

Kes’raa’s coughing fades on its own without me willing it.

Acranta seizes my arm. “Stop it, Zel!”

“What?” I snap.

“I see what you’re doing. You have to stop. What if he notices? That would be very bad. Be careful.”

I turn to her. “How?”

“How what?”

“How do you know? What else would I mean?” My eyes narrow. “No, you forgot, didn’t you?”

She smirks. “I haven’t forgotten. It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“I don’t agree.”

“Because I saw you two under?—”

I groan. “Don’t bring that up.”

My feet skim the grass, barely touching before pushing off again. Toes, knees, calves—I drive forward with everything I have.

Rahveles Odante runs ahead, slightly to my left. He’s fast. Fiery fast.

His red hair whips wildly as he moves, and his body bends unnaturally through the turns as if his bones are liquid instead of rigid.

“Hurry up, Ipjgepaleg!” Rahveles laughs. “My grandmother runs faster than you! And guess what? So does my grandfather. And he’s paralyzed!”

I glare at his fragile backside. If I pushed him, would he snap in half?

“Missing some calf muscles?” he jeers.

“You’re not particularly sharp, are you?”

He glances over his shoulder, eyes widening. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly.”

While he’s distracted, I surge forward, slipping past him, sprinting across the sun-warmed grass.

The heavy air, rich with the scent of sunbaked earth and crushed greenery, clings to me.

Gorgoroth looms to my right, a dark mass against the blinding light.

The sun scorches my bare arms, its heat pressing into my skin.

My tunic, a soft shade of weathered slate, billows with my movement, brushing against my hips.

My dark breeches flex and stretch with every stride.

I’ll win.

I’ll win. I’ll win. I want to prove myself and show them I’m quick. Sharp. Worthy. So the star elves will respect me. So they’ll stop calling me Ipjgepaleg, stop their whispers, snickers, and mocking glances. This is a qualifying race. A sprint. Something I know I excel at.

I should win.

“Go, Zel!” Acranta jumps, clapping her hands high above her head. “Go, go! Faster! I know you can do this!”

Fax waves beside her, his hand a blur of rain-gray motion.

I glimpse Netharu’el. He looks tense, watching me, but soon fades into the edge of my vision. Rahveles is right behind me, his breath hot on my back.

Too close. We’re running three laps around Nimuala. Two are done. One left. My pulse hammers. My breath comes fast, uneven. My skin burns. Faster. Faster. Faster! The finish line is close. I can’t let the star elf win. Push. Harder. Move! I’m drenched in sweat.

“Go, Rahveles!” someone cheers.

“Ipjgepaleg, you suck!” another voice calls. Sounds like Iaxa Ir’Aki. The apprentice with red bands wrapped around his arms.

I can do this. I want Netharu’el to be proud. I want him to see that I’m not just fast but fierce. I own this race.

“Hold on tight, Sunish!” Rahveles shouts. “I’m right behind you!”

“I’ll send you a letter from the finish line!” I yell back.

Faster. Faster. Dirt kicks up around me. The finish line is within sight.

Just a little more. Come on. Push forward. Forward! So close. I’m going to win. I must win. I must be first. I must?—

Then I feel it.

A presence.

Like a force field.

It pulls me in, and there’s nothing I can do.

Everything collides. Sensations, emotions, the world twisting together in a blur.

I flap. Wings slicing the air. The wind catches me and lifts me.

I weave between tree trunks. The others in the flock fly beside me.

I’m Umbra, an inky black Aarilic forest dragon as large as an elk.

I open my jaws, acid pooling, and spew it onto two harpies perched on a branch. They scream. They fall. They die.

“The next ones are mine,” Vur snaps, shoving against me.

I shove back, hissing. He’s young. He knows nothing of the world.

Barely three hundred sun cycles. I snort, nostrils flaring, and inhale.

The scent of meat. Star elves.

Delicious.

Elven flesh between my teeth. Elven blood spilling down my tongue.

It’s been too long. They taste clean and far better than humans.

Lately, we’ve only found parrots, pumas, fanoxes, and tamarins. Feathers and fur. Disgusting.

I hate fur. I hate feathers. We all do. All except Ukora.

Baalvon’s face flickers through my mind, blurred, shifting.

His arms brace against my back. My wings flap. My talons extend.

My jaws snap open, teeth poised to rip into the cockatoo. I chase it.

Spinning through the sky. Right. Left. Up.

There!

I sink my teeth in. Swallow it whole. Baalvon watches me. Shocked.

His eyes, gray as a raging hurricane, are clouded with confusion.

I hiss, baring my teeth in a way that’s sharp and dangerous. Teeth he should fear.

I duck under a branch, shoving Vur as I pass.

He snaps at me. “That bird was mine.”

“Then Vur should be quicker.” I flick my wings. “Move. There are elves.”

“Elves!”

Mmm. Elves.

“Yes.” I lick my lips. “Elves.”

I feel sick. I struggle to break free, focus on Baalvon, and force the image into clarity. But I exist in two places at once. A dragon in the forest. An elf in the grass. Umbra’s mind is too strong. It holds me and refuses, refuses, refuses to let go.

I scratch my cheek, and my skin feels rough and coarse beneath my fingers. I bite my wing, and pain shoots through me. Teeth sharp as swords. I fight for control and try to grasp it, but my body thrashes. I dive, twist, screech, and roar.

“Dragons!” I rasp. “Hide! Dragons. They… they’re coming!”

Baalvon turns and shouts, his mouth open, his gaze unfocused. His eyes dart, searching but never landing. Deep creases carve his forehead, and dark circles sag beneath his eyes, heavy, swollen, like water pouches ready to burst. He gathers my elven body into his arms and runs.

I spew acid. Wild. Uncontrolled. It sears everything in its path. Like the dragon in the forest. The other dragons dodge, snarl, and lash out.

I plummet. And suddenly, I realize I have control of the wings.

The ground surges toward me. Fast. As if it’s the one moving, not me.

Cabbage palms, philodendrons, Shorea trees, thorns and jagged branches.

They close in. They attack. They challenge. They charge.

Soon, they’ll skewer me. Soon, I’ll die.

I shriek. Snap my teeth at nothing, wings thrashing. Flap, flap, flap!

I fight to catch a current. Come on! Fly! Why is this so fiery impossible? Fly! Up, you stupid beast!

“Umbra!” Vur roars. “The air current, seize it!”

I drop. Spinning.

The sky is endless, blue and vast, but splintered by branches, clawing from all sides. I flap. Sunlight glares against my wings. No resistance.

I flap. I try to shove the body back to Umbra. I don’t want it. I flap.

I fight to pull myself out. I flap. I tear against the force that holds me prisoner.

Take control!

Take it!

He doesn’t take control, doesn’t know how, and doesn’t understand what’s happening. He’s inside me, looking out through my sharp, unyielding eyes.

Soon, we’ll die.

We’re ready, but we don’t know how to fly, how to harness the wind, or what holds us back from soaring. Something is wrong in our minds.

Someone is trying to steer. Someone who doesn’t know how.

Inexperienced. Unfit. We plummet. We crash.

Bones splinter, jutting at wrong angles, piercing through flesh and organs. The pain is blinding. The shriek. Unearthly. I scream. I keep screaming. Even when the pain fades, dissolving into something else.

A creeping numbness. Paralysis.

Heart pounding, panic surging, I gasp awake. I jolt upright, hands flying to my body, tracing my throat, my legs, and my arms. Trembling.

Cold sweat clings to me, sticky with dread.

I’m alive.

No broken bones.

But not for Umbra. I… killed him.

“Zel?”

I twist sharply. Acranta is beside me, her arms wrapped around me, soft and steady.

I’m pressed against her, her hair brushing my cheeks, carrying the scent of fresh grass and clean linen. But I don’t want to be in her arms.

Her skin prickles against mine, sharp as nettles. Star elves are so physical.

I’m slowly adjusting. But I still have a long way to go before I can let people touch me without instinctively pulling away.

She tugs me closer. I don’t fight it. Not now. Too drained.

She nods toward the other side of the room, and I follow her gaze.

Baalvon paces across the floorboards, his steps low and creaking. His expression is distant, lost in thought. I shut my eyes against Acranta’s warm neck, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against my skin.

Slow. Even. Calming.

“Oh, Zel, tell me what happened!” she exclaims. “I’ve been so worried. Baalvon, too.”

“I don’t know.”

I can’t tell them the truth, and I won’t. If they knew what was happening to me, they would think I was mad and lock me away. Bury the key in a place where I would never be able to find it.

Something is wrong with me. Terribly wrong. And they can never know. Never.

“But how did you know the dragons were coming? How did you know we had to hide? Maybe you saw the future. Maybe your ability is finally surfacing, or maybe it’s?—”

“I don’t remember.”

“But—”

“I don’t remember!”

“Oh, right, sorry, I just?—”

“How did I get here?”

She blinks, tapping her fingers against the headboard. “When you shouted about the dragons, everyone panicked and ran. Kathraanis ordered everyone to take cover, and they?—”

“Where?”

“In the main building and the huts. But?—”

“And we’re…?”

“In mine and Baalvon’s hut. But?—”

“Where’s Netharu’el?”

“I don’t know, but I think he and Jelethia ran in the same direction into one of the huts.”

He and Jelethia. Great.

“Kathraanis just sent word that—wait, are you okay? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“No,” I mumble. “Keep talking.”

She watches me carefully, suspicion flickering in her eyes, but continues. “Kathraanis sent word that the dragons are still in the area. And, Zel, do you know what kind they’re? Aarilic forest dragons.”

“So?”

“Do you understand how dangerous they are?”

I shake my head. “But I’m guessing you’re about to enlighten me, right?”

“They’re small. Some look delicate and almost harmless. Some are even fluffy. Tiny enough to fit in a hand, others barely the size of a fingernail. But they can also be big. And some are… well, I don’t know, what’s smaller than?—”

“Get to the point.”

“They’re dangerous because… because they hunt in packs. They spit acid. And?—”

“Did I win?”

She blinks, caught off guard. “Win what?”

“The race.”

“Oh… no. You lost. You collapsed. Rahveles tripped over you. You probably have a bruise on your thigh. And your eyes went white. It was terrifying!”

I don’t feel the pain. Nothing compares to the weight of Umbra’s death. The crunch of shattered bones, the sensation of life draining away.

I shudder. In my mind, the ground surges toward me. Faster. Faster. Faster.

Wind lashes against my face, panic choking behind my ribs. The shriek. The fear.

The undeniable knowledge that I was about to die.