Filed to story: When the Moon Hatched Book
— S P L A T —
It’s very, very, very important.
Course it is.
I sigh, trying to scratch off the blood despite knowing full well it’s not going to work.
According to Essi, there are many important things to be found in the filthy, rotten Undercity. Which makes sense for somebody whose world once revolved around the deep, craggy cleft in the ground beneath the wall.
My mind tunnels back to the moment I found her dashing from the miners’ muck hall with a stolen lump of stale bread in her filthy hands, undernourished, dressed in rags, hair shorn because she’d learned that males get heckled less than the females down there.
She’d told me she was born in an abandoned shaft, and that her parents set off for a shift in the mines and failed to return—long ago. That she’d never seen the sky. Didn’t know what the aurora was, or that we wake and sleep in rhythm with its rise and fall.
I was still covered in the blood of a supervisor I’d caught doing terrible things to a miner when I took Essi to meet the sky, then promised to keep her safe. Harder than it sounds when everything she needs seems to come from the fucking Undercity. Contrary to her boast, she’s rarely patient enough to send me a supply list.
Frowning at the flattened lark, I try to scratch the blood off again—unsuccessfully—then pocket it and set my sight on the moon, hands clasped over my waist.
Even if I did know what’s scrawled beneath the splat of blood, I’m supposed to be keeping my distance until I get word the younglings from Tarik’s cells are out of Gore. I can, however, fetch Essi everything else if I stay out past the rise. Best I don’t head straight home anyway, considering I chose not to eliminate the nice-smelling, mysterious loose end who may or may not believe I killed Tarik Relaken.
Creators.
Why did I do that?
I usually cut first, don’t think later. I much prefer myself that way. Now I have to spend a small eternity checking over my shoulder, making sure the decision doesn’t swing around and bite me in the ass.
Mahmi and Pahpi say I’m too young to have a dragon, and it doesn’t matter that the Moonplumes in the palace hutch let me sleep with them. They say wild Moonplumes will drop from the sky the moment I step onto their spawning grounds, snatch me up, shake me until I’m limp, then feed me to their young.
I think that’s a plop of spangle poop. And I don’t think it’s very fair that I should have to wait until I’m eighteen to find out for myself how big that plop of poop really is.
Pahpi said I can put my argument forth once I hear the elemental songs and I’ve learned to speak them properly, but I think that’s a plop of spangle poop, too. Haedeon waited a long time and they never sang to him. And I’ve been listening really hard, every cycle, singing to the snow and the air and the ground and the flames. Nobody’s singing back but Mahmi and Pahpi at slumbertime.
Not that I mind. I don’t want to wear that silly stone, anyway. Mahmi always looks so tired, like her head’s heavy. Pahpi’s crown looks heavy too, but not in the same way. The stones on his are so pretty and shiny and make him look proud and important. The stone on Mahmi’s is so black it looks like somebody could fall straight through it.
Sometimes, I catch Mahmi trying really hard to pull her diadem off while she screams and cries and folds herself up real small. It makes my heart hurt.
I don’t think that stone is very good for Mahmi.
Last slumber, I found her outside, crying in the dark while the falling snow stuck to her hair. Her sad sounds made me cry, too.
I sang a song I’d hoped would make her feel better, but she just cried harder.
She wiped my cheeks and told me she’d be okay. That she lost something important, but that my cuddles made her feel much better.
Pahpi found us then. He picked her up and took her inside, then tucked me into my pallet, kissed me on the nose, and told me it would make sense when I’m older …
I don’t think I want to understand.
The bloated clouds crawl north in time for the aurora to peek above the eastern horizon—ten luminous silver ribbons wiggling into view, moving to their own hypnotic beat. The world comes alive with the distant screech of Moltenmaws, their scratchy yawns threatening to split the sky.
I push up from the skybridge, groaning, my legs a little stiff from disposing of Tarik’s body and lying in the snow. Yawning, I make for the north side, trekking down thirty-three levels of steep stairways until I step onto the ground level and into the already churning crowd.
The Ditch bustles with folk completing their early chores: clearing snow gathered before doors, chopping kindling, and fetching bottles of colk milk left beneath the eaves of those who can afford the run. Merchants roll by on colk-driven carts laden with tinctures, runed gadgets, and crates of exotic food, setting up shop for the dae.
A plethora of parchment larks flutter about, darting between folk and landing on outstretched hands, though some have no direction at all. Ghost larks—perhaps meant for somebody lost—that now spend their existence dancing with the fluffy sowmoths I’m feeling far too tired to chase.
“Please have jars of dust,” I murmur, jostling through the crowd.
Pausing by a store that’s yet to open, I pretend to window-shop while I check I’m not being followed, using the opportunity to ensure my veil still thoroughly conceals the lower half of my face. That there’s no bloody stains anywhere on my gown that’s cinched at my waist, the gathered bustle emphasizing my round hips.
The tight bodice makes my already full breasts almost spill from the neckline, and though that played the part last slumber, I look entirely overdressed amongst the freshly woken folk churning about the Ditch at my back. Not ideal.
I grab the tail of my veil, rearranging it so it’s draped across my bust, hiding all my perky, pale flesh.
Much better.
I weave through the crowd until I reach a north side shop tucked beneath a wind chute. Pink, powdery sunlight shoots through with a blow of fresh air, rustling the plants that dangle from the store’s eave, its name crafted on a stone plaque set amongst the stained glass window fashioned to look like a montage of Moltenmaw plumage.
I yank the door open, taking a step into the long, lofty store lined with rows of ceiling-high shelves packed to the brim with everything a Runi could possibly require: stacks of flat parchment squares with pre-drawn activation lines, small tincture jars choked by dangly labels, leather-bound books dyed an array of colors to match their painted edges. There’s an abundance of quills, jars of various etching sticks, and lumps of different ores and gemstones.
Halfway through the doorway, I pause, watching a vibrant flock of parchment larks churn about the shelves with feathers attached to their ends, looking like miniature Moltenmaws.
Every time I come, the flock has doubled in size. I’m sure of it.
“Close the door before my pets escape,” Ruse yells from the back of the shop, “or you’ll not be doing business here for the rest of your existence.”
I tug the door shut and weave between the shelves. “You know I’d catch them for you, Ruse.”
“Don’t sweet-talk me, Raeve. I’m eyeball-deep in inventory and a hair’s breadth away from losing my ever-loving mind.”
I round the final shelves, coming to a stone counter that dominates the store’s back end. Ruse is seated behind it, slouched over a bowl brimming with bugs armored with brown interlacing shells that can wrap around their wriggling bodies and contort them into tiny balls of stone.
One by one, Ruse is tucking them into bottleneck jars stuffed with a sprig of greenery and half an inch of rust-colored dirt, scoring lines on a scroll to the side with each weighty plop.
I watch her work, her wild tangle of curls such a bright shade of orange. “Looks tedious.”
“I want to impale myself with this quill,” she mutters, then corks the bottle she’s currently filling and places a lid on the bowl. She clasps her hands together, slaps a wide smile on her face, and beams at me through pretty, sunburst eyes. “How can I be of service?”
I pass her Essi’s list.
The white tuft of an otherwise lanky tail rises from behind the counter, waving back and forth, making me smile.
“Hi, Uno.”
The tuft wiggles faster before brushing Ruse’s jaw affectionately, an adoring softness spreading across Ruse’s face as she reaches beneath the counter, no doubt to rub Uno behind the ears.
I wonder how big she’s gotten. Miskunns are so scarce and greedily coveted I rarely glimpse more than the expressive tail of the creature who dotes on Ruse like a mother. Which is a shame.
She’s such a sweet thing.
Ruse hums, gaze still skimming the script. “Can’t help with whatever’s supposed to be beneath the splat of blood,” she murmurs, lifting her hand to scratch at it. “Messy job?”
“Unfortunately.” I shrug. “He was a squirter.”
“Ah.”
“Do you have any of the other things in stock?”
“You’re in luck,” she says, winking. “I have it all.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, thankful I don’t have to repeat the jar debacle.
Ruse grabs a cloth bag and moves around the counter, humming while she shifts between the shelves. Returning, she lumps the laden bag before me and sits again, sliding a large leather-bound ledger into sight. She lifts the front cover, flicking through until she settles on a page titled:
RAEVE
Dragon Bloodstone: 721 BKTS
My eyes widen.
I had no idea I had so much currency, the swelling digits a running commentary on how many bodies I’ve shoved off the wall to be picked apart by the predators that dwell beneath.
“I see your numbers have grown since—“
The inky scrawl stating my well of wealth bleeds off the page like watery ink blown off a slippery surface, before new digits appear in their place.