Filed to story: When the Moon Hatched Book
The crowd begins to disperse, funneling through the exit, my fluffy non-friend herding me in the same direction while uncertainty churns in my chest, making it feel tight.
Constricted.
Pick something.
Hone my focus.
Don’t fucking drown.
I hum my calming tune, stare narrowing on the flow of folk before me as I count my steps, imagining each one brings me a little bit closer to that mystical fucking word that’s always just out of reach …
Freedom.
I’m herded through a warren of tunnels to the beat of the pounding gong, the thick, stagnant air becoming easier to inhale only moments before we spill into a big, dusty crater. My eyes bulge at the impossible height and width—large enough to cram four coliseums in here and still have room to move.
It’s as though something collided with the ground with such velocity the stone was displaced.
Frowning, I recall Kaan’s earlier words …
I spent most of my adolescence and a number of my later phases as a warrior of the Johkull Clan. They have always nested close to these mountains and recently claimed the crater formed by the fallen Sabersythe moon, Orvah.
Guess that’s what this is. Orvah’s crater. The small moon that fell a little over eight phases ago.
Folk pour into the space behind me and my prowling Herder like gushing water, and my mind churns as I take in the chapped surroundings.
There are tents dotted about the circumference, each sturdy structure consisting of four wooden poles plowed into the ground and a flap of patched leather stretched between them—forming a roof. They cast rectangular shadows occupied by woven rugs and many clay urns etched with glowing runes.
Between the tents are a number of wooden racks stacked with weapons, most of which I’ve never seen before: batons with a length of chain attached to the end, topped with spiked balls that look like they could shatter a skull; giant hooked swords; and small flat blades with pearly teeth mounted around the edge.
So many weapons it makes Ruse’s armory look juvenile.
The crater’s blanketed with a stretch of sand, though when I look at the grains sifting through my toes as I’m escorted around the perimeter, I notice gray shards amongst the rusty majority.
Iron. To nullify those who can hear the elemental songs, no doubt.
I frown, then cast my stare at the powdery sky threaded with the aurora’s wispy silver tendrils, a scatter of inky Sabersythe moons perched in the distance. The crater’s lip bears a crisscross of fraying rope heavy with skulls—most sun-bleached. One with shreds of decomposing meat and tufts of hair still hanging off the bone, a small tawny-colored bird perched on it.
Pecking at it.
My heart skips a beat.
Unlike the skulls in the tent we just came from, these ones are not from fallen animals. They have rounded heads and tapered canines, the fresher one retaining the rotten remnants of a tapered ear.
They’re fae.
Creators … This is a battle ring.
Is that what my trial is? Am I expected to fight?
The tips of my fingers tingle, unease slithering through me like a serpent.
The gong continues to sound as I’m guided further around the crater’s circumference, past tent after tent, the folk before us threading into a large dome-shaped one similar to those I saw in the chest cavity of the fallen dragon. Though this one’s much bigger than them, and with many entrances, each framed by more of those intricately crafted archways.
Saiza stops before one opening, pulling a woven flower from one of the few baskets dotted around the tent, offering it to me. “Would you like to honor Orvah?”
My heart leaps so high up my throat the next words are choked.
“The fallen Sabersythe?”
Saiza nods, smiling softly. “He did not break apart upon impact. It took many warriors to roll him to the crater’s side. We now pay him great respect in the hopes that no other moon will fall on our place of living.”
Pulse pounding hard and fast, I accept the flower, cutting a glance back at my oscillating Herder who cranks its muzzle and yawns again, skulking toward one of the doorways and curling into a sleepy ball.
Guess that’s permission.
Swallowing, I push my hand between the tent’s flaps, steady my breath, then step inside, drawing on the hot, humid air trapped beneath the pelts.
My heart stops.
Nestled amongst the sand before me is the most spectacular mottled moon. Like the Sabersythe was rolled through puddles of black and bronze ink that sunk into his small, overlapping scales.
The backs of my eyes prickle as I take him in, his slight stature and lack of spikes a tribute to his adolescence. The dragon’s left wing is swooped around his body, his sparsely tusked head dug only partially beneath it, still exposed enough that I can see almost an entire half of his face, his lid closed. Looking like he just slipped into a quiet, peaceful sleep he’ll never wake from.
One of my frayed heartstrings pangs at the thought, because this dragon … he’s so small. A little under twice my height. Just big enough to support a rider, as evident by the damaged remnants of a saddle secured to his scaled back.
It feels like a hand claps around my neck and squeezes tight.
Tighter.
Although some dragons choose to soar into the sky when they feel their time has come to an end—to ball up and solidify—many don’t make that decision on their own.
Many are devastating victims of wars waged by us.
Then there are the ones that don’t make it into the sky at all. That die in the dirt or the snow or the sand and rot where they lie, their blood fossilizing. Later mined by us.
Used by us.
I reach out a hand, pausing just before my fingers are able to brush across the stony scales as a mourning presence deep inside urges me to turn around. To stop looking.
No, not an urge.
A gentle probing request.
Aplea.
Clearing my throat, I drop to a kneel and settle my woven flower on the ground at the dragon’s base like others are doing, adding to the growing piles of offerings—old and new. Then I listen to that plea. Respect its desperate, mournful request.
I turn around, and I don’t look back.
I’m led upon a raised dais beneath a patch of shade—relief for my already chapped skin.
I look at my feline non-friend who coils up beside me, releasing a satiated rumble. It tucks its face beneath its long, bushy tail and appears to go to sleep.
I’m obviously not expected to fight. Otherwise, it would’ve herded me right into the ring.
Surely.
Folk finish paying their respects to Orvah, then pack into the slabs of shadow. The two blood-soaked males kneel before me, the larger one lifting a necklace up over his head. He bows, hand outstretched, and my eyes narrow on the black pendant engraved with a serpent. The same image as the one dotted on his back.
The pendant hangs from his clenched fist, swaying in the dusty wind, reminding me of the one Kaan wears—though less intricate.
Less alluring.
Saiza leans close to my ear. “You must accept Hock’s m?lmr now.”
“Why?”
“It is an important part of the trial,” she says, and I frown, reaching out. He drops it into my open palm, the coil of string coarse against my skin.
The dark-haired male extends his, too—a tawny diadem bearing an embossed faunycaw. Not as polished or finely crafted as the other piece.
“Now accept Zaran’s and set both m?lmr on the rug before you.”
I do as she said, my frown deepening as both males bang their fists against their chest three times, then stand, dispersing toward separate weapon racks.