Filed to story: When the Moon Hatched Book
The big shirtless male with fiery hair stands in the hallway beyond, arms crossed, brow raised. “Harassing the guards?”
“Rather presumptuous of you.”
“Your reputation precedes you.” He pokes his head out the door and looks left and right, as though checking we’re all still in one piece.
Mainly them.
His emerald stare shifts between the dish on the ground, the guard’s reddening cheeks, and my freshly donned weapon. “I see you’ve managed to scam your way into being equipped. Quick work.”
I drop my hem. “Hidden talent. What’s yours?”
“Sweet fuck all.” He dashes his hand at the stairs that swoop toward the bouldered city below. “Let’s go.”
My heart drops, frown returning.
Am I not as free as I thought I was?
“What did I do to deserve an escort?”
He flicks me an up and down look, both brows raised. “You look like a tourist unaccustomed to the heat. If you’re going to hock off a solid gold candlestick, you might as well get a good deal. A merchant sees you with me, chances are they won’t short you.”
Actually, that’s thoughtful. Though I wonder if he’d be so supportive if he knew I intended on swapping said candlestick for an armory’s worth of Sabersythe scale blades?
“Thank y—“
“Unless they caught me tangled up with their daughters,” he tacks on, shrugging. “Or their sons. Then they’ll probably refuse to do business with you altogether.”
Creators.
“Weren’t you in the middle of a game you should probably finish?”
“Yes. And I was getting my ass kicked. Grihm’s lethal when he’s in a shit mood, and my pride’s already bruised. Besides, somebody stole our snacks and the fucking brandy ran out.”
Right.
Guess I’m stuck with him.
“In that case,” I say, bending down to snatch my bag off the ground, “shall we?”
He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his tight brown leather pants and leads the way, his long steps smooth and light despite his hulking size. The sun beats upon us like a distant blow of dragonflame, so I tuck my hood farther forward, casting my face in shadow, immediately easing the discomfort.
“I’m Pyrok.”
“Raeve. Though I suspect you already knew that.”
“Correct.” He extends his left hand across his body toward me, pointer and middle finger outstretched, the others curled in. I frown at it, looking up into his eyes, then back at his hand again before I mimic the motion, our fingers meeting.
He flashes me a half smile that’s so nonchalant it’s infectious. “There you go.”
I stab my stare down the stairs as we ease amongst the bouldered buildings clothed in more of the big inky blooms Essi would’ve loved.
That organ in my chest pangs, and I rub at the ache.
“So, Raeve, what sort of store were you hoping to dump that candlestick at?”
“A Curly Quill. If you have one.”
He casts me a sidelong look. “We do.”
My eyes widen. “It’s called that? The Curly Quill?”
“Parchment, pawn, and all your Runi supplies,” he chimes, and relief bubbles through me, popping against my ribs.
Lightening my steps.
I knew they were elsewhere; I just wasn’t certain there would be one this far north. This is my lucky dae.
“You need a quill?”
“I do.”
Lots of quills with sharp, pointy ends honed enough to slit through all of Rekk’s important bits.
Slowly.
Painfully.
“Then I need a sweet drink and a good view,” I tell him, moving the handles of my bag so they’re resting on my shoulder, repressing the urge to scratch at the skin on the side of my nails that’s starting to get a little raw.
“Drink sounds like a premium part of the plan. What sort of view are you after?”
“Best you can find.”
It’s a big city. Figure if I have a view broad enough, I’ll eventually work out where the carter hutch is without forcing any tongues to wag. Then I’ll know where I need to go once I’ve liquidated this heavy golden asset and am packed with a lethal amount of weapons, toting a satchel full of those crispy black fruits Veya was eating.
In front of me.
Shard by crispy, watery shard.
The muscles beneath my tongue tingle …
If I leave this place without some, I’ll never forgive myself.
The aurora sits low, edging toward the west as we move between rounded buildings the color of burnt clay. Urns sprout from the ground, gushing plants and trees and vines that climb all over the rich, organic city, buskers perched within sloped corners blowing tunes from copper flutes.
We jostle through a bustle of folk clothed in garments that drape, pinch, and twist around their bodies like cleverly worn veils, and I can’t help but wonder if everyone in Dhomm has the same garment in brown, black, or rust and just wears it differently—a pin here, a clip there, a copper belt looped around the waist.
Seems likely.
Parchment larks flutter in the space above our heads, diving into the outstretched hands of smiling, laughing folk. Nobody appears starved, homeless, or has a clip in their ear. Not that I can see, anyway.
“Folk appear to enjoy existing here,” I muse, watching two younglings dash after each other, their lilting giggles hitting the most beautiful notes. Two folk I suppose are their parents watch on from beneath a crooked tree, licking at dollops of something creamy-looking that’s cradled within coiled black cones. “It’s nice.”
And I couldn’t have been more wrong about this place.
Pyrok cuts me a sideways glance. “I hear you lived in Gore until you were—“
“Offered to the dragons?”
“Yes. That.” He pulls a flat gold token from his pocket and flicks it through the air, snatching it. “Have you traveled elsewhere?”
There’s an easy lightness in the way he hands me the question, but it still feels like catching an ember.
I consider the cold journey north toward the wall after I finally escaped from …
there.
Consider the horrors I encountered.
Fought.
The loneliness that bit so deep it gouged bone.
“Just here,” I say, batting the memories aside. “Though I was mostly unconscious or inside Rygun’s mouth. I wouldn’t exactly call it sightseeing—unless you count the ball of flame in the back of his throat that kept threatening to incinerate me.”