Chapter 15

Kit

Ijolt awake to the sound of my own screaming. Panic rushes through me, fear that's both mine and others'. Images flash before me. My mates in the arena. Geoffrey's sword aimed at Cyril's chest. Chaos of bodies shoving and fighting and killing. An avalanche of stones. A flurry of robes and chants. And in the backdrop of it all, there is the music. That haunting, desperate song that pulls painfully at my soul.

"Kit. Kittery. Look at me."

"Stop! No!" I throw up my hands, trying to ward off… something. Falling stones maybe? My heart beats frantically, echoing off the walls, as if trying to escape the confines of the collapsed corridor. The air is stale and heavy, carrying the dust and debris of the fallen stones, making it hard to breath and scream. "Please!"

"Shut her up." Another voice orders harshly. "Before she gets us killed."

Suddenly there is a mouth covering mine, swallowing the sounds. A familiar, wonderful mouth that reminds me of the ocean and fresh seas as it draws me in, anchoring me to the present. Cyril. Alive and here, kissing me with a desperate urgency that echoes deep through our bond, letting me know that the connection is as much for his sake as mine.

Awareness claws me back with brutal honesty. I scent blood and broken stone, and the kind of dust that gets between your scales and irritates the delicate tissues. But I know I am alive. And so is Cyril. I can tell the others are farther away, but I'm certain they are alive as well. That's a start.

Pulling away from Cyril, I rub the sand from my face and look around. We are in a small room that seems to have been someone's study before it became our refuge. My attention falls to Ettienne, who is now flipping the pages of one of the books here, and the room immediately feels more like a prison.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I hear Ettienne's voice though. Singing with me. Telling the song that it was being heard. Which makes no sense actually, but did at the time. The way things make sense in dreams.

"How are you feeling?" Cyril cradles my face, his thumbs brushing away the streaks of dirt and dust that cling to my skin. He'd taken off his shirt at some point, and I can see all the grooves of his muscles, the sweat slickened skin that's marked with scars and cuts that I want to wash away. The calloused pad of his thumb traces my bottom lip. "Kit?"

"I'm…" I wince as the music starts up again in my mind, pulling me toward the belly of the citadel the same way it had during the second trial. I try to shake it off, but the song—the lullaby—only spreads to my whole body, every word punctuated with fear and loneliness. "Shit."

"What is it, nymph?" Cyril asks, his breath mingling with mine.

"They are so alone," I whisper, which I know isn't an explanation at all. "So alone that it hurts."

Cyril catches my chin. "But you aren't alone. Do you hear me? You aren't alone." He kisses me again, but this time it isn't gentle. It's fierce and protective, a countermelody to my racing heart. I give into my mate's demand and Cyril's hand tangles in my hair, his lips insistent, his tongue pillaging me possessively until only he and I exist in any way that matters.

I grip our connection like a lifeline, only realizing that I'm holding onto him hard enough to bruise when I can draw breath again. I pull my hands off his arms. "I'm sorry."

"I'm alright." He brushes away a stray lock of hair that had fallen onto my face. "Talk to me, Kit. Tell me what's wrong."

"Beyond the obvious?" Ettienne asks without looking up from his book.

I twist to glare at him, instantly regretting the sharp motion as a headache rewards my efforts. "Of course you'd be here."

"A problem which you'd not be a part of if you'd followed my instructions."

"You said don't die. And I didn't. You never specified details." My words are a little muddled, but get clearer the more I speak.

"Ah. I'm glad we've identified the root of the issue," says Ettienne. "I'll venture to be more precise in my orders going forward."

"The priests conjured a massive earthquake to bury the arena when the trials turned into an all out riot," Cyril interjects, putting himself between me and his father. "Then they collapsed the tunnels into the citadel. Likely a defensive measure to keep all outsiders from their stronghold."

"A fairly effective one, unfortunately," says Ettienne.

Cyril nods. "The priests of Orion are not who we thought them to be. They -"

"Are an order of human mages who've been manipulating the dragons for centuries," Ettienne finishes for him dismissively.

"How do you—" Cyril rubs his temple. "Quinton. Through Sethis. The asshole could have said something to the rest of us."

"Would it have changed anything if he had? He had no way of knowing whether his message would be received, much less how. Better to expect no help and get it than the other way around. A fact you should have worked out for yourself." Ettienne shuts the book he is holding with a loud thunk. "Frankly, you should have worked out what?—"

I miss the rest of Ettienne's lecture as the first verse of the lullaby pierces its way back into my mind so forcefully that it hurts.

In the heart of the ancient skies,

I press my hands over my ears, though that's not where the music is coming from. Stop. Stop, you are hurting me, I yell into the void.

Where stars shimmer and fire flies,

Gathering all my strength, I throw a wall up inside my head, imagining it between myself and the torrent of music and hurt flowing into me. It helps, but only a little. "The dragon eggs," I try to explain to a confused looking Cyril. "They are calling to me again. But it's different than before. They are lonely, but they are scared too. And in pain." I struggle to put sensation to words without letting their chaos engulf me again. "They are begging for help. We have to get to them."

A tall order considering we are currently trapped in a little room with no way out ourselves.

To Ettienne's credit, he doesn't point that out. Instead, his brows narrow on the other part of my declaration. "What dragon eggs?"

I quickly recap the details of the circular greenhouse chamber I'd found during the second trial. No, not found. Had been led to. "The eggs are in there. Five of them."

"And these eggs, they are somehow still alive? Not just alive, but self-aware and chatty?" Despite his usual delightful personality, Ettienne is keeping to the other side of the small room and appears mindful of not looking too long in my direction. Cyril's scales are raised, and he shifts ever so subtly to keep himself between us. It's a familiar pattern by now, and one that I fear may create a logistical problem shortly. "Intriguing."

Asshole.

I rub the scar on the inside of my arm where Quinton's knife cut open my slave brand. The brand is almost gone now, as if the slice through it had taken away even its scarring power. "They are kept in a wooden crate with various runes. One looks like my brand used to. Two overlapping circles."

"Something like this?" Ettienne lays open the book he'd been studying, its pages opened to a too-familiar mark. "It appears to be part of a containment series. This may not be the exact one, but the magic is too complex to understand without detailed study. Study that the priests have been doing for a very long time, if the books on this shelf are any indication."

I trace my finger over the picture, my hand trembling. "Not complex enough apparently," I whisper. "The brand is used all the time in the human lands."

"An approximation, not the rune itself I imagine." Cyril pulls me against his chest, the warmth of his body seeping into me and soothing my nerves. He looks at the book over my shoulder, flipping the pages to reveal more identical looking variations of the mark. "The brand design was likely inspired by ancient magic, but it isn't something one approximates. The humans' marks were just that. Marks. Yours had to have been done by someone who knew what they were doing. Someone your mother trusted."

My mother. I shudder, shoving the grief behind the same wall that's protecting me from the eggs' desperate pleas. I don't know how much longer I can hold out though. And even if I could, I don't want to. "We need to get to the eggs."

"Ah, yes. We were just getting ready to leave when you woke up," says Ettienne.

Ignoring him, I get to my feet. "There must be a way out of here. We just have to find it. And once we do, we will?—"

"We will get the hell out of the priests' stronghold and return with a pack of trained warriors," says Ettienne. "Or better yet, with an army. The eggs will need to wait until we have a chance of living long enough to get them out."

"You want to run?" I spin toward him, my hands curling into fists. I'm not sure when I decided that going toe to toe with the king of Massa'eve was a good idea, but maybe that's the point of it all. It doesn't matter what Ettienne thinks about this. I'm the one hearing their distress call. I'm the one who must answer it. Who will answer it. My spine straightens, my heart thumping against my ribs with a steady, primal beat that echoes in my bones. "The dragon eggs are alive. They are scared and they are begging for help. Now. I'm not leaving them."

"And I am not leaving my mate." Cyril puts his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it. It's a small gesture but it changes everything. You are not alone anymore, it says. You have mates. A pack. A purpose. Cyril's voice hardens to steel that he so rarely lets anyone see. "Protecting Massa'eve is your duty, Ettienne. Saving the dragons is Kitterny's destiny. We all do what the stars have dealt us."

Cyril's words hang in the dusty air, settling heavily between us. Finally, Ettienne curses so colorfully that even Cyril raises an impressed brow.

"Have it your way then," the king says once he's exhausted his extensive vocabulary of unflattering words. He sheathes his sword down his back. "Let's go get the eggs. Have you solved the problem of getting out of this room, my lady savior, or is that also one of those details you don't wish to concern yourself with?"

I don't respond, mostly because he is right. I don't have a plan. Not yet at least.

Cyril surveys the windowless space, his lips pursed as he settles his attention on the pile of stones from the collapsed ceiling. "Clearing this rubble will take days, and there is no guarantee that whatever passage we end up in connects with the greenhouse chamber."

"We don't have days." I pinch the bridge of my nose.

"How did you know where to go last time?" he asks.

"I didn't. I was led." Which means I can likely be led again. "I need to stop shielding myself from the song though." From the pain that comes with it. I don't say the last part, but Cyril understands.

"Do what you must," he whispers, the bond between us stroking me like a soft paw of a cat. "I'm here with you. And not just me. The whole pack is. Even if they aren't here."

Nodding, I take a fortifying breath and open myself to the call.

The pull is immediate and hard. I'm walking before I realize what I'm doing, my fingers tracing the ancient stone walls, feeling their cold, rough texture. A stark contrast to the warmth of Cyril's presence behind me. Each bump and uneven crevice speaks of centuries past, of the songs and screams of those who've walked the citadel grounds before us. People were hurt here. People are still being hurt. A sob chokes my chest just as the tips of my fingers catch on an anomaly in the stone beside the ornate shrine the occupant of this room has maintained.

"Here." The word comes out as a croak as I brush a small, almost imperceptible indentation, hidden in the shadow of an overhanging torch bracket. I press against the stone. It's colder than the rest, with a smoothness that's out of place. More importantly, it sinks slightly into the wall with a soft click. The surge of relief I feel is swifty swept away in the storm of emotions that flood my blood. Please, not so loud, I beg the eggs. You are hurting me.

I don't think they hear me though. Or can't help themselves if they do.

"This way," I say unnecessarily and step into a dark, shrouded passage. The air is thick with the mustiness of disuse and the corridor is just wide enough for us to pass through single file, the walls brushing the males' broader shoulders. I wonder whether the occupant of that study even knew this walkway existed. I wonder too where in all hells the walkway is leading, but the song's pull provides little in the way of previews.

I'm pulled along a serpentine path carving its way into the heart of the fortress. Behind me, I hear Cyril counting our steps and turns under his breath. After some time, the passage widens and torches appear along the walls. It's familiar, and not just in a phantom way. I've been here before.

"We are close," I whisper. "One more turn."

"Not as close as you imagine," Ettienne mutters, drawing the sword sheathed at his back, Cyril already doing the same. I recognize the sounds of approaching footsteps a moment after the males do, their bodies taking up defensive stances just as flickering torchlight reveals the silhouettes of three priests of Orion.