58. Alone

58. Alone

Skylenna

The Foul Falcon Forest isgrander in size than I anticipated.

As the silvery moonlight creates pinholes of stars and rays of glimmering light through the leaves overhead, a cold, humid wind sweeps through the uninviting forest. I’ve spent twenty minutes running through the muddy ground, sticky and littered with soggy plants, which tells me I’ve already made it a little over two miles with still more land to cover.

Tell my brother I love him! Tell my brother I’m sorry!

I rub my raw eyes and then cover my ears against the repeated echoes of Kaspias’s screams. The void lashes against my being as if in punishment. I changed a man’s mind with a flick of my wrist. I played God. And even after everything he’s done, that pit in my stomach only grows as I replay the way he died. The way Arthur clung to his pants. The way Sophia held him until he passed.

Thank you, Kaspias.

The humid air is filled with the scent of earthy moss, fresh rain, and potent whiffs of rot. Whether it’s dead animals or plants, it’s strong and hard to ignore. Each tree is uniquely different, thick and curly, like giant roots forming their own trees, twisting around each other like contorted acrobats in a circus. Their leaves are the color of dull charcoal, big and wavy, about the size of my face. And the only noises aside from my heavy breathing are the creaking of old wood, similar to footsteps in a condemned house, cats hissing, falcons quietly squawking, and the occasional moan (though I can’t tell if it’s from a human or animal).

Since it’s already night, I decide to make it through the next village as quickly as possible. DaiSzek has brought an army, and I need more than anything just to see him again. To know that we will go to battle together to get our friends out.

Reaching an opening, I find the orange glow of torches in the distance. And the village is not at all what I pictured in my head.

There are wide sandstone streets lined with black marble trim and matching pillars holding enormous flaming torches. A piazza with grand, black pearl steps, statues of naked men and women made of red aventurine, and trickling fountains that look aged and cracked around the edges. I jog soundlessly toward the village, keeping an eye on each torch I pass through the piazza surrounded by altars, stages, perhaps a small library, and a bell tower.

The town is as quiet as death rotting in a coffin.

No whispers.

No footsteps.

Not even a heartbeat.

Perhaps there is a curfew. Maybe a cultural choice to stay indoors when the sun goes down. Or what if it’s the spine-toothed eagles? Do they hunt at night? As if to answer my puzzled thoughts, a whoosh of wind and feathered wings slap against the night air above me. It’s fast, a quick dip of an eerily large bird taking flight.

Kaspias told me to stay away from the torches. They attract the birds.

Carefully, I slip into the shadows, tiptoeing my way toward the East Vexello Mountains that stand proud on the midnight horizon. Being out in the open is a wounding shock to my nervous system when I’ve grown so accustomed to the perimeter of my cage, the stench of body odor and urine, and the brutality of violence in the prison. But I’m almost to real freedom. I can practically taste it on my tongue. And although it’s sweet and satisfying, the sword of guilt still stabs at my chest continuously, not allowing me to feel even a moment of true relief.

My friends are still in that fucked-up prison.

I sprint a little faster, ducking and weaving through the darkness to make it out of Madmaz without being seen.

A whistle rings high and in perfect pitch from across the piazza.

I slam my back against a black marble pillar to stay out of sight, waiting with a thumping heart to see if I’m not alone. Was it a bird? A human? I don’t know which would be worse. I—

The pillar supporting my back vibrates, shaking my bones and rattling my teeth. I spin around and watch the top roar to life with red flames, swallowing the oxygen in a blue gust. And the aftereffects of being caught under a pillar of fire are not delayed or slow in action.

I am swarmed with screeching eagles that are the size of a large dog. Wings stretch wide, an umbrella blocking the light of the moon. Red beaks and white heads. And there are several dipping down to find me, filling the skies with their bizarre squawking and powerful wing flapping.

I fight the scream that wants to tear out of me as I sprint away. I hear voices, doors opening, and maybe an alarm going off in the distance. Sweat forms rivers down my skin as I race away from the village, taking a flock of outrageously big birds in my wake.

Where do I go? I can’t outrun them for long!

“The drains!” the woman in my head shouts.

I veer to the left, seeing a black hole on the edge of the sandstone street that must lead to a drain system underground. I thank the woman silently, then take a nosedive through the opening without another thought.

And for three days I sit alone in the dark, murky water, waiting for my opportunity to escape once again.