Chapter 2
“I’m sorry,” I choked out, looking down at my scarred, calloused hands. “I should be stronger than this. If I falter against an echo, how will I face the Matriarch?”
Julian’s expression softened, but his grip on the silver torc remained firm, possessive. “You are the strongest thing left in this broken world, Sariyah. But you are mortal. Your mind is delicate, made of flesh and blood, while their evil is eternal. That is why we are two halves of one weapon. You guard my body; I preserve your soul.”
He leaned down and pressed a chaste, reverent kiss to my forehead. The touch was cool, smelling of dried ink, cedar shavings, and the faintly sweet copper of his warding salves. It grounded me. It tethered me to reality.
“I am nothing without you,” I repeated, the words rolling off my tongue like a familiar prayer.
“And I am nothing without you,” he whispered back. He stood, offering me a hand to pull me up.
I took it, carefully calibrating my grip so I didn't crush his delicate fingers, and hoisted myself to my feet. I retrieved my blade, sheathing it with a crisp metallic snap, though my heart continued to thrum with a nervous, electric tension that refused to settle.
We continued northward through the morning, entering the canyon known as the Dragon’s Throat.
The walls here rose hundreds of cubits into the gray sky, sheared smooth as glass by ancient dragonfire. High above, carved into the cliffs, were the skeletal remains of what Julian identified as human watchtowers—fortresses built to spot the colossal shadows of the winged terror before the empire fell.
“The texts say the Third Cohort held this pass for twenty days,” Julian remarked, his eyes tracing the ruinous ledges with scholarly hunger. He pulled a small charcoal stylus from his pocket, quickly sketching the arch of a collapsed bastion onto a scrap of parchment. “They used balistas tipped with cold silver. Thousands of bolts. Yet in the end, a single brood-mother reduced three legions to glass in an afternoon.”
“Why didn't they retreat?” I asked, scanning the shadows along the cliff base. The narrow gap ahead was choked with scree, an ideal terrain for an ambush.
“Where would they retreat to?” Julian replied without looking up. “Behind them were their homes, their children, the library of the Archons. When a monster comes to take your world, Sariyah, you do not run. You die where you stand, or you cut its heart out.”
A dark thrill passed through me at his words. That was what made Julian different from the cowards who had fled into the southern swamps. He believed in our heritage. He believed that the world belonged to men, not to the winged abominations that had laid it to waste.
Suddenly, the wind shifted.
A gust blew down from the upper crevices of the canyon, carrying the scent of ash, sulfur, and—
I froze.
I inhaled deeply, my nostrils flaring.
It wasn't the smell of rot or brimstone. To Julian, who gagged instantly and pressed his scarf over his nose, it was apparently sickening. But to me, the scent carrying on the gale was... intoxicating.
It smelled like rain hitting baking desert clay. It smelled like wild amber resin burned over dry pine needles, carrying a deep, rich undertone of pure ozone—the clean, terrifying scent of lightning just before it cracks the sky. It felt ancient. It felt familiar in a way that pulled at the marrow of my bones, stirring a heavy, slumbering weight behind my ribs.
“Julian,” I said, my voice dropping to a low rumble, instinct taking over before my rational mind could process the shift. “Behind me. Now.”
He didn't argue. He knew the tone. With practiced speed, he scrambled back toward an alcove in the basalt, drawing a circle of powdered salt and crushed moonstone across the stone floor with his shoe. He pulled a silver pendant from his tunic, holding it tight against his breast.
A low, vibrating growl echoed from the crags above.
A shower of pebbles rained down, followed by a shape that plummeted from the high shelf with the weight of a falling siege tower.
The impact rattled the teeth in my jaw.
It was a remnant—a juvenile fire-drake, though ‘juvenile’ still meant a beast the size of a war wagon, its hide armored in jagged plates of obsidian scale that glistened like wet tar. Its leathery wings were tattered, burned at the edges from infighting or past skirmishes, but its long, sinuous neck coiled with lethal grace, a crown of bone horns sweeping back from its reptilian brow.
From between its jagged jaws, a sullen orange glow pulsed, lighting up the gloom of the canyon floor.
“A scavenger!” Julian shouted from his warded alcove, his voice cracking with fear. “Its fire gland is fully developed, Sariyah! Do not let it exhale! Strike the soft junction beneath the chin!”
My broadsword cleared the scabbard with a singing hiss.
The drake’s golden, slitted eyes locked onto me. It lowered its massive horned skull, its throat swelling as a furnace roar built within its chest. The scales along its spine flared outward like a cobra’s hood, venting streams of white-hot steam.
I didn't feel fear. That was the strange thing that always disturbed me during hunts—I never felt the terror that Julian described in the old histories. My blood didn't run cold; it boiled. A wild, singing euphoria flooded my limbs, making my vision razor-sharp, slowing the world down to the beat of my own heart.
The beast lunged, snapping its jaws shut where my head had been a fraction of a second prior.
I sidestepped the strike with impossible agility, my feet barely skimming the jagged gravel. The wind from its passing was a gale of furnace heat, but my skin drank it in like cool water.
I brought my broadsword down with both hands against the drake’s shoulder.
*CLANG.*
The steel blade struck obsidian scale and bounced off in a shower of brilliant white sparks. The sheer kinetic force of my blow cracked the stone beneath the beast's claws, forcing it down onto one knee, but the hide held.
The drake whipped its tail around in retaliation. The spiked club caught me directly across the ribs with enough force to shatter a marble pillar.
I was thrown backward, skidding ten yards across the scree before digging the heel of my boot into the dirt to halt my momentum.
“Sariyah!” Julian cried out, half-stepping past his circle of salt before terror forced him back.
I touched my side. My leather cuirass was torn to shreds, the steel rivets sheared off like butter.
Yet underneath, my ribs were intact. The impact that should have crushed my internal organs to paste felt like nothing more than a dull bruise, a heavy thud that barely winded me. How was that possible? How could frail, mortal bone withstand a blow that could fell a warhorse?
*Because you are not—*
The migraine flared again, like a nail being driven through my temple, blinding me.
*Look at him,* the voice whispered, not in my ears, but vibrating in my chest. *Look at the little fire-thief...*
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