He’d left Dross inside. He had to wait until they opened the door for him.
With a heavy sigh, he turned to lean his back against the stone, sliding down until he was seated. Somehow, the moment of reaction made his pain so much worse, as though all his injuries were waiting for him to let his guard down before they mobbed him all at once.
That only lasted a breath before the wall behind him vanished and he tumbled backwards.
When the agony cleared and he stopped groaning, he spoke. “I forgot you could see out.”
Dross drifted out of his gem, a cloud of shifting purple gears and swimming violet lights. “I don’t see Ekeri,” he said, bobbing around the entrance. “And I see the earth has been burned and salted. Who saved you?”
“No one,” Lindon said. He was still lying on his back, so when Orthos stepped up and looked down at him, he saw the turtle’s smile upside-down.
“I won,” Lindon told him, and the truth of it seeped into him like warm honey.
Orthos’ laugh started as a distant chuckle and grew to a massive, merry rumble that shook the floor. “By the time we get out of here, the Skysworn will be asking your permission to speak.”
Sopharanatoth, dragon of the gold bloodline, sipped winter-wine from a silver chalice. The wine had weak spiritual properties, but its chill was a pleasant contrast to the heat that usually flowed through her veins. And it was a thousand high-grade scales per bottle, so it was appropriate for her position.
Supervising the entrance of Ghostwater was the most luxurious assignment an Underlord could receive. Especially when the primary portal had been destroyed. She and her retinue reclined in a silk tent planted on a Thousand-Mile Cloud ten thousand feet above the portal, scanning the portal every once in a while with their spirits. The destruction of the other exit had made her job easy; now they barely even bothered to sweep the exit once a day. When Sophara’s little sister emerged, she would use her gatestone to leave. Which meant she would appear right here, so there was really no need to keep watch at all.
The other gold dragons, Truegolds all, lounged on beds of cloud madra all around the tent, reading books, consulting dream tablets, or snacking on flaming crickets from a cage. As Truegolds, they looked as much like dragons as like humans, but Sophara’s soulfire set her apart. Her face was almost entirely human, but for her eyes and the patches of scales on her cheeks. Scales had fallen away elsewhere on her body as well, leaving patches of skin on her arms and legs.
She looked forward to reaching Overlord, when she would have hair, but she found the strands of loose scales tumbling down her shoulders a pleasing approximation.
Some other bloodlines valued their natural forms most highly, and refused to transform even once they had the soulfire to do so. While the power of the dragon form was useful, golds had a more refined aesthetic sense than their brethren. They shared the tastes of Seshethkunaaz, Monarch of Dragons, who had lived for centuries in human form. And there was no denying that madra moved more smoothly through a human body.
Sophara had emptied her chalice and was trying to decide if she wanted another when she felt a crack in her spiritual perception.
In the same instant, a smoking, bleeding golden body tumbled out of nowhere onto her priceless woven rug.
She had kindled a Striker technique before she recognized her little sister. Hurriedly dismissing her madra, she dropped to her knees, pulling Ekeri into her arms.
The Truegold girl stared blankly at the ceiling of the tent, blood staining her lips. A weak cough sent more blood oozing from the scorched wound in her chest.
“Healing!” Sophara commanded, her voice trembling. The other Truegolds shot away to obey, running out for elixirs or reaching into their personal void keys for life-saving constructs.
When her perception delved into her sister’s body, her hope shattered. The girl’s lifeline was unraveling, green dissipating into aura, and her spirit had already started to congeal. Her Remnant was beginning to form.
Ekeri met her sister’s eyes. “I failed,” she said. She coughed up another mouthful of blood and started again. “I failed him. I’m sorry.”
An instant later, she was gone.
A golden serpent slithered away from her body, and Sophara stepped away, eyes closed, tears streaming down her cheeks. She couldn’t look at her own sister’s Remnant.
She heard the Truegolds guiding the spirit away. They would use the Remnant to raise up another student, in honor of her sister, or else they would send it to the Soulsmiths to form it into a guardian treasure for their family, so Ekeri could add to the glory of the bloodline forever.
Or a weapon, to be used against the one who had killed her.
Sophara snapped her eyes open, staring at the wound on her sister’s chest. It was black and molten, burned so hot that there was very little blood. On someone other than a dragon, it might not have left any blood at all.
The aura around the wound was black and red, braided together in a recognizable pattern.
Black dragons.
Not even with their bloodline all but eradicated, their authority forgotten, their descendants scattered, would the black dragons leave them alone. Sophara threw back her head, pouring all her rage and her hate into her voice.
When she roared, it was the roar of a dragon. And all the golds roared with her.
Chapter 10
At first, Yerin thought the trip across the island would be quick.
The Sage had marked the basic locations of the other factions on the map. Most of the island was uncontrolled, but there were a few places where they’d have to travel around the territory of the Beast King or the dragons. The portal leading into Ghostwater was on the edge of Redmoon Hall territory. She was tempted to hit them, but forced herself back on track.
To be safe, she thought it might take as much as a week, stepping lightly and using veils. She suspected it would be more like two nights.
The first day, she pushed them so hard that Mercy had to take some elixirs from her storage to stop from collapsing. After midnight passed and they hadn’t taken a break, Mercy grabbed Yerin’s arm. The Akura’s hair was plastered to her forehead, and she breathed like a whipped pack-mule.
“We’re not going to get there tonight,” Mercy said, a hint of begging in her tone.
Yerin glanced down at the map. She chafed at the delay, but Mercy had a point. They could use some time to rest and cycle.
“Four hours,” Yerin allowed, and Mercy sagged to the ground, leaving her staff to topple beside her.
When Mercy had caught her breath, she looked into the darkness around her. Distant howls and whispers on the wind told them that these woods were haunted by predators.
“I’ve never spent the night in the woods before,” Mercy admitted.
Yerin nestled into the crook of a tree, pulling her outer robe around her. “You can thank the heavens it isn’t snowing. Some places, this is practically summer.” There was a biting chill on the wind, but nothing that would kill a sacred artist above Iron.
She had piled up a little mound of leaves and dirt, and the roots rose high enough around her to break some of the wind. It wasn’t an Arelius guest room, but she’d slept through worse.
Mercy fiddled with the end of her hair, looking from herself to Yerin nervously. “I’m not sure there will be enough room for us both.”
Yerin’s elbows were scraping roots on both sides. Her Goldsigns were folded up over her shoulders. “A hair smaller, and I’d have no room for my arms. You can find your own—”