Page 52 of Dragons' Future

“You can breathe,” Cyril reminds me.

I force air into my spasmed lungs, reassuring myself of his truth as we move forward, half-leaping half-swimming along the seafloor. With each step, liquid darkness presses on me more and more from all sides, yet my face remains dry, the sound of my breathing loud in the small bubble of air. The tiny bioluminescent lights from distant marine life shine like stars in the water. It would be a beautiful sight if the sea wasn’t trying to kill me.

My muscles burn with the effort, the cold numbing my fingers and toes as I fight the current.

Unfortunately, none of my powered up magic actually makes my body stronger.

Another wave shoves me hard, making me lose my footing and I skid along the grainy sand and rock of the sea floor. I fall, wet clothes and weapons dragging me down until the line goes taught around my waist. Then Cyril is there, his hand gripping mine, tendrils of reassurance calming me through the bond.

I hate that he has to use his strength to reassure me, when he is already parting the damn ocean for us.

A few minutes in, I stop trying to keep track of direction. I focus only on putting one foot in front of the other as Cyril leads us through the water. The deeper we get, the closer to the cliff, the less we can afford for his magic to be seen—and the more he has to use to keep us from drowning.

Soon, even the air bubble he’s been holding around us is too much to risk. We must hold our breath, gulping air only when the rhythm of the lapping waves allows Cyril to shift the water undetected from above our heads.

I try to keep my eyes open, but the salt stings fiercely, the roused sand scratching my face. Inhale, I order myself, focusing on only one tiny thing at a time. Hold it. Step. Keep going through the burning in my lungs.

Wildcat, what’s wrong? Tavias’s voice roars suddenly in my mind. Where are you?

I gasp in shock, pulling in water. Panic rushes into me. There is water in my throat. Water in my lungs. Water all around me.

Cyril shoves the sea apart and grabs around my waist, his fist pushing hard into my belly until I sputter. Then his hold shifts to my hips, bracing me as I choke and cough life back into my body. His muscles tremble from the strain, yet he holds, rooted to the sea floor.

When finally I stop wheezing, he squeezes my shoulder once and lets the sea close above us once more. There is no time for anything more.

Tavias? I reach out for him with my mind, this time on purpose. The rune on my wrist burns, helping me tap into my dragon’s magic.

I’m here.

I fill Tavias in on the situation, which helps keep me focused on something other than the cold sea pressing in on me from all sides. Especially once Cyril must go in front and put all his focus into locating the entrance, leaving me only the rope tether to follow him by. I’m almost on top of him when I realize that he’s stopped moving, his magic pushing water away to reveal our quarry.

The grate covered entrance into the cliff looks like a solid mass under water, its edges blurred by the sea's movement. And it's twenty feet down from where we stand, the cliff dropping into an abyss of ocean too deep to see.

Cyril turns to me. We can’t speak this deep down, but I understand as he wraps my arms around his waist in an order to hold on, then taps a count of three on my hand. I grab a great lungful of air as Cyril opens a path to the water’s surface one final time. Then he plunges us into the deep. My ears scream from the pain and pressure that drowns out even Tavias’s steady voice in my head.

We approach the grate, Cyril’s powerful legs propelling us through the water. My heart pounds but I make myself release Cyril’s waist and grip the grate instead. It’s large and old, its bars encrusted with sharp barnacles that cut my palms—but the freedom from me gives Cyril the freedom of movement he needs to find the lock.

Cyril moves around the grate, the bubbles of his slowly exhaling breath letting me track his location. Breath. Stars. I want air. My lungs hurt. Burn.

Stay with me wildcat, Tavias urges.

The soft, almost imperceptible, click of the lock giving way as Cyril presses his sigil ring to a faintly glowing rune is the most wonderful sound I’ve ever heard. Cyril shoves the grate in and it gives, thank the stars, even if the hinges groan in disapproval. I scramble inside.

The transition is immediate. The chaotic embrace of the ocean is gone, the water in the tunnel barely shifting around. I swim in and up, until air touches my face. Stale air, but air. I gulp it gratefully, filling my aching lungs again and again until I am sure I am alive. And breathing. And shivering.

Then Cyril is there and we are moving again, scrambling forward along the up sloping tunnel. We are in.

CHAPTER 30

Hauck

“Blight’s tits.” Hauck stared out from between the barred door of the cell as Cyril and Kitterny strode down the tunnel toward him, a guard stumbling forward in front of the pair. What at first looked like a blade hovering at the guard’s throat had clarified into… water. A vice of it, clamping over the guard’s windpipe in a deathly threat. “Since when can Cyril do that?”

“Behind you,” Quinton shouted.

Cyril and Kit twisted, both their hands rising just as two more guards spilled into the tunnel behind them. Fire erupted from Kit’s palm in a torrent of dragon fire. The flame filled the entire stone tunnel, incinerating everything in its path. When it settled, there were two charred bodies on the stone floor and a scent of sulfur and burned flesh.

“Blight’s tits indeed,” Quinton muttered.

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