Page 25 of Dragons' Future

“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.”

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