Page 65 of Kissed By the Gods
The side of the mountain looks as if the gods reached down and scooped out a piece of the world to make space for something divine. Massive ledges spiral along the rock face, and sunlight glitters on shallow pools of water dotting natural terraces. Black feathers litter the stone like windblown offerings. High above, the open sky yawns wide—no ceiling, no walls, just clouds and possibility.
And they’re here. The faravars.
They don’t line up in neat rows or wait in tidy stalls. They’re scattered across the ledges, their bodies gleaming in the sun. Some perch on high crags, wings half-unfurled. Others doze, heads bowed, feathers ruffling in the shifting wind. They are huge—larger, somehow, than I remembered. And there are hundreds of them.
Countless obsidian eyes turn to face us in eerie unison—ancient, unblinking, and impossibly aware.
The wind presses against my skin and carries the scent of something unbearably old. A dozen of them flutter their wings, but even that soft whisper of feathers bends the wind. A few tilt their heads, curious; others look like they’re simply stretching.
A dark faravar lifts his head, his nostrils flaring, and I swear he almost grins before he ambles over to Faelon. They meet like friends, pushing and shoving on each other with a joy that feels out of place coming from a creature so massive, so clearly built for war. Another peels away from the group and moves toward Thalric. A third makes a deliberate approach to Nyrica, and a fourth prances over to Leif.
They’re all black at first glance. But up close, there are subtle differences. In fact, they almost look like the men who ride them. Thalric’s has a silver streak down the bridge of its nose, and silver streaks through its mane. Leif’s moves more like a companion than a warrior, and its eyes are gentler than the others’. Nyrica’s is as bulky as he is.
A darker one near the center flaps its wings once, sending a gust of air spiraling across the stone.
Einarr.
He comes to Ryot not like a beast answering a call, but like a shadow drawn to its source. His steps are heavy but controlled, the kind of movement that speaks of unfathomable power barely contained. For the first time, I notice that Einarr has wings that glimmer with hints of midnight blue when they catch the light; they reflect the color of Ryot’s eyes.
And then Einarr turns to me and lowers his massive head to press his forehead against mine. My breath whooshes out of my body as everything else vanishes. The wind, the cliffs, the others—they all cease to exist while his warm, coarse fur presses against my skin. Then, the moment is gone, and Einarr pulls away, stepping back.
Following his lead, the other faravars return to the clearing. They took our coming as the tribute it was, and now we’ve been dismissed.
As we leave the clearing to re-enter the fog, I glance at Ryot. Somehow, the two of us have ended up walking side-by-side as we take one cautious step after another down the path.
“Why did we go to the galehold today?”
“You needed to see them, and they needed to see you.”
I snort. “That’s the most non-answer answer I’ve ever been given, and my mother was an expert at hedging her vague responses.”
He smiles, as if his mother was the same. But then he stops and turns to me, and his eyes are hard.
“Something’s coming,” he says.
I quirk an eyebrow at him, and gesture to the golden-edged scar that covers my face. “What was your first clue, there?”
He slashes a hand through the air. “This isn’t a joke, Leina.”
I stop, cutting off the sarcasm. He’s right.
“I’m not a superstitious man,” he continues. “And I refuse to live my life based on fear, especially fear of inevitable death. But I feel—” He clears his throat, awkwardly. He breaks eye contact and starts walking down the mountain again.
“We need to be ready,” he settles on. “I don’t know for what. I don’t know when. I don’t even know why. But we—you—need to be ready.”
I stand there, the wind tugging at my cloak. I think about my nightmares, about how they’ve changed since he found me. I don’t dream of Alden anymore or of Irielle’s screams. I dream of darkness. Suffocating, unending, darkness.
I catch up to Ryot, falling into step beside him.
“I’m never ready,” I warn him. “It used to drive my father crazy. But I show up anyway.”
He doesn’t look at me, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. A smirk of annoyance, like he knows exactly what I’m talking about. It makes me think he grew up with sisters.
“I guess that’ll have to be enough,” he mutters.
I smile, feeling lighter than I have in years. Experiencing the faravars loosened something in me. I can feel them in the wind, distant but present, watching from somewhere above the cliffs.
I fall behind, and my eyes catch on Ryot’s back as he strides forward with sure, confident steps. But … maybe it’s notjustthe winged beasts.
