Page 68 of Wings of Ash & Flame
She couldn’t leave them like this. But she wouldn’t last underwater much longer.
Alaire kicked hard for the surface, breaking through with a gasp. She treaded water, gulping air.
“What the hell is going on down there?” Dawson’s voice cut through her haze. “Get out of the water.Now.”
“Not happening,” she called back.
“Alaire—”
She took one more deep breath and dove.
Swimming straight to the injured creature, she examined the trap. Her fingers scraped the heavy rock pinning its tail, wedged deep into mud and algae, slick and unyielding. She braced herself, using the broken branch as a pry bar, straining against the water’s drag.
The stone shifted—just enough.
The merfolk thrashed once, twice, and with a sudden snap of its tail, it was free. Alaire released the branch, letting it sink to the lakebed. Her chest spasmed—being underwater was already taking a toll on her exhausted lungs.
Quickly, she swam for the oval object, careful to give the young mer space. Cradling it in one arm, she kicked off. Her legs burned. The surface seemed impossibly far. When her strokes began to falter, something surged beneath her—a force pressing against her lower back. The creature.
It propelled her upward in a rush of unparalleled speed.
Alaire broke the surface with a ragged gasp, sucking in air with a shuddering inhale.
She glanced back. The creature lingered below, watching her with something that might have been gratitude.
When she finally reached the shore, she collapsed onto her back, dragging in as much air as she could. The oval object rolled onto the ground beside her.
“You’re alright,” Dawson said, sagging with relief. His feet were covered; they must’ve already healed.
“Fine.” She coughed out the water still clinging to her lungs, too drained to say more.
“What is that?” Dawson leaned forward, trying to get a better look at what had summoned them all this way.
She shook her head, teeth chattering. The weight of the water still clung to her thin shirt, each movement dragging under the cold.
Rolling onto her side, she examined what the pull had pushed her to recover—a large oval stone spanning the length of her torso, faint veins of amber splicing outward. It had seemed almost weightless in the water, but here, it looked impossibly heavy.
Her fingers twitched toward it. A smear of red glistened across the smooth curve, blood from the cut on her ribs.
“Some fancy rock.” Pushing to her feet, she ignored the tremor in her legs. “Turn around,” she instructed Dawson.
He gave her a wary look, eyes lingering on her wound, but obeyed. She changed into her dry leathers.
When she turned back, the object was no longer still.
It rocked forward and back. A low, wet sound—like a membrane tearing—sent a chill down her spine. Scratching noises followed, then light cracking. A soft sizzle, like water hitting hot oil, grew louder.
A lattice of glowing fissures spread, molten gold spidering outward. The scent of smoke and burning earth thickened in the air.
Alaire stepped closer.
The stone exploded. Fire and ash erupted, heat rolling over her as embers cascaded through the air like tiny, dying stars.
She didn’t move. Didn’t dare blink.
It wasn’t a stone.
It was an egg.
