Malachite steers us through the sickly gray forest, great boulders becoming more and more frequent, small rocks making it difficult to walk without pain. An ancient riverbed, maybe. Lucien maneuvers with ease, but Fione and I lag behind, helping each other pick out sturdy surfaces. Up an incline and around a dusty corner of the forest, the dried riverbed carves a path straight to the mouth of a cave, the stone overhang worn blade-sharp smooth by old water. The darkness inside looms as deep and indecipherable as a throat.

And Yorl was right. It’s slightly well-defended. Sixteen beneather guards in their bone armor stand at the ready, spears and swords aloft, and five more pace atop the cavern with intimidating longbows at the ready.

“Is it always like this?” Fione marvels.

“No,” Yorl asserts before Malachite can. “This is very unusual.”

“High alert.” Malachite makes a tsk noise. “Probably because of the refugees.”

“Not like they’d shoot them, right?” I ask nervously.

“Nah. But the Fog Gate is ceremonial—which is as close to ‘sacred’ as beneathers get.”

“And it’ll kill anyone who goes in unwittingly,” Lucien reminds us. I smile.

“Including us!”

“Especially us,” Malachite corrects. An extravagantly robed figure walks through the guards and he ducks farther behind the boulder. “Vachiayis. Bloodpriest.”

“What are they doing upworld?” Yorl’s whiskers droop with his frown.

“No clue,” the beneather spits. “Sorry—can’t wave the bloodline around here. They know.”

“How bad would it be if you walked up and tried it?” I ask.

“I mean, my aunt had my father’s side of the Olt’reya house branded an eternal traitor to the spiral—”

“Sooo…” I trail off. “You’re a criminal, then?”

I practically hear the cogs line up in Fione’s mousy-haired head next to me. “Perfect, Zera.”

“What’s—” Yorl stops, mouth twitching. “Oh.”

Lucien laughs a little, shoving Malachite out from behind the boulder. “Go on. We’re right behind you.”

It takes Malachite a bewildered few steps to get it, all of us trailing behind, but when he does he rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Shut it. This brain shit isn’t my strong suit.”

“We love you all the same,” I tease. Fione’s giggle resounds, and even Yorl’s muzzle pulls into a faint smirk. Lucien pats Mal on the back reassuringly. But the hard-won moment of laughter fades the closer we draw to the Fog Gate, every pair of beneather eyes on us. We fall silent—a cool arrow stepping over the dry riverbed, drawn tight with sheer determination, Malachite spearheading us with his best fiery glare.

27

27

HUNGER
LIKE FIRE

I skid on my elbows onto the vicious stone floor of the Fog Gate.

“Ow!” I shout at the beneather guards retreating into the white light of the cavern’s mouth. “You didn’t have to arrest us so exuberantly!”