It’s the combination of all of it, really. The leaning mountains. The dumps of snow and piles of rock. The festering rot. It all distracts, it all hides.
Anyone who might pass by this part of the world would have no reason to linger and no desire to. Argo bypasses the cracked fang-tipped peak, heading for the smallest mountain. It has a side like a mantel, and the rocky shelf overhangs far enough to offer shelter to the hidden village below. This nearly invisible lip in the leaning mountain looks inconspicuous but it calls to me as much as my rot does.
You’d only see the small town if you purposely came poking around or knew where to go. The buildings are all made of the same gritty rock, blending against the mountainside effortlessly, hidden beneath the snowy shelf.
It’s here, shrouded in the forbidden cold, that my greatest secret hides.
Drollard Village.
Just then, the chasing storm lashes out, punishing us for reaching our destination. The clouds slash open and frozen rain pours, soaking through my clothes immediately.
Argo heads straight down to the village, rain streaming off his outstretched wings and freezing against his feathers. He only circles once before his exhausted body slams into the ground so hard my teeth clack. He sways where he stands but manages to stay upright, his talons digging into the snow for purchase as frozen froth batters from his mouth.
“Good beast,” I praise him. He turns his head to blink at me, and though he looks exhausted, the gleam in his hawklike eye is also smug. “Yeah, you earned every fucking jerky strip you want.”
I look around, squinting through the downpour, but all is quiet in the early morning pause. Twenty feet away, rows of rocky houses are lined, lazy smoke rising from chimneys beneath the lip of the mountain, ice gathered on top of the overhang like sheets of shingles.
My frozen hand reaches down for the buckle on the saddle, but it’s a struggle to unstrap myself. My fingers are too numb to get them to work right, and now with the sleet lashing down, it’s slippery. But I can’t risk letting go of Auren with my other hand because I need to keep her dry and secure.
A noise of frustration tears from my lips like a growl. “Come the fuck on.”
“Sire?”
My head snaps up at the voice, and I zero in on one of the villagers walking up from the small pavilion that’s stuffed between the cracked cave of the mountainside. He hurries over, hood pulled up to try and fend off the deluge that’s just started to pour, his bulbous nose showing beneath. “Let me.”
With deft fingers, he quickly undoes the strap, and I jump down with Auren.
“Thank you, Theo,” I say. He’s not as wary of me as some of the others, but he still won’t quite look me in the eye.
“Should I alert the watch?”
I shake my head. “No need. Just see that Argo’s taken care of in the Perch. Tell Selby to give him whatever he wants and as much of it, including extra blankets in his roost. He’s more than earned it.”
Theo tips his head, already walking over to grab Argo’s strap. To his credit, he only slightly balks at the timberwing’s appearance before leading him to the Perch where he can be cared for.
As soon as they walk away, I hurry off with Auren, my booted feet stepping onto the white stone path that blends into the slushing snow. My rot doesn’t spread into the village itself, instead kept strategically around the border like a barbed rampart to keep our enemies out. And although it doesn’t spread here, this place is still steeped in dreariness.
By all accounts, Drollard Village doesn’t exist. Maybe that’s why it’s always felt so dismal. By keeping it secret, I’ve somehow made it feel even more devoid.
This place is by no means picturesque. It’s harsh and cold and gaunt, with lonely homes cut into the hollowed mountainside, cast in perpetual shadow. The people who live here don’t have the conveniences of being in a city where travel and trade are abundant. Instead, they toil to live off this bleak land, while supplemented with the supplies I can bring them. Even so, not one of them will ever leave.
They can’t.
Aside from the village watch, everyone is asleep at this dawning hour, windows shuttered in anticipation of the storm. I quickly pass by the slanted walls of the slate-faced houses, each wooden door not even a stone’s throw apart from one another. Yet the sizes of the homes themselves are deceiving since their depth is made up within the recesses of the mountain. Prickled lace vines stretch up from craggy splits in the rock floor and spider web around the doors and windows, their white-skinned berries still hanging in clumps from their stems.
The stone beneath my feet is slick with the new rain, so I take measured steps. I don’t want to slip with Auren in my arms, but I still try to go as fast as I can, boots digging into every step.
There are a few hardy evergreen trees clinging to life along the path, their frosted limbs carrying the weight of the endless cold and giving me some reprieve from the rain as I tuck Auren closer against my chest.
When I get to the bend in the path, I follow the curve of the mountain where the homes end, leaving the rock face bare save for the snow frozen against it. Above, the mountainside curls like a riptide, creating a giant, protective awning. A sheet of frozen rain drips down from it like a thin waterfall, and I hesitate, trying to think of a better way to get Auren through without soaking her completely.
“Here, let me.”
My arms automatically tighten around Auren, and I whip around at the sound of my brother’s voice. “What are you doing here?”
Ryatt stalks through the rain and, without a word, removes his cloak and flings it over both our heads to block the downpour. I have a feeling he does it more for Auren’s sake than mine. We duck beneath the sheet of rainwater as quickly as we can, and once we pass beneath the rock shelf, we’re blessedly out of the storm and into the mountain’s cave.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Ryatt lowers his arms and brings the cloak down again but doesn’t bother to put it back on.
Now encased in the shadows of the cave, it would be completely pitch-black if it weren’t for the soft blue glow that comes from the fluorescent veins that run through the belly of the mountain. These cerulean streaks branch off in every direction, running through the walls, floor, and ceiling, while colorless beetles cling to their surface to nibble on their sediment. Stalactites reach down from the ceiling, pointing at us in accusation.
“So? You going to tell me what you’re doing here?” I ask as we walk, my voice echoing bleakly.
“Did you really think I wasn’t going to come?” Ryatt’s hands clench around his cloak in bitter twists. “I wanted to come here the moment Midas issued his threats, and you know it, so you can just save your fucking commands,” he snaps, jaw locked tight.
I feel my own teeth grind in response. I probably have no right to be frustrated with him, because I understand his anger, and yet, I am. As he often is with me.
“Fine,” I relent. I’m too cold and exhausted to argue. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. But I need to get her warm and dry.”
He glances at Auren from the corner of his eyes. “Fucking storm had to hit tonight of all nights.”
My brother and I walk in tense silence through the cave. Without even trying, our strides match, our shoulders at the same height, our clothes nearly identical. When my fae nature isn’t out, we could pass for twins, a fact that I’ve used to my advantage many, many times.
Despite the fact that we always effortlessly fall into stride with one another, we always seem to step on each other’s toes.
I would die for Ryatt, and he’s given up a lot to be at my side, but most days, we’d gladly pummel each other.
Tonight is no different.
We eat up the rest of the distance, and then, we’re here, at our house in the cave, descended in blue shadows with stalagmites like standing guards.
The Grotto.
“Home sweet home,” Ryatt mutters.
Something sours in my stomach. “Yeah. Home sweet home.”
CHAPTER 5
SLADE
Age 8