SAVE POINT 38
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Goran
Time.
Time is tricky—sticky.
You can weave it or you can get stuck in it, much like a spider's web.
This time, time is mine. Just like you Rosabella. Just like the spider, I've set the perfect trap and you all will fall into it—with this world.
With the greed that made and destroyed this world...
And only the two of us will escape together. I've made sure it's part of the dragon's vow—just another part of my ingenious plan. I finger the handle of the emerald-encrusted dagger near my pocket as a strange sort of relish floods over me, making me smile.
Yes, yes I have it all locked down very nicely this time; there will be no mistakes.
This time is my time.
Not Ford's.
Mine.
Now, I don't have to pretend to be his goodie-two-shoes, rule-following, princely self to make them follow me. This time, they can see who I am from my outside: the black warpaint streaking the defined lines of my cheeks and nose...the fires of their villages reflecting in my eyes as we parade into the night, victorious, as the cheers of the Commandress's army bellow behind us and the flap and thaw of dragon wings overhead and their smoky breath—their shapes trailing like a hundred black crows in the brooding clouds above. I am done hiding the blackness that took over my life long ago; it's been running, coal-colored, through my veins for too long. Some people run from fear. I've made it my flag. I've held it high over my head and dared anyone to come near me. Because I killed my own brother, what wouldn't I do for you, Rosie? What wouldn't I do to get you back?
The Commandress thinks she has the better end of this trade—that I'm protecting her from you, Rosie.
But it's merely a selfish task.
I want you back, and this dragon's army is how I get you.
We will overwhelm anything in the path.
To you, Rosie.
The dark dragon let me borrow this armor. In fact, she had her war generals suit me with the finest black body armor and camouflage cape they had. It's heavy on my shoulders—like the weight of pulling all this off—and drags behind me with every crunching step through the knee-high grass.
There's a woman wailing in the distance. Did we kill her baby? Her husband? Her dog? Maybe. If she were to see them there, alive again, would there be more nails-on-a-chalkboard moaning? ...Isn't it ironic that we scream for both pain and pleasure? I grit my teeth. I don't care what others have lost, only what I have. Because I've lost too much, and I'm going to get it back if I have to step on everyone here's back to do it, crush them like the skeletons of a past that hated me under the soles of my animal-skin boots.
I'm through with this world.
Only the power in it interests me.
And you, Rosie.
Of course, you.
Small rocks pinch through the thin soles of my boots.
We are getting out of here.
> We're getting close.
The Commandress's voice fills my ears, nearly like I can hear her enormous, beating wings. But it's my imagination. She's so far above the clouds I can barely make out her engulfing shadow if I tilt my head back into the dying daylight.
> You were right about the dragons and the towns, man who killed his brother. They have all fallen as we meet them. You have proved very useful. Power suits you. Perhaps, if you continue to prove loyal, I should promote you to a general under my watch.
General.
General Goran.
I like the ring of it but keep my thoughts neutral and paced ahead; I don't need the dragon honing in and reading them now while I'm scheming.
The Game Wardens will take the Game Maker to the Temple Meherna, I tell the beast swiftly in my mind. They're going to fight to fix The Game and gain control that should be yours. We'll need to throw everything we have at them.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
> Good thing we have everything to throw.
She laughs in my mind, a malicious, clanging rattle of cymbals.
I grin.
That we do.
I go over the plan again, feeling the dragon slip from my mind space. Game Wardens are strong and well-trained, but they don't stand much of a chance against the makeshift army we've formed roving over the countryside to get here. The creator magic is the only unknown in the equation. If you've figured out how to wield it, Rosie, you could be a problem. But I'm prepared for the challenge. It's like how I taught you to braid your own hair when you were little. I taught you the motions. I walked you through it over and over, but your movements were slow and messy at first. If you'd braided your hair, it was all too easy for me to unbraid it. Quickly. Efficiently. I'd grab your little hand with chubby fingers that could barely stretch the elastic out and we'd fix it together, my hands running through your soft hair.
And this is no different.
If you come against me, I will have no choice but to make things right.
Even.
Clean.
And you will come with me. It's the only way to ensure you're protected. We both know this. I just wonder if you've accepted it yet or if they've poisoned your mind.
Because if they've turned you against me—if you believe their lies and have lost yourself in The Game—I just might crack the whole world open with my anguish.
> Clear a landing area!
The Commandress bellows from overhead.
> The dragons must descend, or the Game Wardens will see us. I can see them on the sacred ground—
No, I tell her in my mind. I refuse to hide. They asked for this, they will get it.
> I am the Commander. I decide.
The dark dragon hisses in my ear.
> We stay hidden for now and attack at nightfall.
Stay hidden.
It's something I'm not good at. ...Like following orders.
I take a step towards where the earth falls away from my feet, peering through the thick bushes there. Surely this hiding is folly—can't the Game Wardens already see the smoke from the burning towns behind us?
But maybe they're too far away. I gaze across the chasm, peering at the figures, standing in a circle on the temple balcony across the craggy valley. From here they look like tiny figurines:
The Game Wardens and—
My breath catches in my throat—lodges there.
Because I was right.
You're there.
Rosabella, you're there.
With your hair streaming back from your scalp in the wind. Ridgid. Unmoving as you clasp one of the warrior's arms with both hands. You must be in the magic. Does that mean I can guess where you allegiance lies?
But I don't want to. Not yet. For now, I just want you to continue to be the sweet, small Rosabella in my mind.
The one who still loves me.
Untainted by this Game that hates us both.
Untainted.
Till I have to acknowledge otherwise.
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Callen
Nothing is moving—that's what bothers me most. There's usually birdsong even as the sun falls, hawks circling in the misty clouds fading from midnight blue to pink along the egg yoke horizon...
But tonight, there is no song.
Just the whisper of the wind over my broad shoulders, wrapping around my neck with trailing fingers—like nature itself is holding a hushed secret. And it makes every muscle in me tense as I watch the ridgeline across the bridges. Because the smell of smoke's been wafting into my nostrils, and smoke here doesn't mean campfires and marshmallows...
It means dragons.
"Keep your eyes sharp," I tell Joy, shifting again on my feet as I scan the tree line once again.
Silent.
Still.
Eerie.
...How long have they been in there?
My eyes flicker to Rosabella and Rainer's stiff, statue-like forms—locked together almost in an embrace. Their eyes are chalky-white and their breathing, shallow.
It's times like this that I hate my sixth sense—I'd hate for it to be right. Because something feels...off. And, if things go south, I only have the pink-haired girl as a capable warrior in this fight. Dormouse can code, but he's only as good as his fear. I wouldn't count on him to stick around if there was a chance to run. I've caught him in the shadows too often whenever danger rears its head.
Is that what I smell in the air now?
Danger? Rearing?
I squint up at the clouds.
Are those dark wings slithering behind a cloud?
Or do I have a morose imagination?
That's when I hear a thud.
And Joy's shriek.
I turn to see—
The shaft of an arrow.
Protruding from the pink-haired girl's shoulder blade. Her face is shock-white as her hand flys to cover the wound. Dark red stains her fingertips when they return—
"Take cover!" I scream, "Dormouse, help me drag Rosabella and Rainer into cover!" I lunge for their stiff bodies.
Because there's suddenly arrows pelting down like the hailstorm this quiet night has been brewing for hours now.
Across the valley, an army roars to life with cries of blood and rage—their shadows moving like the darkened trees along the edge have come to life.
Shit of all shits! I'd been right.
And, if the Game Maker dies, so does our very chance of survival.