Page 55 of Ignite
Now, wemighthave a way to help one of those things if we find Nightfall, but that’s going to require going to Crea first.
After I told the others of my plans, we devised a final strategy. Preparations have been made all afternoon and into the evening for us to leave, but I can’t ignore the pit in my stomach, the images my mind has concocted of what Graylen could be going through.
When I close my eyes, I see him in pain. I see him crying out for me, but hoping I don’t risk myself to come get him.
“Lu?” Calix presses, shaking me from my thoughts.
“The sooner we can get the fuck off this island, the better,” I mutter.
Calix nods and shoves his hands into his pockets.
A grunt sounds from behind us as a flash of honey-brown hair appears on my right. “We might not be saying that once you get to Crea,” Leda mumbles.
The corners of my mouth tilt up. She’s beenfargrumpier than usual since we made a plan after talking to Adrian.
“If everything goes well, we won’t be there long,” I remind her, but she doesn’t look convinced. “You agreed the best thing for us to do is split up.”
Her nostrils flare, and she stares down the trail like something is going to jump out and attack us. “Manors are stronger together,” she whispers. “Mother has always said that. But…” A long sigh exhales from her chest. “We don’t know what’s happening with Iris and Cyprian’s convoys.”
I nod my head. We’ve already been over this, but she keeps saying it to convince herself this is the right option. Going to Crea wouldn’t be my first choice, but if there’s any truth to me being the only one who can wield Nightfall, then I have to go.
Firelight flickers through the trees, illuminating parts of the cliff’s edge in front of us. Large shadows shift toward us as we step out of the forest, flashes of scales shining in the blaze from pyres.
My breath catches as my eyes adjust. Villagers are scattered around, painting faces, sharpening weapons.
Men and women alike have their hair braided in an array of styles. Some have half their heads shaved, with the other half twisted back. Others have theirs woven into crowns, while some have metal cylinders clipped around tiny woven strands.
The last time I saw this many of the villagers was when we were taken to the cave with the Nightfall depictions, but they were different then. Their relaxed hand-stitched clothing has been replaced with thick olive-green cloaks, the same ones Willow and Aster wore when they helped us escape from the border.
Brown leather braces are strapped to their hands and up their forearms, matching the leather vests beneath their robes. A few of them have their cloaks draped across logs on the ground, their sleeveless vests showing a century’s worth of defined muscles and sculpted arms.
Most of the villagers have a buckled strap cinched across their chests or waists, holding various weapons—axes, daggers, and spears. But the one thing they have in common is the charcoal smudged across their eyes like a band from temple to temple.
“Hold still, Ramiel,” a deep and raspy feminine voice grunts. “Go to Tansea if you want a shitty marking done by soft hands.”
My gaze swings to the voice, eyes widening as I take in the group at the nearest pyre to our left. A female with perfect dips and curves is kneeling, leaning over a shirtless male lying on his stomach. Her hair is separated into two thick braids, so long that it grazes the ground.
Black ink marks every inch of her tanned skin, even her fingers and hands covered in elaborate designs that look like art found in a palace. In her hands is a sharp white object—a chill runs down my spine when I realize itcloselyresembles the shape of a collarbone—which she taps into the male’s skin.
The male grunts as she pokes away, a black, inky liquiddripping off the end of her implement. Each time she taps, his skin lifts with it, and all the while she wears a content smile on her face—though the fae beneath her doesn’t seem to be enjoying it as much.
Unlike the others, she’s wearing a black leather vest that cuts off just beneath her breasts. Her high-waisted shorts show off her lean legs.
She shifts slightly, getting a different angle, and reveals a jagged scar that runs down the entire length of her left leg. A wyvern tattoo is inked around it, like it’s winding in and out of the scar itself.
“Wyvern bond.” Willow’s voice causes me to jump, but I’m too entranced by this female to look away. “Always cemented with a marking on both the beast and the Rider. Ryan here is one of our best—she’s been doing this for years.”
The male inhales a sharp breath, and Ryan tsks and mutters a string of curses as she resumes her tapping. A smile pulls at my lips as she tells him to keep still, and I’m certain she presses alittleharder than before after that.
I’ve decided I like this fae.
“How do you know when it’s time to bond?” I whisper, my eyes glued to Ryan tattooing the Rider.
“Only the wyvern and their Rider know when it’s time for the bonding to take place,” Willow explains, her voice soft. “Usually after an incident where they have to rely on each other—often a situation where they had to put their lives into the other’s hands. It strengthens the connection that’s already there, breaks it wide open like a river crashing through a dam.
“It could be years before a wyvern bonding takes place,” she continues. “Every Rider is different, just as is every bond.”
I swallow and tug on the connection that ties me to Zeph, her responding tug instantaneous. I don’t call her to me, but I want to feel her there. She responds with a flurry of sensations—wind that brushes against my face, the cool night air filling my lungs.
