Page 56 of Fire to the Stars

Before I discovered him, I was hunting for a deer, as usual, but managed to kill a fawna. The moment I saw the buck’s flowering antlers, I thought it was a sign from Diu that Micah would return to human form for good. I’d gotten so desperate, I let myself think that feeding it to him would have divine significance. He never laid eyes on it.

I do think the fawna was a sign, albeit not the one I wanted. Diu was telling me that not even a fawna’s luck would save him. My brother was destined to die from the beginning.

I was deluded to think I could find a cure after seventeen centuries have passed without one. I must be the first slayer in existence to rob a dragon of a swift, painless death.

I am a dragon killer. One of the best. It is time I remembered that.

This entry hereby concludes my research. Let this be a warning to any other slayer who believes they can save their loved ones, should they, too, succumb to the Ignition. Once Diu doles out punishment, it cannot be reversed.

There is no cure for the dragon curse.

Translated from the research journal of Abel Estellio

Creation is a language. It cannot be unsaid. Once it is introduced to the realm, all we can do is make something else to combat its negative effects.

—Lesson in creation magic from Diu to the Immortals

Translated fromThe Tale of Stars (L’Histoire des Étoiles), Part I: The Book of Origins

Chapter Eighteen

Claire

I cover my mouth with both hands. Tears gush from my eyes and leak between my fingers.

Imprisoning his brother? Slicing up his back? Inserting foreign objects into his spine to induce paralysis?Ignoringhis cries for death and forcing him to remain in dragon form?

Whoconceivesof such torture?

Beside me, Lucy’s ears twitch with awareness. I hold my breath. She licks her jowls, but sleep ultimately wins.

Every insult I want to scream at Diu tangles inside my chest, but I can’t release them. Not with Abel sleeping here. My shoulders tremble with the effort to remain silent.

When I started my search, I knew a cure was a long shot. But the more time I spent with Abel, the more evidence I gained to suggest my hopes were not misplaced. He loved his brother despite the curse. Lyle defended his research. Even the assassins seem obsessed with his findings. How could Inotplace hope in it?

I painted a picture that doesn’t exist, based on the way everyone reacted to it.

I connedmyself.

At worst, I suspected Abel’s journal would provide inconclusive research, something with gaps I could fill in. Not a death sentence.

I thought I would trot away from this journey safe and secure on a horse’s back with a satchel full of coins and the recipe for a cure. I’d settle on a farm with rolling pastures and horses running to greet me at the gates. Instead, this journal proves I have no future. Even my reliance on sleep powder will be impossible to maintain. Worst of all, Abel’s own entries read like he aspires to usurp control of Diu’s domain. Like the Immortals did during the Dark Days.

The pressure in my chest builds too much. I allow myself one sniffle.

Abel shifts in his sleep.

I hold my breath, legs tense with the journal in my lap. The slightest movement will wake him. He’ll see that I broke my promise not to read his research and easily guess the reason for my tears. He’ll know I led him on a false hunt to save myself. He’ll look at me like Étienne Houdin looked at Anne-Sophie’s daughter.

He’ll kill me.

He remains turned away, shoulder blades exposed. It takes a moment, but his rhythmic breathing works its way past the furious pulse in my ears. Once I remember how to inhale, I rewrap Abel’s journal perfectly, just the way he gave it to me. No Dame Blanche riffles through someone’s belongings without leaving them precisely how they looked before.

A snapped lifeline. That’s what this journal is. Useless—but I don’t want to let it go. So I slip it back inside my satchel under my bed, as usual.

Lucy lifts her head. I gather her close and bury my face in her fur, wishing I could confess to her all my secrets, and my hopes and dreams, crushed to pieces. Shegekkers sleepily.

Burying my sobs is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Ideserveto scream and cry. I deserve to release my pain like every other human instead of bottling it. The only semblance of safety I get is burrowing beneath this blanket. No one can survive this way. Not even me.