Page 75 of Fire to the Stars

Florent findsenjoymentin the sport of hunting dragons. Huntingme. Their glee presses in. And then come chants of slayers’ names. Theirheroes. Hanna du Fay. Étienne Houdin. Abel Estellio’s name is conspicuously absent.

“You have a large mountain to climb,” I whisper. “Their minds won’t change easily.”

Abel smiles. “It’ll be worth the effort.”

The tension within me dissolves. Once Gérard and I are gone, Abel will have two new kills under his belt to prove that his compassionate hunting method works.

I’m okay with my fate.

I really am.

A tiny speck of white floats down in front of my face. It lands on my hand and melts. I look to the sky. Snowflakes fall over us and cling to Abel’s hair. I tuck the tin under my arm and turn my palm up. The parade falls away while I catch as many as I can. I’ve never seen snow before.

Abel laughs, watching me. It’s rare for him to laugh—really, fully. This might be the first time I’ve heard him do that.

I raise a challenging eyebrow. “What?”

He shakes his head, turns back to the parade, and sips his drink. “Nothing.”

A silverwolf’s first instinct is to camouflage itself. Attacks are unheard of, but it is best practice not to provoke wild animals.

—Visitors’ sign outside Jardincourt National Park

Chapter Twenty-Six

Abel

The icy grip of night clings to Jardincourt National Park, but sunsrays inevitably emerge victorious above the maple treetops. On the other side of the sky, the last traces of night fade into the rapidly brightening daylight.

A breeze rustles through the clearing, sending brittle leaves tumbling across the grass. Lucy bounds after them, unaware that I’ll need her fire-eating abilities in just a few minutes.

Gérard resigns himself to sit on the ground in front of me.

We’re alone—supposedly. Beyond the clearing, only gendarmes lie in wait amid the tangle of walking trails and dense maple trees. A songbird-like whistle makes me flinch. Marshal Bard told me the gendarmes would use birdcalls to signal safety, and musket shots for danger. But after I hear owls, it’s an effort to shake off the sense of bad luck. Everything feels like danger this close to the Ignition. Less than five minutes until the suns eclipse.

In my gloved hands, Hanna’s shackle design opens with the squeak of a prison cell. I kneel in front of Gérard. He sits cross-legged, eyes on the sky instead of the blades. The bob of his throat betrays his neutral expression, as if his full-body trembles don’t give his fear away already.

“Is today a good day to slay?” Gérard asks.

“It’s a perfect day,” I reply. “Clear skies. Suns fully crested over the horizon. Makes for good lighting conditions.”

“That matters?”

“Absolutely.”

“What about the park? Did I choose a good location?”

“The grass is dewy after last night’s frost, but it’s not muddy. That creates decent footing that won’t easily spread fire.”

His nod is shallow. “Then luck is on our side today.”

I roll up his sleeve. Not to clamp the shackle around his bare skin, but to use it as a cushion against the blades. Once he transforms, the blades will shred through the cotton just as easily as they will slice through the limb. There’s no need to make him bleed or endure pain while he waits.

“How does that feel?” I ask, latching it. “Is the pressure toodeep?”

“No. It feels stabilized.” He touches the moonmetal. “This is really happening, isn’t it? I only have minutes left to live.”

“Think of your sister,” I suggest. “Think of Marie.”