King of the Woodlands

Chapter 33

All of a sudden he felt so tired, like the world had drained him of everything he had. He wasn't broken, he was empty.

The Brightleaf villagers all stank of charcoal. A rain of hands fell over him. He could smell unwashed bodies and clean ones, soap and mayflowers and white tea still hot on their breaths.

The Woodland King hadn't bothered to fight. His time was up. The grandfather clock had stopped ticking. He'd failed. And in failing, he'd damned them all.

He didn't fight as the hot metal split his scales. His head slammed to the ground. Dandelions were beginning to grow in the white grass. Albion had watered it each day, but all his hard work had been for nothing.

And then the crowd roared.

The fire burned on and on, its flames shimmering, the trembling leaves of an autumn tree. Smoke curled beneath his nose, circling and diving.

Maybe back in Brightleaf, the spring lambs were fattening. The goats would be ready to milk, and the corn would grow taller than a small child. Women would make cherry cake and men would make snares to catch rabbits near the whispering silver creek. Children would clutch their teddy bears and sleep on clean sheets that smelled of mint.

The Woodland King wanted to fly away. But as the flames spread to every part of him, he realized that he could not fly on scorched wings.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and stars rained down. The flames continued to burn deep into his flesh until he knew nothing but pain.

In the darkness of his closed eyes, the stars formed a face. Was it Kolzryrth? Or was it Mother or Father? No—it was a girl, with hair the color of a flaming sky and eyes so impossible it felt like looking into the definition of forever. Her soul stained his wings, her smile tangled in his brainpan and wrapping around him entirely. Undoing her from his blood would take a long time—time that was no longer his. Perhaps he would remember her even in death.

He'd made a mistake, locking himself away from her and turning his back. But when he'd finally turned around, the damage had been done the second their eyes had met, when her spirit reached into him and pulled his heart out through his mouth, making him spill the grief from his tongue.

As he lay dying, the last thing to cross his mind was her laughter.

✥

She was back. The white grass hung low like a field of pale snowdrops, mourning something.

Lilibeth ran as fast as she could. The grass broke beneath her feet. She shook off her shoes, holding her lantern higher. The golden trail slithered up the path, illuminating a looming cave and the form of a dying dragon.

Villagers were everywhere, their flaming torches like bright beacons against the dark sky. Just above her, stars were beginning to twinkle. It felt cruel, wrong.

Caoim was there too, dressed in an archer's green over-tunic with a hood. He too held up a torch. She felt betrayed. It was a nasty feeling, and it crushed her insides, her heart.

"Move!" Lilibeth panted, shoving past a man with salt-and-pepper hair. "Move!"

Whispering broke out.

"Lilibeth Faren? The strange girl?"

"Why is a sour thing like her here?"