Grit pressed against Chyrie's cheek, soot and ash wisping apart under her lips.
A soothing chill birthed gooseflesh along her arms and she stiffened, nose pressed to the ground. Dry, crusted eyes shifted to check the hearth.
Low.
Her breath snagged.
The forge dimmed to a low rumble now, a thin band of golden light flickering softly against the gaping mouth of brick. Steam no longer wafted from the steel plating and the chill-
Chyrie was cold.
She rubbed the scraps of roughened cotton against her arms, trying and failing to warm up as she lifted herself from the ground to heat the forge. Uncontrollable shivers rocked her core and weakened her legs until she could only think of heat and where to find it.
The molten pool behind her rippled and teemed with smoke, beckoning her skin even as her mind raced.
She couldn't.
Chyrie's frozen form refused her as she stared after the magma, subtle warmth leaking into the air only to dissipate. No. She refused to go near it after the attack, her shoulder still aching with each sweeping pass she made from the forge to her bedroll.
A bedroll she seemingly missed last night due to unconsciousness.
Her mouth was dry, her lips cracking apart.
Darkness bloomed against the corners of her vision, faint stars tingling within sight. She was malnourished and dehydrated and that tool of a king hadn't brought her breakfast.
Or water.
Punishment.
For the spitting or simply to weaken her further, she didn't know. The patch of land he'd placed the tray each day before was empty, only an outline pressed into thickened ash remaining.
Chyrie's legs buckled beneath her and she lunged for the lake of bubbling sediment. Her knees connected with sharp stone, near enough the warmth rippled over her body. Only a minute. She only needed a minute to heat up, then she'd find the charcoal and coat it in sap and fireweed.
An old trick her father swore by.
She just needed to stop shivering.
Chyrie lifted her hand to the billowing cloud of smoke and called to her magic. The kernel of embers now left at her disposal, a gift from Setryr himself.
While she'd taken her prayers to Niukka, urging the goddess of hearth and heart into her corner, Chyrie still beseeched the god of earth and land to spare her land. Her people.
Only through their powers combined might they survive.
Her concentration wavered as the steam curled around each fingertip, weaving along her arms and wrapping down her torso. The blanket grew dense and cloaking, obscuring the lightweight wrap shielding her breasts from molten ore. The sleeve of fabric protecting her sternum coiled around her neck, protecting the vital organs and leaving her belly exposed. The clouds extended down to slick, breathable cotton pants, her knees braced with leather to match the flame-guards along her forearms.
Chyrie knew without calories in, her work would suffer, but manipulating the heat within the forge chamber offered her a strength shivering would not.
She rallied her strength and pulled the materials from a tiny cabinet under the counter-weight, quick to place them deep in the cast plate and stoke the embers.
The wind tunnel coaxing the pot sputtered and rattled beneath her, a sound she'd fretted since Anryth tossed her into Courmasse' mines. With no apprentice or mastersmiths, the help she'd need would only come with a well-bidden storm.
Chyrie hissed, frustrating straining against her exhaustion as she stalked over to her bedroll and slumped onto the thick mat of woven wool and palm. The fabric was stuffed with moss to keep plush, but the truth yielded a lumpy night's rest with backaches and a knotted neck.
She had no idea why he allowed a normal pillow to accompany such odd lodgings.
Her vision blurred as she curled against the wall, legs splayed out in front of her. A storm could take days or weeks to blow through.
Chyrie's consciousness slipped for a brief moment, until the bobbling of a soft object brushed against her thigh. Peeking one eye open, she saw an orb, dusty and round. A tiny stem poked out from the top.
Scooping the ball up, a sweet aroma entered her nose. Fruit.
With another growl of her stomach, she bit through the waxy surface, surprised by the pleasant sweetness that coated her tongue.
Chyrie took a large bite the second time, skeptically watching her empty surroundings. She hadn't heard a single footstep, nor the crunch of loose gravel. Only this round ball of deliciousness tumbling toward her.
Though the pulp stuck to her teeth, she didn't care.
Not as juice soothed the raging hunger and eased the drying in her throat.
Once she'd licked her lips for the second time, Chyrie wiped her cheeks on the cloth of her sleeve and tried to stand. Her body gave out again, a blink revealing another rolling fruit.
She thought she once heard it called something- mangesse, mangole, mango- named after a tropical island to the south, though how it had ended up so far from home she had no idea.
Chyrie finished the first and rolled onto her knees as she plucked up the second, examining it more thoroughly this time. Then she glanced out, past the iron bars and over the Shiksan forest.
"Hello?" she called out.
Crawling closer despite the barking in her knees, Chyrie reared up and braced herself on the iron. Winced. She let go and sat on her heels.
"Are you still out there?"
Nothing.
Not even the crickets answered her call.
She sighed and scrubbed her face, eyeing the forge warily in contemplation. She'd need to start the flames again soon-before Anryth returned.
"It will take more than a fruit to save me..." she muttered.
As if in response, a pair of gleaming gold eyes opened, shimmering against the dusklight. Then, small as a pup, a scaly head rose from beside a boulder on the cliff.
Chyrie gasped, fingers cupping her mouth in shock.
Sitting before her, peering with such curiosity, was a small Drakling. An ovaline snout encompassed wide eyes the color of newly minted gemstones, glimmering like Niukka's brimstone. Pale light revealed deeply tempestuous scales; dark grays camouflaging, morphing into a void of blues and plum-like purples.
A lone survivor.
Tears burned in Chyrie's eyes as she held the gifted hope in her sights. Not of help, but home.
Anryth and his men had chased away the cavernous species, exiling those with wings and slaughtering any without. Another extinction Chyrie intended to bear for the rest of her days. Only this beautiful creature before her might ease that ache. Even as timid and fierce as the small hatchling appeared, hope bloomed in her chest.
Quiet and warm, whispering like a dying flame.
"You better go," Chyrie murmured, ignoring the wetness now leaking down her cheeks. "Before he hurts you too."
The drakeling only tipped its head sideways, blinking.
"Shoo now, little one," she said again, gesturing off into the forest. Even if this cave had once been their home, there was no safety here. "You must... you must save yourself."
The small dragon did no such thing, crouching low and sniffing at the bars containing Chyrie. Examining them. As it crept into the remaining light, she noticed the developing, tucked wings pressed tightly to their back.
Young, likely stripped from their mother.
She frowned at the thought, scrubbing away the tears she couldn't swallow back.
The quick movement seemed to startle the hatchling, the small beast bristling and stepping back once. Then twice. Wings flares, nose outstretched, sniffing again. Scanning for danger.
Carefully, Chyrie reached between the bars and offered her fingers, hoping above all to grant reassurance.
Another puff, this time smoke spewed from wide nostrils.
She smiled. "Go now. Live."
The drakeling pushed its head against her palm, nudging her. After a moment, it scampered away, disappearing into the brush.
Chyrie sighed, taking another bite of fruit and shoving herself back onto the beaten bedroll.
Live.
She prayed into the night, the moonlight illuminating a stretch of ground near those prison bars. With every few minutes dosed, a new dream took shape. One where a grown drake might coast across the skies in a world not so unlike this. Chyrie would visualize those scenes now, too. Among the memories of her brother playing the piano and her many trips to the garden.
A new dream.
Chyrie didn't know whether or not she was conscious when the hatchling appeared behind the bars again, nudging another fruit through the railing.
When another beast appeared, larger and more serpentine. So gigantic Chyrie could only distinguish a head, its long scaly body coiled and hidden beyond the cave's mouth.
Nor whether the silhouette of a man shaded beneath its giant, sweeping neck truly stood before her depleted body. She couldn't make out the details, not nearly focused enough to see more than a pair of agate blue eyes leveled upon her.
He loomed, a figure she'd never seen before standing near the bars of her cage. Watching.
"You're no monster."