Astella believes it is our only chance of survival. I haven’t quite worked out if it is her sight that gives her this insistence or delusional hope like Lorraine and Troy’s delusions about the desert.
“We intend to try.”
Lorraine doesn’t press us further about our plans or the hypocrisy of refusing the desert in favor of the equally treacherous mountains.
A crow caws in the distance, barely loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the wheels.
Astella sucks in a small breath. Her hand flies to mine and squeezes tightly.
My heart races, even though I don’t know the source of her fear.
Only a moment later, several ravens take flight all at once. There were more than I’d seen.
“Seven,” Astella whispers. “Wait…”
I frown. It’s not often she second guesses herself. Her gaze shifts down between her feet for a long moment.
“They’re too close. We need to stop.”
I pull in a long breath, looking behind us for evidence of what she’s seen, even knowing I won’t find any. She knows what she shouldn’t. And I know to trust her.
“Stop!” Astella says, voice full and deep. She does not assert herself very often. That’s how I know this is serious.
Lorraine, Troy, and Thomas all turn to stare at her. I shift uncomfortably.
“Please, just stop the cart,” I say calmly, pulling the attention back to myself.
Troy obeys after another beat of resistance. The horse whinnies and huffs as we roll to a stop.
“Why?” Lorraine asks. She looks around, her wrinkled eyes alarmed at first, but her expression quickly turns dubious. “What is it?”
I don’t need to know why. I believe Astella.
“They’re going to hear,” she whispers, her eyes locked onto a spot on the ground by the wagon, her face slack like she’s somewhere else entirely. “I don’t know how I missed it.”
My stomach sinks.
Lorraine clenches her jaw and places her hand on her son’s forearm. He watches her closely. After another beat, she turns back to us. “Why?” she asks firmly. “Why did you tell us to stop?”
I swallow.
“They’re not going to listen, but they’re coming,” Astella whispers.
“Who?” Troy asks.
The fear in Astella’s eyes tells me more than I need to know. “The Drak’yn.”
Fear trickles down into my veins like ice. My vison blurs, mind spinning but quiet at the same time. Lost, because if I were to have clarity now, it would mean full panic.
The death cult’s name is sharp on my tongue and sends terror down my spine. So, I’ve come to simply call the horrible death cult, driven by a mindless religion of hate, what they make us feel: Dread.
They are not the cause of our country’s demise. They didn’t cause the droughts or the famine or the rising magic of the Morteres, but they’ve certainly taken advantage of our destruction.
They are a cult, worshiping both death and the terrifying lizard creatures they ride. They round up survivors of our crumbling society and then use them in their extreme rituals. I shiver at the horrid stories I’ve heard of their feasting on human flesh or feeding people to the massive lizard beasts they ride.
Lorraine and Troy release a breath as one.
“There is a reason we didn’t go to the Drak’yn den when we fled…” Lorraine says calmly, but her expression is one of puzzlement. “But we’d hardly run from them.”
