The Last Namsara (Iskari #1)(63)

The air crackled around Asha. In the distance, she saw a black shape launch itself from a jagged, mountainous ridge into the dark clouds.

“Under the cloak of night, she crept over rooftops and snaked through abandoned streets. She sneaked out of the city and into the Rift, where she told the dragons story after story. She told so many stories, she woke the deadliest dragon of all: one as dark as a moonless night. One as old as time itself. Kozu, the First Dragon.”

“Asha . . .” Jarek’s voice sounded strange. Frightened.

She walked farther into the tall grass. The sound of wingbeats reverberated on the air. The wind rose, howling. It tugged her hair out of its braid and whipped it across her face.

“Kozu wanted the girl for himself! Wanted to hoard the deadly power spilling from her lips! Wanted her to tell stories for him and him alone. Forever!”

A shadow fell across her. She looked up to see a dragon circling. Black as ink. Black as a still pool on a moonless night. Black as Asha’s eyes.

She drew the axe at her hip.

Kozu landed with a thud. The earth trembled beneath him. His shadow shot over her, cloaking her in darkness. His scales gleamed and his slitted yellow eye drank her in. Asha’s eyes did the same, fixing on his scar. A mirror image of hers, it ran down his serpentine face, cutting through his eye, marring those inky scales. Two horns twisted out of his head, perfect for goring prey; and on each foot were five talons, sharp as knives. As wide as a courtyard, his wings remained outspread—a show of just how large he was, how easily he could crush her.

Like a story himself, Kozu was formidable and fierce, beautiful and powerful.

The thought of him dead suddenly struck Asha with a piercing sadness.

She gripped her axe harder.

Someone moved behind her. Kozu’s gaze darted to him, slitted nostrils flaring. But whoever it was, the First Dragon hadn’t come for him. He’d come for Asha.

Like the predator he was, he circled her, the grass rustling as he moved.

Asha raised her axe. Her eyes fixed on the place where his heart beat out its ancient song. It was her or that song; they couldn’t coexist. If Asha didn’t silence it, she would be forced to go to Jarek tonight.

Kozu’s chest glowed like a simmering coal in the center of a fire. Her fingers tightened around her axe, waiting for the perfect moment.

She waited too long.

Kozu’s tail lashed, hitting her in the stomach—not with the spiked end this time, but with the strength of the middle. The force of the blow knocked the axe from Asha’s hand. It landed in the grass as she staggered back.

Asha reached to draw her slayers, but Kozu’s tail came again, wrapping around her chest, pinning her arms to her sides and squeezing the breath from her lungs. She gasped for air as Kozu lifted her off her feet and drew her to him.

His breath was hot on her face. His teeth were hundreds of yellowed spikes.

No. . . .

How could she have come this close, only to fail?

Death’s gate rose up in her mind. In a moment, she’d be walking the path to those gates. The same path Willa walked all those years ago. . . .

Suddenly, a story flickered through Asha’s mind, like a flame in the darkness. It brought her back to the meadow and the dragon and the soldats surrounding them. But the story wasn’t hers.

Another flicker.

This story belonged to Kozu.

She’d told him one. And now, just like they used to do, he would tell her one in return.

Right before he killed her.





Kozu’s Story

He was waiting in the trees, waiting for the girl to come out of the rock. It was dark and he was waiting. Craving the voice thrumming with ancient power. Wanting the girl speaking the stories aloud.

The sun rose, and still, she didn’t come. He thrashed his tail. His wings ached to fly. His hunger needed slaking.

But he wanted the stories more than his wings wanted air and his belly wanted meat, so he stayed. She would come. She always came.

When he heard her voice, it was in the wrong place.

He launched himself out of the trees and into the air. The heat of the sun coursed through him. The strength of the wind bore him up. He saw her alone, far from the wretched city, far from the eyes and teeth on the wall.

He didn’t think why. Why here, when it was always there—at the rock, higher up on the mountainside. Kozu needed, so Kozu went.

She was all he saw. He watched her face turn up to him, the story of Elorma pouring out of her mouth. He circled, landed, sending up red dust. When it settled, he started toward her, needing to tell her a tale of his own, needing her to put a voice to all the stories inside him so the Old One could live on.

Fixated on his dark jewel, he didn’t see the glint of sun on metal. Didn’t see until all of them were stepping out of the trees with blades that stopped the hearts of dragons.

He looked from the girl to her kin swarming out of the woods. They smelled like iron and hate. Their gazes devoured him, hungry for his hide.

With her story finished, she reached for him. It was his turn to tell.

But Kozu stepped back. She had brought her kin, armored and afraid. She had tricked him into flying to this unsheltered place. There was nowhere to hide.

Fire sizzled in his veins. Thunder rumbled in his blood.

He lashed his tail as the circle of metal tightened around him. He roared a warning to keep back.