The Rebels of Gold (Loom Saga #3)(68)

“Careful, Arianna—that sounded like humility.” Cvareh extended a hand to her, offering to help her off the glider. Arianna stared at it, but stepped off unassisted thanks to that remark.

“So, where are we?”

“We are at the refinery of Ruana.”

“Refinery of Ruana?” Arianna repeated, utterly dumbfounded.

“This way.”

Curiosity propelled her to follow Cvareh without further comment around a lip of stone and into a narrow passage that quickly opened up into a cut staircase. The walls transformed from rough and natural to carved, as they ascended into what was clearly a Dragon-built structure.

She watched the back of the man ahead of her, as if the skin between his shoulder blades had some secret to reveal. Not for the first time, Arianna found herself studying him, wondering just what it was about Cvareh that drew her. It was not the depth of his mind, nor the muscle of his frame. Their pull to one another was indescribable; the features she would not usually find her eye drawn toward attracted her like the sheen of a freshly oiled gearbox.

At least, until her eye was pulled in a different direction.

The stairway leveled into an icy hall. Glassless windows welcomed the high snowdrifts of the mountains through their thresholds. Flurries danced on unseen currents, crunching underfoot as they traversed to a large room.

She found herself in a spacious antechamber overlooking an even larger space. Ahead of her, a window of tempered glass—slight imperfections rippled through it—looked down at the core of the refinery. A large vat was suspended by a massive hook off to the side of a grounded tank. They were surrounded by machines and long belts, all cold, waiting for molten steel to be poured down them.

“It’s a refinery,” she whispered.

There was an odd disconnect between her mind and body. Her eyes told her mind that she looked at a refinery, albeit a small one. But her mind argued back that such a thing was impossible, for she knew she was up on Nova, where paragons of industry did not rightly exist.

“I told you it was.” Cvareh was at her side.

“Why?” Arianna was trying to process the idea.

“Yveun is—or at least was—setting them up on Lysip. Started the project a decade back and put Petra in charge of oversight. Naturally, she seized the opportunity to build one here as well.”

“So, is your sister here now, then?” Arianna’s voice was still a whisper, matching Cvareh’s tone. She’d felt a somber shift in Cvareh’s magic when he mentioned Petra. Warning bells and alarms sounded in Arianna’s mind.

“No. Petra is dead.”

Cold.

Detached.

Arianna felt the muscles around her lungs contract and her breathing grow shallow. A feeling deeper than reason and stronger than logic ruled her—empathy. She clutched his hands as though she was pulling him from the unbearable riptide of grief, grabbed him like someone should’ve grabbed her after Eva.

“You will make it through this,” she vowed, acting entirely on impulse.

Cvareh tilted his head to the side and his mouth cracked with a tired smile. He leaned forward and Arianna’s eyes closed of their own accord. They, like all other parts of her body, moved in the ocean of this man. He didn’t kiss her, but merely rested his forehead against hers and breathed.

“I know.” Cvareh took a slow breath. “I have you.”

Why did those words make tears prick her eyes? She felt so frustrated by them, so angry, yet so happy. It was like drinking chocolate and licking salt.

“Are you the Oji now?” She had to focus. She couldn’t let herself be distracted by the things she’d given away years ago.

“No, but I will be.” Arianna opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by his movement. “I must go now and see to that. But I will return to you. Make yourself at home until then.”

Oji. Cvareh as the Oji. Her mind tried to wrap itself around the idea. The prone Dragon she’d found on Loom, leading the rebellion on Nova. He would be pulled from her to change the world, just as Master Oliver had been, just as Eva had been. As Florence was.

The space before her had never felt more cold.





Florence


Dragons were annoying. They weren’t scary, they weren’t dangerous, and they certainly weren’t the fearsome creatures they made themselves out to be.

More than anything, right now, Dragons were simply a nuisance.

Florence sat in an abandoned building on the outer edge of Holx. From her vantage, she could see Dragons swirling around the Ravens’ Guild. Every now and again, one would land and its Rider would disappear inside for a few hours. Then they’d eventually return to their glider, having accomplished nothing, and take to the skies again.

She leaned against the wood paneling of the room she’d made her temporary home. Watching the Dragons, recording their movements, keeping track of how far they seemed to get in the guild and how long it took them to do so was a convenient excuse to spend extended time outside the Underground. It had been almost a month since the first Dragon attack, the first unsuccessful one of many, and a month was too long to spend in the dark. Florence felt sorry for the Fenthri who had no other options beyond spending their days confined below. Not sorry enough to pass up the chance to escape the ever-oppressive gloom herself, but sorry still.

Here, her window was cracked. She didn’t open it fully because she didn’t want her magic to betray even the slightest scent on the wind. But that same wind tickled her cheeks as it whispered of the outside world. Here, Florence could stare up at the sky and watch day turn to night and, more important, night turn to day.