Crown of Dragonfire by Daniel Arenson

his cloak.
    Tash's hand trailed
down his leg. "Vale," she whispered, "let's do it now. While they're flying
above."
    He raised his head just
an inch, saw her smiling at him, and glared. "Hush!"
    She pouted.
    Ash rained and finally
the sound of the chariots faded. Vale rose back to his feet to see them in the
distance.
    "Maybe you like boys?"
Tash said. "That's all right; I don't judge. We had a few boys in the pleasure
pit, you know. Some of the seraphim favored them."
    "Enough." Vale
continued marching. "We keep going. Quickly now." He turned around. "Tash! Come
on."
    She placed her hands on
her hips. "You go that way, Vale, right back to Tofet. I'm going to walk the
right way." She pointed. "Follow the star, remember?"
    He grumbled but he
changed course. They walked onward through the darkness.
    Thankfully, Tash
stopped talking soon, though the young woman still hummed, clucked her tongue,
and sometimes mumbled to herself as they walked. Vale began to regret agreeing
to accompany her on this quest. He should have accompanied Meliora instead to find
the Keymaker—it seemed that was where hope shone brighter—not gone on this wild-goose
chase, stuck here with the insufferable Tash.
    The woman had seemed
sympathetic enough back in Tofet. After all, she had helped Meliora escape from
prison, and for that Vale was grateful. But stars above, once alone with her,
Tash had regressed back to, perhaps, her true self—a loquacious, flirty little
minx who boiled both his blood and temper. She confused him. She infuriated
him. He had agreed to accompany her out of some sense of nobility, wanting to
protect the helpless maiden perhaps, like the heroes in the old tales. Now he
wondered if Tash would lead him to nothing but madness.
    They walked for hours,
and when dawn began to rise, Vale approached the river.
    "Going for a morning
swim?" Tash asked. "Naked?"
    "Going fishing." He
hefted his spear. "We need to eat."
    The light was still
dim. Hints of pink and blue appeared in the eastern sky, and the world began to
appear around him, all in gray, black, and indigo. He could make out the river
flowing at his side, a few trees with curling branches, rocky hills, and Tash's
slender form. Soon the sun would rise and its light would drench the land, and
they would need to find shelter and hide—perhaps another cave, perhaps between
boulders or trees. But for now, Vale needed food. He had not eaten in a night,
a day, and another night, and his limbs already felt weak from hunger, and his
stomach knotted. He had never eaten fish before, but he had seen the overseers consuming
them. He stepped onto the riverbank and hefted his spear.
    Beads of light
glimmered on the water, and the fires had not spread this far yet. Reeds and
grass swayed around him, and Vale waded between them, the water rising above
his ankles. As the light kept brightening, he caught sight of his reflection in
the river. The vision was smudged and dark, and he stared down at it. Vale had
never stared into a mirror before—at most, he had seen his reflection at the
bottom of wet mugs or upon the surfaces of polished stones. Looking at his
watery reflection now, he seemed thinner than he'd ever been. A gaunt wretch,
cheeks sunken, eyes too large. A figure close to death.
    The old stories of
Requiem, the ones his father would tell, would often speak of the beauty and
vigor of youth, of young heroes scampering across fields and soaring, laughing,
rolling through the sky in abandon, not yet burdened by the worries of age.
Vale was only twenty-one—in Old Requiem, he'd be considered at the prime of
his youth, barely older than a boy. Yet he felt old. He looked old. He felt
ready for death, having suffered too many years of whips, chains, hunger,
exhaustion, as if all those five hundred years of slavery—stretching back to
the fall of Requiem—weighed upon his shoulders.
    And yet I'm still
here. Still moving onward. Still alive. Still fighting. He closed his eyes. I still