content warning: death, abuse of power in a medical setting, violence, secondhand panic attack scene. sharp-eyes.
Whiteout
There's a stranger, passed out on a table.
I can't look away, no matter how much I want to.
The table is smeared with red. Sharp-eyes doesn't like it when that happens; keeps everything neat and tidy. Way watches from the other side of the room, and I can see the terror in his eyes, even from here. He's so faded, in my mind a translucent shade of purple. This is entirely in character for him, I suppose--but somehow he still doesn't seem quite like himself.
"Whiteout," Sharp-eyes barks. "Pass me the scalpel." When he raises his voice, the whole room seems to tremble.
I pick up the sharp knife, turning it over in my talons. I could stab him with this knife. I could plunge it through his neck, I could watch him bleed over the floor, and maybe we could finally go home.
And even if I never stopped seeing it in my head, it'd be worth it. Wouldn't it?
I pass over the scalpel, and flinch as a sharp, white-hot pain rips through me. Sharp-eyes grimaces. "Pain medicine must be wearing off," he mutters. "Need to make another dose."
I don't ask what he's doing–he doesn't like too many questions. It sets him on edge, makes him sharp and electric. Not that he needs the help. He's not wearing Clearsight's bracelet today, surrounded by a multicoloured halo, making it hard to look at him without getting a headache.
I'm sure that bracelet must be taking away his powers. I've had a lot of time to mull it over. What other solution would alleviate his symptoms–but clearly not without a catch, since he never leaves it on for long? As of late, he's resorted to old-fashioned medicine, a modified version of what dragons used to take after amputations or broken wings. The medicine doesn't stop his symptoms, but it does help numb him to his pain.
He snaps his claws, and the sharp scent of melting metal fills the room.
The subject lies asleep on the table, half of their body covered in plates of armour. A stack of metal plates lies in the corner. No matter how hard he tries, his laboratory is starting to fall out of order, tools bloodied and left uncleaned.
Way covers his mouth with his talons, gulping. He looks away. He's fainted a couple times during these procedures, and shows no sign of improving. I remember the small dragonet who I'd look after, whenever his parents were busy. Back when he was younger, he never seemed to have trouble following my wild, elaborate stories, half of which I made up on the spot. We were never particularly close, but at the time he seemed like a good dragonet–soft and warm buried beneath a veneer of midnight blue.
He could be scared. But if he was so scared, he wouldn't have come back at all.
He could be weak. But if he were, he wouldn't have had the courage to leave in the first place.
There's something that doesn't quite seem right.
Sharp-eyes doesn't seem to notice Way's reaction. The patient squirms, and Sharp-eyes presses his talons to his chest, sending another electric shock through this poor, innocent dragon, who never asked for any of this.
"It's all about the brain. I can make them as physically strong as I like, but it won't matter if my soldiers can't think." I'm not sure if he knows I can hear him. "That's what you meant last week, right?"
It was. At the time, I thought if I tried to redirect him to a more complicated field of study, it might slow down his process, even if only by another week. Now, I'm starting to regret that decision.
"Don't tangle yourself up in cobwebs," I remind him. "The swallow flies at dawn." I'm not sure where it comes from, but it's muddled enough to keep him busy. He furrows his brow and fumbles with the scalpel. Way squeezes his eyes closed.
I notice burns everywhere Sharp-eyes touches the patient. Take a step back, slowly, until I'm a safe distance away from his wings or his tail, liable to electrocute me at any given moment.
I glance back down the hall of his research laboratory, growing larger and larger by the day. The cells, all comprised of one-way-glass, contain hundreds of dragons, some of which have already been fused with their armour, and some of which are awaiting the procedure. I could swear, they're all staring at me, needle-bright eyes asking: What's going to happen to me?
Why is he doing this?
I wish I could tell them. I wish I knew.
***
Sharp-eyes's chambers are scattered with papers, various sketches I've done for his new body. None of them seem up to snuff to his standards.
I'd be mad at him for wasting my time, but... there's nothing else for me to do.
It twists and it tangles and it twists back again.
I close my eyes, trying to wash away the blinding, snow-white colour from my vision. Just for now, I need to focus.
"Of course, the soldiers can't look too similar to me. I have to command respect when we get to Queen Scorpion. These desert towns are impossible to conquer, but–I'm sure–" He glances at the black wall. He turned the projections off hours ago; I wonder if they were causing him headaches.
I blink. "What soldiers?"
Sharp-eyes narrows his eyes. "You know what soldiers?! In the Sand–in the Rain–" he blinks. "We've been doing this for months, you absentminded fool. Take a few more hundred into custody, perform the procedure–" he hesitates, looking as though he's lost his place in his favourite scroll. Glances down at his talons, as though to check they're still there.
It takes me a moment to realize what he's doing. He's seeing the future, but he doesn't realize it. He's losing his sense of time.
"Of course." I laugh. "Silly me. Why don't we add some embellishment?" I start to draw out a pattern of gemstones along the shoulders.
He turns back to me. "I can't look like Allknowing. It has to be practical–last week, in battle, I felt like I was going to–" he furrows his brow, as though he's losing his train of thought. I try not to show it in my expression, the clouds of grey and purple clouding my vision.
There's no preventing this war. I thought that was probably the case, but now I'm sure.
Nothing I do anymore is going to stop him from claiming the rest of the continent, if I ever had a chance in the first place.
I grab a fresh sheet of paper, starting to draw it out again for what feels like the thousandth time. Of all the patrons I've worked with, Sharp-eyes is the most demanding by far. "I could make it sharper, if you'd like," I say, furrowing my brow as I sketch out the front talons, adding a spot on the forearm where a knife could be stored. I haven't attempted realism this precise in many years; it gives me a headache.
"No!" Sharp-eyes hisses. "Am I not formidable enough? When I succeed in this, I'll have separated the soul from the body, I'll have conquered aging, and death, all of our worldly limitations, the questions that have haunted dragonkind for millennia! I don't need a knife compartment."
You'll have crawled your way up to the stars with bloody talons, and dragged the rest of us along with you.
"Of course, my Emperor," I say, bowing my head.
I imagine slashing his throat, binding his wings and pushing him out the nearest window. Clench my talons around my stick of charcoal until it breaks in two.
Sharp-eyes lets out a sharp cry of agony, splitting apart and coming back together with a heaving breath. "I don't have all the time in the world to waste, Whiteout," he hisses. "Work faster. The continent depends on it."
I furrow my brows, sketching out the arc of the tail, erasing the shoulders and drawing them "What about this?" I make the rounded plates on the shoulders larger, and extend the wings. Darkstalker would have loved a project like this. With precise measurements, a certain mathematics to every line.
Sharp-eyes furrows his brow, then nods. "Yes. That's much better. But the tail needs to have a wider range of motion."
I smile and nod and return to the peaceful fantasy of strangling him and throwing him out a window. (I didn't think this is what it would come to, but I'm not going to apologize.)
He starts to pace again. "The Scorpion Den is a strategic nightmare. We can't just take it over by extending the dome—we're getting close now, Whiteout." He splits apart, a thousand ghostly projections shuddering back into place. Grits his teeth, continues. "We have to break them down psychologically. Make them feel completely powerless, irrelevant. Magic is no substitute for good old-fashioned warfare. I was—I was foolish to think otherwise."
"You will win." I meet his eyes. "No matter what—" my voice catches "—no matter what you do."
He shifts his jaw, turning to me. "This must be killing you. You and your brother used to stick together through anything. He was your best friend, right from hatching. What's that like?" And this is what gets me–these occasional moments where I swear, he sees right through me. He understands exactly what I'm going through. And he doesn't care. "What was he like? As a dragonet?" His eyes flicker, glowing white for a split second.
When Father was telling me how I would never measure up, Mother doted after him, and told him how special he was.
When he went on his first date, I stayed up waiting for my brother to come home, and he told me all about it until the sky was a blinding shade of blue.
When he cried, he'd slam the door and refuse to let me in.
When someone was cruel to me, he'd throw the same fury back at them fourfold.
If we hadn't had each other, we wouldn't have survived.
"What does it matter to you?" I say softly.
"How do you sleep at night, Whiteout? How do you bear it?" Sharp-eyes asks, enthralled.
"All the threads seem to lead me here. I keep my head down, and I go on my way." I close my eyes. Stars, give me patience.
He narrows his eyes, a smile curling across his snout. "You said that last week. You are my most fascinating specimen, Whiteout."
I shift my jaw. I'm not your specimen. I'm not your sister. I'm not your anything. I don't let dragons treat me this way anymore.
"The butterflies and tidal waves all thank you," I say with all the serenity I can manage. "But you're losing focus chasing stars. This is your conquest. Nothing else."
He narrows his eyes.
***
Indigo is shouting at someone again. "All right, if you think you've got a better solution, then why don't you just go and ask nicely if I'm allowed to see my unhatched dragonets who have literally done nothing wrong, take them, and leave this moonsbegotten place!"
"You have to have some faith," Brilliance says. "That he knows more than we do. He has a logic, he has a–"
"According to Whiteout, Sharp-eyes is trying to make himself a god. Strikes me as a real selfless leader!" Listener retorts. "I thought we agreed Brilliance wasn't allowed to talk anymore? SOLSTICE!"
"Oh, you can decide who gets to say what?!"
"All right, guys, come on, let's just take a breather–"
"I'm not taking a breather when some opinionated, melodramatic–"
"Talk about Indigo that way one more time–"
It's nothing I haven't dealt with before. Compared to Mother and Father's ripped edges and frayed seams, it's pretty tame, really. I sigh, shake out my wings, and step inside, watching the door disappear behind me.
Everyone falls silent, staring at me. They know I hate the fighting, and even Trailblazer looks a tiny bit guilty.
"You look like you're about ready to kill somebody," Listener says cheerfully. It's sweet that she cares—in her odd, chattery way. Even if sometimes, I don't understand her jokes.
"Don't start. If I scream, I'll raise the dead," I say, closing my eyes.
She hesitates. She knows exactly what I mean. We're not really so different after all.
"So. What's the news from the outside?" she asks, trying to put on a brave face. Retelling the events of my days to the rest of our control group is almost exhausting. By the time Sharp-eyes lets me go, the last thing I want to do is try to relive it in their wording.
"Please, just let me go with you," Trailblazer says, tugging at my wing. "Please. Maybe–maybe he'd let me see my friends. They're just over in the next wing, I know they're there."
"Trailblazer," Brilliance says sharply.
"What?! I've been stuck inside this room for months, Dad!" Trailblazer shouts. "I just want to get out and talk to someone other than all of you, is that too much to ask!"
I almost laugh. "Trust me, afterlife is preferable to invisibility."
"What does that even mean?" Trailblazer asks, wrinkling up his snout.
Solstice rubs his eyes. "Trailblazer. What did we say about treating others how you'd want to be treated?"
"I don't know. I can't remember!" Trailblazer shouts.
"All right, guys, leave her alone," Indigo says, spreading a wing over my shoulder. "She's been talking to Sharp-eyes for hours, cut the dragon a break."
***
Over the past few weeks, this room has become our sanctuary–it's larger than mine or Listener's, so there's enough space for all of us to fit without feeling too stifled. Indigo is very good at getting everyone to leave us alone.
Atop a desk sits an assortment of bottles. (Turpentine, ground-up shards of glass, some kind of purple concoction I don't know the name of, a clear, shimmering liquid.) It's futile, and Indigo knows it. Solstice tells her we all cope in different ways, she tells him he doesn't have a clue what he's talking about.
"All right," Indigo says. "Tell us everything."
I hesitate. Sharp-eyes has got better things to do than listen to us talk right now. And after using his powers all morning, I'm sure he'll be wearing the bracelet to recover enough to keep doing his work. As risks go, this one is fairly small.
"The dissections have scaled up. They're all just–pinpricks of light, drifting off toward the horizon. And there's nothing I can do." Now I start to think about it, I can feel myself falling apart. Tears sting at my eyes. I can't step back, I can't see the big picture, no matter how hard I try. "And--I think Way is turning blue." I don't have time to process it, I don't have time to grieve until the war is over. If I let myself linger on the atrocities I've witnessed, I'm going to turn to candlewax and broken glass and slide past the point of no return. "If he were so cowardly, he wouldn't have come back here. He'd have run as far away as he could get from his family, from all of their mess. If he were weak, I don't think he'd have left the kingdom in the first place." I'm thinking out loud now, and I'm trying not to cry.
"Slow down," Solstice says gently. "You think Way is trying to act as a double agent?"
"He's done this before, Whiteout," Listener says sharply. "He's rotten to the core, and besides–he's four. What help could he possibly be? You already have Sharp-eyes's ear." She keeps her tone low, conspiratorial. Like we're dragonets gossiping about who we like–not planning to overthrow a government. She's been through hell and back, and in her heart I think a part of her is still seven years old.
"He's my nephew."
Listener shifts her jaw.
"I know you're burning, but that doesn't mean I set you on fire," I say softly.
She takes a deep breath. "I know."
Solstice glances between us. "You know what I think about this," he says with a sigh. "We need to be absolutely sure before we do anything rash."
"Sharp-eyes is planning on invading the Sand Kingdom. He's losing his sense of time, and today he was talking about it with me while we built his new body, like it was already happening–"
"I'm sorry. He's–what?" Indigo balks.
"That's... fascinating," Solstice says hesitantly. "And... probably a double-edged sword. What if he reacts to something we haven't even done yet next? Our days are all numbered as it is, but that just makes it worse."
Listener thinks for a moment. "Yeah, if he can figure out the difference between the present and the past at all. Clearsight's visions were so overwhelming without being mixed up with who-knows-how-many-other-powers. Hey, maybe this is gonna be what breaks him!"
Solstice takes in a deep breath. "We're all adults. We all know what risk we're taking for the greater good. Somehow, I don't think he'll go down that easily, but it does give us... some degree of upper hand. Especially if he doesn't realize what's happening yet." He looks out the window toward the city, a rose-gold longing in his eyes. He clears his throat, then turns back to the rest of us.
"Is this some kind of NightWing thing? Every now and then you guys just start thinking that the future is the present?" Indigo says, wildly gesticulating.
"It's not that weird, dear," Fathom says softly. "His magic is breaking down. We've known that for weeks."
"Some seers have... some degree of disorientation," Solstice offers. "I mean, I've heard. They just can't handle it. But it's very rare, and this is probably about a thousand times worse."
Indigo and Fathom exchange a long glance. (Soft and warm, like sunrise. Even in this place, barren and cold, they really love each other, in a thousand quiet ways)
Indigo grabs onto his talon. "If he's losing his sense of time, what goes next?"
"Oh, yeah, because she can just go ask him," Listener scoffs. "Sorry, Indigo, let me check this scroll I got last week, it's called What To Expect When Someone's Sense Of Reality is Literally Breaking Apart. I borrowed it from the library!"
Indigo shoots her a look. "Whiteout is better at this than us. I was just–wondering, is all."
"He was talking to me today, like he'd already won," I say softly. "Like it was over."
"That's good," Fathom says quietly. "If Clearsight taught me one thing, it's that the future can be changed. If he thinks him winning is somehow written in the stars, then that's all the better for us."
I hesitate. "The next time the walls start melting, we're breaking Darkstalker and Clearsight out."
Listener laughs. "Are you kidding? I'm surprised they haven't just done it themselves already."
"When do you think it'll be?" Fathom asks. I wonder if he regrets it now; getting rid of his magic. Or if this experience has only solidified his faith in candlelit darkness. It sounds like a good life, what he had before. I almost envy it.
"It's chaos theory all over again," I say softly.
"Great. Just... great," Listener mutters.
***
I stare up at my mural. Every day, it spreads out further across the wall. Mother stares back at me–Shadowhunter and Eclipse and Nebula and even Way. Clearsight. Darkstalker. I could have planned it better, but right now I can't bring myself to care.
I grab my palette and start to mix the shades of paint together. I only need four colours; the rest I can make myself without even thinking. Green. Soft, kind, forest green. Behind my eyes I see a dragon whose face I haven't seen for years. She's warped with time, her eyes brighter in my mind. Her jaw a bit softer.
Swiftstrike.
I let out a shaky breath. I used to paint her every day for years. But when I focus on her face too long, she's always red, bleeding and raw.
And I wonder where she would be, if she had been more careful when she signed her own death warrant. If she had been a little bit smarter, and a little less kind.
Someone pushes open my door, ever-so-slightly, and I know who it is without needing to look.
"Hello, Trailblazer," I say with a sigh.
"I'm not here because I like you," he mutters. "I'm here because–because Dad doesn't want to talk to me, and there's nowhere else to storm off to."
I can't find it in myself to hate him–like I hate Sharp-eyes–no matter how cruel and immature he is. He reminds me of my father, and I know the kind of life he'll lead. He'll have everything given to him on a silver platter, and he will still be miserable, incapable of seeing why. All I can feel for him is pity.
"Just don't get your colours all over the place," I say quietly. "You'll make a mess, and I can't clean it up."
He scoffs. "Why do you never make sense?"
I roll my eyes, continuing to work on my painting. If he doesn't understand, then I have no hope of explaining.
"Who are you painting?"
"Everyone that's been taken from me." I try to hold Swiftstrike's face in my mind, but it keeps slipping away, as I carefully sketch out the planes of her face, the details I don't want to miss.
"Oh." I can hear him wrinkling up his snout, without needing to look. "What, are all of them dead now?"
"They're gone," I correct.
"That's the same thing. Ugh. You're so boring. The only reason I even come here is because Solstice keeps telling me I have bad coping mechanisms, whatever that means, and Dad yells at me, and Listener yells at me, and Indigo and Fathom don't even let me in their room."
I sigh, starting to paint the scales. When I think of Swiftstrike, she's surrounding by light, so bright it's hard to see. (She's dead, Whiteout, and she's never coming back. You'll drown here if you wallow in your grief for eternity.)
"I talked to Way," he says after a long silence. "At the party. I just want to see my friends, is that seriously so much to ask? And I got mad at him, because it's not fair that he gets to be cool and famous and I don't. Even though he's boring, and sad, and he cries all the time. And then Precocious comes along, and suddenly Way is his favourite–and then he got all speechy and weird, and said all this stuff about how he wasn't afraid of me now, or whatever. And then he cried, and then Precocious told me to go. I should have beat him up, or something. And then–I heard them talking about how, this is the only option. It was so melodramatic. What is up with those two?" Trailblazer asks, more talking to himself than me now.
I tilt my head. So Way doesn't want to be doing this. That's not news, though.
He's always been too good at casting himself in plaster and gold.
"No, I don't want to get back together! You basically tried to kill me, you self-centred little weasel!" Listener shouts through the door. "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!"
"I have no idea what you're talking about! You're being ridiculous," Brilliance retorts.
Trailblazer glances at the door. I put my talons over my ears, wincing.
"I hate this. I hate Sharp-eyes. Aren't you supposed to reward dragons who actually are loyal to you? Not, like, you and Way? Shouldn't you be dead right now?"
I almost laugh at that. "Because if he killed me, he'd be saying that he's afraid of me. And why would he be? I'm nothing more than an artist, trying to make sense of a war."
Trailblazer furrows up his brow. He doesn't have an answer to that.
"This was fun, but when do we get to go home? When do we get all our stuff back?"
I shrug. "Your guess is as good as mine."
I try to paint Swiftstrike's eyes, but I can't seem to get them right no matter how hard I try. I take a step back, staring at all the faces I've painted across the wall. My family.
They're gone, but they're not all beyond saving.
They are right below my talons. They're so close, and they want to be saved.
"Are you... crying? Grown-ups do that?"
I wipe the tears from my eyes. For a moment. Trailblazer almost looks sympathetic.
"Can you leave me with my forget-me-nots for just a moment, please?"
He glances between me and the door. "Fine. All right. Whatever." He looks like he doesn't want to leave.
I stare at the faces of everyone I have ever loved on the wall, staring back at me in vivid colours. It's just paint, just a trick of the light.
"I'm not made to be kindling," I whisper, closing my eyes. "But I'll burn this palace down as best I can."
***
This time, the patient isn't immediately put under. She's maybe my age, and she squirms under the silver light, disoriented. "Where–where am I? I thought—I was supposed to be at home, I was staying home–where's my little moonbeam? I was looking after him, that's all–"
"You weren't complying with the rules," Sharp-eyes says calmly. "And that makes you expendable." He meets her eyes calmly, and he looks so much like my brother, it's hard to remember: it's not him. It's not him. This isn't how the story goes.
She looks around at the hundreds of dragons in their cages, each unaware they're not alone. "What are you going to do to me?" she asks. She turns to me. "Wait, you, you're–you're Princess Whiteout–you have to help me, you have to stop him." Her words ring out a violent yellow, lime green, flashing neon red and blue, and–
I can't save her, no matter what I do. The paths don't reveal much to me, but that much I know is true–an aching, dreary lilac, spreading out across my mind, and blocking out any other thoughts that might push through.
I'm sorry.
"I'm going to make you something special," Sharp-eyes says, with something that sounds almost like compassion. "You don't need to be afraid. Our Wayfinder here was going to take your place, but he's too unique. Can't be modified. On the other hand, you, are essentially the same as every other subject I have in here." He gestures at the dragons with plates of metal where scales should be. "This is an honour." The suit of armour I've been drawing for weeks stands beside the operating table.
He touches her shoulder, and maybe he doesn't even need to cast a spell. The sudden electric shock is enough to knock her out. Way looks like he's going to be sick again, and Sharp-eyes looks back to him.
"Don't be afraid, Wayfinder. You and Whiteout helped me do this. You're going to take dragonkind to the next plane of existence–you should be proud."
But whatever this is, I don't want it. And it doesn't matter—because when he says all of us, he really just means himself. I notice the floor beneath us starting to shake—here and gone and here again.
He furrows his brow and closes his eyes, resting electric talons on her chest. She shakes and convulses, a glowing halo encompassing her, too. She's bleeding, coughing, her eyes wide open, she's trying to shout but no sound is coming out, and then, suddenly, she slumps back into her restraints.
The halo is gone.
Sharp-eyes roars in agony, collapsing to the floor, and I know that I'll be seeing this moment in my mind until I'm lying on my deathbed. A sharp, sudden pain races through me and Way and I both scream. In a moment, it's faded away.
"Is he... is he dead?" Way whispers, his eyes meeting mine.
"The sky won't claim him that easily."
Way slumps to the floor. And then he starts to breathe too quickly, chest rising and falling like the frantic beat of wings.
"I think I'm gonna be sick," he says, covering his mouth. He slumps to the floor, and I can feel his world spinning, or maybe it's me. (A rainbow of colours all at once, bright and assaulti.)
"I think I'm gonna be sick," he says again, breathing faster. He presses a talon against the wall, trying to steady himself as his eyes dart around wildly. "Oh, three moons, three moons, what just happened? Are we gonna die? Are we we gonna die?" he turns to me, a neon frenzy in his eyes. "Tell me we're not gonna die."
Sharp-eyes shifts on the ground, and Way starts to breathe faster.
"Oh, cut it out," Sharp-eyes mutters, pushing himself off the ground. "Science isn't a simple process without losses. Go get me the next patient." He glares at me. "Go! Or it'll be you who's next!"
***
Sharp-eyes has stopped appearing at all at our dinners. But his presence today isn't too hard to sense in the rumbling of the walls, the food suddenly disappearing, then blinking back into existence a few moments later, and an odd halo surrounding the table.
When you're clawing your way up to the stars, I suppose you must have more important things to do than talk about politics over fancy dinners.
Instead, we all sit at the table, whispering among each other. Way sits beside the empty space where Sharp-eyes should be, not touching his food, his brow furrowed up.
I glance at the dragon beside me. Her bracelet, made of wooden beads, looks handmade. I wonder if Sharp-eyes gave it back to her, or let her keep it when he took the kingdom over. Schism–the sculptor. I remember her from the party.
"I love your earrings," I say softly, quiet enough not to be overheard. My voice is soft and white, coated with snowflakes and feathers.
She blinks, looking up from her dinner. "Oh–oh my gosh. You're Whiteout." She glances behind herself, wide-eyed. "They let you walk around in here? I thought that was just at events."
"I'm the emperor's most trusted advisor," I say, with the slightest note of jade bitterness in my voice. "He likes to keep his weapons close."
"It must be an honour," she says, breathlessly.
The winds in my mind swirl faster, obscuring everything in a swirling fog of sleet. It's cold and sharp, sending a chill through my bones.
"My life shimmers like diamond," I say, bowing my head. "And it's just as sparkling to the touch."
Her eyes shine with admiration. "I love your work. I'm sorry, you're just one of my biggest inspirations. I've spent so much time analyzing your work–my art teacher, she introduced me to you, actually–or, not you, we've never met before, ack. I just feel like I know you, is all. I mean, art is so personal, we basically know each other better than if we'd actually known each other, right?"
I get the sense that she hasn't spoken with another dragon in a very long time. These days, it feels more unnerving than beautiful, how they feel as though they know everything there is to know about my life, even though we've never spoken a word to each other. I guess it comes with the territory.
"Gosh, it is so good to know that you're on the right side of this. Of course you're on the right side. The side of progress. That's where Clearsight went wrong, don't you agree? We can't be afraid of the future. There's no time for restraint, not when the world is finally opening up. I mean, imagine, in a few years, we could all have power just like his, once he figures out how to mass-produce it."
A sinking feeling settles in my gut.
"And wouldn't that dream look so pretty made of wishes and paper," I say softly. She's so excited, she doesn't seem to notice my reluctance.
The thing is, I don't want to transcend life and death. I don't want to die for progress, for someone else's nebulous dreams. I want to be safe, and happy. I want my family to be okay. I want to make my art in a house by the sea, and die in my sleep a hundred years from now. If that was all I did with my life, that would be okay.
"If I may–where do you think your brother went wrong? How could you have turned out so different? Did you always think that he was on the wrong side of history?" Schism seems so kind, so sweet, so innocent. She really believes what she's been told. And she's young–maybe eight or nine at most. She reminds me of my niece, just the smallest bit. In another world, we could have really been friends.
I close my eyes. (Flashing lights; black and white and black and white, the whole world seeming to rip apart at the seams.)
"I don't know."
She hesitates. "Sorry, um, maybe I'm being.... too enthusiastic about all this," she says hurriedly. "I guess you probably don't know me as well as I know you." She laughs nervously, and I realize that Way is staring at me, almost wistfully. Our eyes meet. He clears his throat and goes back to his turkey.
"I'm just glad you're not one of those New Star dragons who want to drag us back to... to what? To war and hunger and constant terror? I mean, what do we have left to lose at this point?"
I hesitate. "I thought all the stars went out years ago."
She frowns. "You didn't know? They're all over the city, now. I don't know why no one's stopped it yet. I mean, at a certain point, it goes too far, you know?"
"What's it like out in the snow?" I ask, gesturing. It takes her a moment to figure out what I mean.
"More and more dragons disappear every day. It's all the New Star's fault—Sharp-eyes would never do something like that."
And suddenly, my mind is dark, exploding pinpricks of light dancing across my vision.
There's still a resistance. There's still someone other than me who doesn't think this is acceptable.
"It's a tragedy," I say softly. "Even softer than the paintings."
***
I hang around the dining hall, listening to the chatter. (It's iridescent, but fleeting–tourmaline and indigo and cyan blue.)
What are we gonna do tonight?
I'm so bored?
Mom, where are you?
I furrow my brow, watching Precocious, standing with a little dragonet, staring up the flight of stairs. I make my way over to him, remembering what Trailblazer said. He looks sad, and wistful, and entirely too old for his age. I wonder where his parents are.
"Precocious!" The little dragonet says, tugging at his wing. "I think the pretty dragon wants to talk to you."
He snaps out of his reverie. "Oh—oh my gosh—Whiteout." I can feel the eyes on us, but no one lingers too long. "You're Whiteout." He hesitates. "Elegance, go find Mother."
"I don't wanna. I wanna stay with you. Are you gonna run off again?" she asks suspiciously.
"Just go," he says gently. "I promise, I'll be back soon, and we can play whatever you want for the rest of the night."
The dragonet considers this for a moment. "Hmmmph. Fine."
"Let me guess," Precocious says as soon as she's out of earshot, all of the gentleness gone from his tone. "Way asked you to talk to me." His eyes gleam, and I can't tell if the tears are from sadness or hope.
I shake my head. "I don't take orders from anyone," I say quietly. "I follow the tides. And I survive. Come on." I walk fast up the flight of stairs and take the nearest left turn, trying to put as much space between us and everyone else. Despite his contempt–he follows me.
"Oh, sure, except for Sharp-eyes," he mutters. "You're just as bad as Way is. How could you?! You say you stand for progress, but in the end, all you care about is yourself?" He glares down at the floor. "I don't—I don't understand. Look, I don't know what's going on! Way just—he got in this fight with Trailblazer, after the party, and he's—I just don't believe it. I can't believe it. Even though I want to. And why am I telling you this, I hate you! I'm supposed... to hate you."
I hesitate. "He cares for you. Very, very much."
"No he doesn't!" Precocious exclaims. "Or he wouldn't be doing this to me. I don't understand. I don't know, why I'm even–" tears well up in his eyes. "I shouldn't be saying this. He's probably listening."
"Sharp-eyes isn't listening to us right now," I say, hoping it's true. "He's so buried in his work, he's starting to lose his sense of time, his power is breaking down, he's this close to death's door if he can't make himself a new, mechanical body, and you can't tell that to anyone else. Precocious: what happened out in the desert? Where do you think Way's loyalties truly lie?"
Precocious hesitates. "You're–wait–"
"Don't say it," I whisper. "Don't tell anyone." I glance behind us. "We don't have long."
Precocious is frozen for a moment. "I–I don't know. How am I supposed to answer that? It was like he was trying to push me away, all of a sudden, like he's seen what it's like here and become a totally different dragon, and it felt weird, but of course I think it's weird, because–"
Because you're in love with him. I can see it, even from here.
"No. I don't. I think he's lying through his teeth. I don't know why, or how, but he was ready to tear this empire down brick by brick. And I don't understand why Sharp-eyes trusts him. I don't understand why he's let him get so close. I don't understand why we're not allowed to talk to each other, I just feel like I'm going insane, and I miss–I miss my best friend." He looks away. "I'm sorry, I don't even know you."
I fold Precocious up in my wings, hugging him right. "You're a good dragonet." I get the sense no one has told him that in a very long time. "Thank you."
The powers I do have are slight, more of a strong intuition. A compass guiding me in the most vague definition of the right direction in the dead of night.
The portrait of Sharp-eyes across the hall from us flickers, then disappears entirely.
***
Moons above, just tell me where Way is.
Tell me I've got a chance.
I close my eyes. I don't have much time. The staircase starts to move, and I flinch, startled by the sudden motion. The stone is white-hot and charged with electricity, but this doesn't feel like one of Sharp-eyes's spells somehow. It feels wild and shaky and untamed, as though the magic itself is trying to break away, the staircase shaking beneath my talons.
This magic still doesn't answer to him. Even after all this time.
I rush up the stairs, down the shifting hallway, after the dark silhouette of a dragonet in the silver-blue light.
"Wayfinder!" I shout. I know it's him, because it has to be him, because I need it to be him. I can't break out the last family I have left on my own.
He stops dead in his tracks. I catch up with him, gasping for breath.
"Whiteout?" he asks, wings raised as though ready to take off and fly away.
"Wayfinder, I know you. And Sharp-eyes doesn't. It's going to be his fatal flaw. You're soft on the inside, forget-me-not, you always have been. You just want someone to love you, and this isn't love. It's not even pretending to be. We love you, Way."
Way freezes in place. "I don't know what you're talking about." It's something he would never, ever say. "This is just–a test. He put you up to this, didn't he?" Way says through tears. I can see him, fighting every last instinct not to collapse into my wings.
"I'm not nearly that transparent." I almost have to laugh at it.
"You're gonna get killed," he whispers. "That's supposed to be my job. I can't watch anyone else go. I have to do this alone, because he's going to get you killed–"
He's so young, and he has so much resting on his shoulders. I pull him into my wings, and he cries, and cries, and cries, until there's nothing left to let go.
"What are you doing out here, anyway?" he sniffles.
"Chasing threads."
"Nebula is just behind this wall," he says quietly, gesturing. "I don't know if Sharp-eyes put it there, or if the magic is being weird. And Fathom and Indigo's eggs are there too. Sometimes, there's a door that opens, but not anymore. He probably wouldn't want to see me anyway."
"He let you see them?" I ask.
Indigo's going to lose her mind. They're alive, and they're okay–that's more than we've been able to figure out for months.
"Once," Way says quietly. "Nebula hates me, they all hate me, and–he's gonna kill you once he finds out, Whiteout."
"He can't read my mind. It's all colours in here," I say, gesturing.
"Wait. Really?" he looks up at me.
"Your dad couldn't ever fully read me. Why would Sharp-eyes be able to?" I ask.
He wipes the tears off his face, then buries his head in my shoulder. "I can't hold on much longer."
"You won't need to." I look him dead in the eyes. "Because the next time the walls break down, you're going to help me break your parents out, and I'm going to get you and your family out of this place."
***
Only two more chapters of this book to go you guys!!!