What will be left of us after multiple falls?
I push the nauseating thought aside, gaze lifting to the white-stone tower pocked with stout windows. Three stories high, it sits atop the wall like a crowning dome, blending with the crust of gathered snow.
A bastion. And based on the flaming torches flickering within, it’s not empty.
I scan the wall’s flat top, barely veiled by drifting mist. Just enough coverage for what I have in mind, except I’m wearing a dark, mud-covered cloak that’s flapping in the wind like a fucking war flag. A perfect contrast to all that snow.
Oops.
I unhook it from my nape.
Clode snatches it from my grip and whips it beneath the mist so fast I wonder if she’s been poised behind us, waiting for me to catch up.
I rub Líri’s neck, then loosen my hold on the reins and spin so I’m facing her tail, moving toward her hind legs—timing each shift of my body to the silent beat of her wings. Once poised, I pull my shroud up over my nose, tighten my mental sound snare, and pocket my iron ring.
I gently squeeze my knees, urging Líri to hasten her speed. To fly as fast as she can.
We cut through the air like a blade, swift and silent, slashing across the top of the wall—so close Líri’s almost buttering the snow with theunderside of her belly. I leap, feeling her silky tail brush from my chest, down to the tips of my toes before I lose velocity.
Tucking my head, I collide with the ground in a tumbling heap, then stamp my boot in the snow and grind to a halt. Head snapping around, I watch Líri dive into the Mist, her wispy tail the last of her to whip out of sight.
I push to my feet andrun.
Keeping low, I open my mental sound snare, tighten my neck muscles, and murmur a low request for Bulder to catch my impending fall. Something that feels a lot like grinding stone between my back molars. Sharp.
Gritty.
“Hugh atah duhn. Gurth ahl, Bulder.”
There’s a definite pause in his steady song, like he’s as surprised as I am at my sturdy fluency. Or that I’m speaking to him at all.
Toomuch of a pause.
By the time I step off the wall, I’m convinced I’m going to plunge to my death, heart in my throat as I plummet for one breath-catching beat … before landing hard on the ledge of stone solidifying beneath my boots.
I wobble, slam my back against the wall, press my hands flat on the stone. Heaving breath, I wait for my heart to kick back into its regular rhythm.
“Too close, sir.”
Too.
Fucking.
Close.
Bulder continues his droning song, like I don’t even exist. I’m about to curse at him when I look down, noticing the ledge has hardened into the shape of a—cupped hand.
Huh. Maybe he does like me.
Nice.
I puff my chest and spin, digging my fingers into the wall’s deep, veinlike cracks. Once I have a sturdy grip, I transfer my weight to the vertical surface and step off the stone hand, descending through the thick mist in steady increments.
Twice I feel the swift, icy breeze of Líri drifting past. Like she can’t help but check that I’m okay despite the smooth flow of comfort I’m pushing through our bond.
I keep moving, monitoring Bulder’s song until it changes.
Hollows.
