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A cold weight settles in my chest. The strange channels feel like a reflection of something broken—fissures of my own making, carved by years of fear and denial. I can almost feel it now, my theïkós slipping through those cracks, bleeding away drop by drop.
If those fissures are my doing, then I’ll have to find a way to mend them.
“The rain’s stopped,” he says, rising to his feet. “We should move on.”
He crouches to douse the flames with the water from our waterskins. The hiss of steam fills the cave as the fire dies, leaving only the gray light outside to guide us as we roll up the bedrolls and blankets and gather the last of our supplies.
Outside the cave, the world is muted, the forest dripping with the remnants of the storm. Klem and Rios stand tethered beneath a thick cluster of trees, their coats dappled with droplets but seeming otherwise unbothered. Lyxander checks their saddles, tightening straps and adjusting packs. I take our waterskins and head for the stream, and he joins me a moment later, letting the gelding and mule drink their fill.
Then we finally mount up and set off, continuing to follow our path alongside the stream.
We aren’t riding long before the forest yields, and we encounter a wind with a bite frigid enough to take my breath away. The landscape shifts into jagged cliffs dusted with snow, their razor-sharp peaks jutting defiantly toward the sky.
My mind drifts back to the map of the Empyrieos that I’d hung over my bed in the Aviary. I’d always longed to stand before the towering mountains of the Thalkans—if only to know how small I would feel in its shadow.
And I do feel small. Fleeting. Humbled.
But most of all, I feel a growing sense of dread the longer I stare.
I lift my hand, sweeping away loose strands of hair as the wind whips around me, pulling with a force that seems intent on propelling me forward. My voice emerges, barely audible against the relentless wind. “Where to now?”
At my side, Lyxander is utterly still. I glance his way and find his gaze locked on that distant ascent.
“Now, we climb.”
Chapter 14
Aella
The mountains have swallowed time, each day folding into the next until nearly two weeks have vanished. The climb has been ceaseless, a grueling trek through icy winds and unforgiving stone where the sun’s light feels hollow and the nights stretch long.
At first, the trees of the Agria climbed with us, but pine and fir soon thinned until only the stark, barren expanse of the upper slopes remained. Snow began to crust the rocks, a pale, brittle layer that cracked underfoot, and the wind carried with it a sharpness that cut through every layer of fabric.
This morning, each frosted breath I take catches in my throat, as though the air itself resists being drawn in. We stop near a narrow ridge where a thin stream of meltwater trickles through the rocks.
Klem and Rios lower their heads to drink. We dismounted after the first week, since they were already burdened with our supplies, and continued the climb on foot. But they’re still feeling the effects of the journey.
When they’ve had their fill, Lyxander fills our waterskins, then passes mine to me. I drink as greedily as our mounts.
“We’re close,” he says as he tucks his waterskin into his pack. “To my village.”
I should feel relief at his words, but instead, there’s a pull, like a thread is being tugged from somewhere under my sternum.
“How close?”
He nods toward a serrated run of rock where the snow has scabbed into hard crusts. “Another few miles along the spine.”
My brow furrows as I take in the landscape. It all looks the same to me—snow-covered stone, ridgelines, one blindingly white slope bleeding into the next. “How can you even navigate around here?”
“The North Star.” He jerks his chin skyward. I follow his gaze, squinting into the pale wash of morning. A stubborn point of light pinned above the horizon, shining through daylight as if the sun is only a veil. A shimmer of gold passes through its light, like glowing threads of silk. I blink, and they vanish.
“The North Star,” I echo, softer. The name tastes unfamiliar in my mouth, and something in my chest pulls tight, like a thread cinched from far away. The South Star lives over warm water and salt wind. Over Nyssa and Kallias. I never thought of looking for a mirror in the north.
The space between them is an ache in my soul.
I’m farther from the Sorrows than I’ve ever been—farther from salt-stained isles and sun-drenched sky, farther from the girl who hid a storm behind a ring and called it safety.
If Lyxander is right, then I’ve almost seen my part of the bargain through. And once he’s kept his end, I will return to the Sorrows with more than apologies for the chaos I left in my wake. Even if it’s only to get Nyssa as far from the Eagle’s clutches as I can.
