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“Shh,” he soothes, his chin resting on top of my head. “I have you.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, and with a movement so subtle it barely registers as a twitch, I slide the scalpel from my sleeve. I’d swiped it from the metal tray when we’d been led away from that horrific little memory-stealing room.

Malachi stiffens against me as he feels the cold bite of the blade near his ribs—not cutting him, but sawing frantically at the thick nylon webbing of his harness. He freezes for a fraction of a second, his heart thudding against my ear like a war drum. Then, he relaxes, his hand resuming its slow circles on my back.

“You are safe,” he says, his voice loud enough for the Wardens and his sister to hear, while his body acts as a human shield for my vandalism. “You are a brave little mortal. So fragile. So soft.”

The webbing snaps with a silent pop.

“You have a plan, little summoner?” he breathes against my hair, the sound barely audible over the roar of the treads.

My heart’s hammering desperately against my ribs, but for once, my hands are steady. I shift the tiny blade, pressing it against the thick strap crossing my chest now, and the second it snaps, we sit perfectly still, holding ourselves in place with sheer muscle tension so the severed straps look intact.

“Malachi,” I whisper as I lace our fingers together. “Can we get into the Grey Archives without Veraxia?”

He nods, eyes widening as he tracks my gaze up to the red lever swaying above the sleeping shrimp.

“On three then,” I hiss.

I don’t wait for three.

I surge to my feet, dragging Malachi up with me, and lunge right for the red lever above the sleeping Warden’s head.

As I yank, the bolts blow with a deafening boom, and the entire side of the tram vanishes, ripping open to the screaming wind and the blurring nightmare outside.

The cabin depressurizes with a violent whoosh that sucks the breath right out of my lungs. The Warden’s scramble, desperately trying to unlock their harnesses. Veraxia’s yelling something I can’t make out, one hand clamping onto a strut and the other trying to shield her eyes from the sudden hurricane. And Chain-Chewer’s going absolutely feral, barking at the passing scenery, lunging against his restraints, tail wagging so hard he’s threatening to puncture the hull.

But I freeze.

My knees lock. My hands shake, not with adrenaline, but with that cold, static-filled paralysis that turns my blood to slush. I stare into the blur rushing past at ninety miles an hour, and I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m a statue made of panic and bad decisions.

Malachi’s voice cuts through the auditory assault and steps in close, blocking the wind, blocking the view, becoming the only solid thing in a disintegrating world. His hands clamp onto my waist. “Jump?”

I swallow the scream climbing up my throat and grip onto his tunic. Then, a slow, adrenaline-fuelled grin spreads across my lips.

“Jump,” I whisper.

He doesn't give me a single second to regret it. He pulls me tight against his chest, shielding my head with his hand, and steps backward into the empty air.

For one terrifying, heart-stopping second, we are weightless. The world is nothing but wind and the stomach-churning sensation of my internal organs trying to exit through my mouth.

Hell dissolves into a churning kaleidoscope of orange and grey, and he twists in mid-air, making sure he takes the impact. We hit the ash dune at a forty-five-degree angle. It’s not like hitting rock, but it’s not exactly a feather bed either. It’s like slamming into a silo of deep, dirty flour at highway speeds.

We roll, bounce, and careen for what feels like an eternity before finally skidding to a halt at the bottom of the dune, buried half-deep in a drift of soft, powdery soot.

Above us, the tram screeches on the rails, sparks showering down like a fireworks display. But it’s moving too fast to stop. It tears around the bend, a dark metal scar against the horizon, and vanishes into the distance.

I lie there for a moment, staring up at the bruised orange sky, my chest heaving.

I am alive, and surprisingly un-broken.

Malachi opens his mouth to speak from where he’s laid on his back, but instead, he coughs out a puff of grey dirt.

A bubble of laughter rises in my throat, vibrating against my ribs until it bursts out as a full-blown, cackle. “You look like a dust bunny.”

“And you,” he retorts, grinning through the grime, “you are the velvet-cocked hero from Shattered Desires. Although it wasn’t very chivalrous of you to⁠—”

The words are lost as I pull him toward me and kiss him hard in a collision of tongues and grit.