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But he could stop wondering about Mattias. About his face. He had to know.
As the cold water settled in the grooves between his ribs, he twisted to look over his shoulder – and then nearly overrode the impossible pull of magic.
Mattias still stood ankle-deep, ruining his boots. He clutched the gray silk robe to his chest, fingers knotted so tight in the fabric his knuckles had gone white. He leaned forward at the waist, so far that one shove would have sent him sprawling; like even if his feet were firmly planted, the rest of him was trying to follow Náli.
But it was his face that hurt the worst. The unchecked downward curve of his mouth; the knit brows; the naked pain in his eyes, as though watching Náli descend into the well hurt him.
Náli hesitated. A tug in his chest said to turn fully around, to go back, to go to him.
But the mountain rumbled beneath them, and the dead laid their claws on him, and it was too late, now. Much too late.
Náli closed his eyes, took the last step, and plunged down into the water, the diamond around his neck dragging him into an endless sea of white.
