My pulse stutters.Not when the ground’s made of dragons.
Especially then.
Then it happens. There’s a convulsion, a ripple like a wave traveling the length of the bridge, and all at once the reavers move in unison, their bodies twisting, then unlocking. The truth slams into me: the bridge is a trap, not a passage.
With a sound like the cracking of a thousand spines, the entire structure shudders and splits, fracture lines shooting along its length. The segments beneath our feet begin to break away, each section dropping its cargo of champions into the abyss.
For a moment, we’re weightless. The world falls out from under us. The blackness below opens wide.
This is it?—
No. Hold to me.
We plummet.
Wind screams in my ears. My grip on Zeriel is steel, my facepressed so hard against his back I can feel the hammering of his heart through his ribs and mine.
Your heart?—
Matches yours.
Too fast.
Not fast enough.
The fall is an eternity of vertigo and roaring air. Below us, screams are swallowed by the vastness of the gorge.
Then impact. An explosive, shocking cold that steals the breath from my body and plunges us into blackness.
The water is frigid, a liquid abyss that swallows sound and light. It feels like there’s an invisible current pulling at me. My grip has loosened, and I flail, reaching for Zeriel—until his arms are suddenly a cage around me.
Don’t fight me.
You’re dragging me down?—
Up. Always up. Trust me.
My lungs burn, desperate for air. He kicks hard, his powerful legs propelling us upward. Just when the weight of the water drags at me, he surges with a brutal stroke, forcing us higher, refusing the abyss its claim.
We break the surface with a collective gasp, sputtering and treading water in the murky gloom at the bottom of the gorge. Cold bites into my bones, the roar of the fall still ringing in my ears.
You’re stronger than I thought,I send.
You think too much.
Around us, champions thrash for air, scattered wreckage in the black water.
Then skeletal forms surge toward us—from the walls, their bone-white bodies terrifyingly visible in the gloom.
Alestir Velthorn’s ward, a young man with wide, terrified eyes, surfaces beside him. “My lord—” he chokes out, reaching for him. A reaver lashes into the water, its serrated jaw snapping. Without a flicker of hesitation, Alestir shoves the man directlyinto its path. His scream is cut short by a sickening crunch of bone. The water around them churns red. Alestir uses the moment of distraction to swim for the gorge wall.
Bile rises in my throat.
Well, that’s one way to use a ward.
The wall,Zeriel sends, his thought a blade cutting through my horror.Get to the wall.
The water roils around us. More reavers slide from the walls, their bone-white forms a horrifying contrast to the black water. Another champion, Elian Merrow of the Eastern Isles, screams as two of them drag him under, his body torn between them in a spray of red.
