I study his face, see the determination and fierce loyalty radiating through him. And I nod. Because at the end of the day, no matter how hard things are between us, no matter how many arguments we get into, we’re brothers. He has my back, and I have his, and that’s all there is to it.
“Now don’t fall,” he orders before he runs and jumps on his own timberwing—his own beast that he lent to me so I could fly here.
If he and his group hadn’t found me in the desert, if I hadn’t shown up here when I did, Auren would be dead. Just thinking about how close she was makes my blood feel like ice.
With a slight tap of our heels, the beasts jump into the air in tandem, just as the barrier falls away like a shirt yanked from a clothespin, caught in the wind and disappearing from view. The other monarchs are watching my ascent and scattering like ants, afraid I’m going to fly back down and catch them.
They should be scared. I hope they jump at every shadow. Twitch at every dark line that creeps into their peripheral vision. I hope they keep looking over their shoulders, watching, waiting for me to be there, hunting them.
The timberwing I’m riding lets out a roar, and the monarchs flinch, making a cruel smile twist my lips. Then we’re up in the clouds, and they’re out of view.
And we start our race toward Deadwell.
The journey is long, and I feel every moment keenly, just like I did when I raced from Fourth to reach Auren. Luckily, I was able to stay on the saddle, though I certainly wasn’t conscious for most of the ride that first day and night. I was too weak to do much of anything, so Ryatt led the way and made the plans and kept us moving.
I slept when it was time to land, I ate when he shoved food in my hand, and held onto the reins with a strained grip, while my sapped strength slowly returned.
But something was different.
I was able to use my normal magic again on the third day, making the grass wilt and rot beneath my feet. However, two days after that, when my rot was back to normal, I tried to see if I could use raw power, tried to test if I could possibly open another rip without having to use the one in Deadwell.
I couldn’t.
It wasn’t as if I could dredge it up but only a splutter of it came out. No, I couldn’t call on my raw magicat all.There’s a pit deep in my center where the well of raw power used to be, and it’s justempty.
As if I truly did dry it up, with nothing left but parched earth and untamed decay.
I didn’t tell Ryatt. Didn’t acknowledge it at all. Instead, I told myself I just needed more time. Shut up my fear by fueling determination in my thoughts instead. Quell my doubts by stuffing my hand in my pocket and feeling her ribbon. Auren needs me, and I’m going to get to her, simple as that.
So what if my raw power is barren right now? It will come back. It has to, because I don’t want to think of what will happen to the villagers, to my mother, if it doesn’t.
I got Auren out, and that’s what matters. I just need to get to Deadwell so I can follow her.
All while we travel, I’m eaten away by unknowns. I don’t know if she was hurt when she fell through the rip. I don’t know where she is or if she’s safe. Until I can see her with my own eyes and feel her beneath my own hands, I’m not going to be able to rest.
So when we finally reach Deadwell and the heart of Drollard Village, I feel like I’m ready to snap. Too many days have passed.
I need to find her. Need to be on the right side of the stars and in the same world where she exists.
My boots slam through the snow as I race past the quiet village. I’m so focused on getting to the rip, on getting to her, that I don’t even notice justhowquiet things are. Don’t notice that there’s no one out, even in the middle of the day.
Ryatt shouts my name as I sprint for the cave, but I don’t slow as I continue up the stooped hill, boots slipping on the snow as I go. I reach the cave, pass my mother’s house, steps echoing through the blue-lit hollows.
Almost there.
Just when I round the corner, just when I reach the opened up cavern and I should feel relief, I skid to a stop.
I blink. Again and again. Look around, left and right. Because surely, surely my vision is wrong. Or I took a wrong turn. Or—but no. No, because I know this cave, know this exact spot, and—
“Slade,” Ryatt pants as he catches up, nearly knocks into me, both of us blurting words at the same time.
“Everyone is—” he begins, and, “The rip is—” I start.
“Gone.”
Our words join together with an echoing blow I feel punch through my gut.
The rip is gone.
