Click. Stone. It’s over. For now.
A tight breath bursts free, as my fingers hit solid ground, relief, satisfaction, and that stupid giddy rush that hitsevery single timeI make it across.
Swinging my leg over the edge, I remove the hook and push up to standing. My knees are unsteady, but they hold as I glance up—and there it is.
Mynextproblem.
A six-metre, warded nightmare of stone separating me from the Innerland Realms beyond. It’s not a fence, not a border marker, this thing’s afucking fortress.
But there’s no guards on this side, no arrow slits or watchtowers, no sign of life at all. Who needs them when the magic from the Wards can melt your bones if you get too close? I square my shoulders. “Well,” I mutter, “Let’s see if you’re feeling cooperative today.”
Walking along the edge, I reach out, trailing my hand not along the stone, but over the charged space just above it. The magic hums against my skin, thick and resistant. Like a static shock that never quite lands, but just enough to crawl under my skin and set my nerves on edge.
I remember spending years doing this. Walking this stretch. Waiting for a give, the thinnest gap in the Ward. A place where the layers didn’t quite overlap. And when I found it, I came back. Day after day, slipping my Threads through it, prying it wider. Not clean. Not careful. Just whatever I could shove out of me without losing control, sometimes too much, sometimes nothing at all.
I didn’t even really know what I was doing. Not even close. I was fifteen, pissed off, and too damn stubborn to stop or realise how dangerous it was. So I just kept showing up. Kept fumbling it through, hoping something would shift. And eventually… it did.
The static at my fingertips eases as I slow at a familiar spot, just the faintest whisper of looseness, a subtle break in the pattern. It’s easy to miss unless you know what to feel for. And I do.
A breath pulls tight in my chest as I press my palm through the Ward, testing. Heat brushes my skin, then—stone. Cold and solid beneath. It’s still open. Good. I shift my pack higher, cinch the straps, and find the first groove with my boot. Looking up, my fingers slide into place like they remember the wall better than I do.
It’s a straight climb, six metres of wind-worn stone, broken only by the marks I carved. Shallow chips. Slim wedges. Barely there, just enough to catch when it matters.
Shifting my weight, I start moving—but as soon as both feet leave the ground, that familiar voice in the back of my head starts hissing about the height again. My stomach tightens, but I breathe through it, fingers scraping stone, and keep climbing.
At least it’s not as bad as the Ravine.
Near the top, I pause—one hand braced on the ledge, chest pressed to the wall—letting the weight settle in my arms before glancing down to check my watch.
Perfect.
The Innerland guards should be rotating soon. I’ve got maybe a minute, two, if I’m lucky. I haul myself up, elbow hooking over the edge and slide on to the top, the stone cool beneath me.
For a moment, I stay there, letting my breath settle, lungs adjusting to the stillness, before I glance back, beyond the dry scrubland of the Outerlands.
From up here, the world stretches wide and open, rolling on and on. In the distance, a shimmer of light catches my eye—the Northern Peaks, dusted gold and rust-red, their jagged tips just beginning to catch the season’s first snow.
And beyond them?
Past the last settlement, past the last outposts.
That’s where the dragons live now. Exiled.
No one goes beyond those ridge-lines, not unless they’ve been Reassigned. And if they do, they definitely don’t come back.
For a heartbeat, I just stare. All that land, empty and endless, beautiful in a way that somehow also feels intimidating.
Then when my lungs finally settle, I turn and face forward, toward the Innerlands. I can’t even picture it, what this place looked like before the Treaty. Before the Veins tore this land apart. When Aurelia was still one kingdom, four magic-bound realms under one crown, when dragons ruled the skies. Now it’s all order. Structure. Control.
Movement below catches my eye, and a grin pulls at my mouth. Great. My window. The guards are rotating, I don’t have long. I swing my legs over and start lowering myself down the other side. Slow. Careful. Controlled?—
Until my foot slips.
Air tears past as gravity yanks me down.
I hit hard—shoulder, hip, then everything else. It hurts, but not much. Ego takes most of the blow.
“Graceful,”I mutter through clenched teeth, shoving myself upright, grit scraping my palms as I brush them clean. But no time to sulk, no time to bleed, as ten metres of open ground stretch ahead of me. My pulse stutters, then kicks, fast.
