I was born dead.
Before the gods saw fit to grant me life. Before my mother surrendered her soul to save mine.
Perhaps it was my first dance with death that made me so reckless. Maybe it choreographed my perception of life itself. Propelling me toward choices others—in their sanity—would avoid.
But even I have to admit, this was a terrible idea. It may be the worst idea I’ve ever conjured up.
My arms tremble from the strain of the aether trying to force my body back toward solid ground, and my fingers ache as I dig them deeper into the crevices between the stones and mortar. A trickle of sweat trails down my spine, pooling at the base of my back, another tickling its way down my heated forehead.
I ignore it all, straining as I pull myself higher.
One hand over the other.
One steadying breath after the last.
I am strong enough for this.
The wind caresses my body as I cling to the side of the tower. Not a threat to make me fall, but a promise to catch me if I do. The sensation is reassuring, but as the toe of my sandal slips from my newest foothold, my heart still jumps to my throat.
I draw in a deep breath, tightening my grip on the wall. With everyounce of determination I possess, I bring my body closer, my foot frantically seeking another dent in the surface. The rush of my blood thunders through my ears with each drawn-out moment, until my sandal notches into place. Cautiously, I lean into it, testing the crack with my weight to be sure it will hold. When it does, I breathe a sigh of relief, leaning my forehead against the sun-warmed stone.
It’s not the height that scares me. It’s not even the risk of falling. It’s the fact that I’m running out of time.
Do not be seen.
That was the order.
Scaling one of the tallest towers in the Sorrows may not be the most effective strategy—unless you know its secrets as well as I do.
Every day as the sun sets and the afternoon light hits this same wall, its white-painted bricks light up like a beacon. If you try looking at it too hard—or too long—your eyes water, and your vision will blur. It’s almost impossible to watch, and even more unlikely to spot a lone figure clinging to its side. The white linen clothing I wear only adds to my camouflage.
But neither of those things will prove to be helpful if this takes too long. The sun will soon set, and with it, my opportunity.
With that sobering thought, I turn my gaze up toward the seventh-floor window a short distance above me. The arched shutters are thrown open, inviting the evening breeze inside. I fight the victorious smile attempting to break free and assess the cracks that stand out like blackened scars against stone, mapping the rest of my upward journey.
And then I move.
It takes a few moments to reach the window ledge, and the white glow of the tower fades with each fervent beat of my heart. Still, I pause, closing my eyes and listening for any sounds within.
Beautiful silence.
Exhaling, I clutch the ledge with one hand, then the other. My stomach flutters as my feet come away from the wall, and I hoist myself up to get a visual.
The soft glow of the sun shining over my shoulder bathes the room, causing the sparse furniture within to mask the corners in darkness.Three men in the center cast the longest shadows, their focus on the door in front of them as they wait in silence.
I recognize the man in the middle. With his close-cropped hair, lean form standing tall, and arms clasped behind his back, Master Bittern looks like a soldier standing at attention. I’m unfamiliar with the other two. But the white robes they wear tell me it’s because they spend most of their time hiding away in the archives.
They have laid out an assortment of bags and satchels in front of them, with the contents spilling across the polished surface of a heavy cypress desk. A quick count of the satchels confirms I’m not the last one to arrive.
Thank Notos.
Arms trembling, I haul myself up, biting my lip to suppress a grunt of exertion as it tries to push past my throat. With a quick swipe of my sleeve, I wipe the sweat from my face and settle into position on the windowsill, one leg bent while the other dangles over the edge as I lean my back against the stone wall.
A perfect picture of nonchalance.
It’s not until I untie the bag from my belt, making the items within clink together, that the three men whirl around. I refrain from rolling my eyes at the astonished stares of the two in white robes, keeping them trained on the authority in the room instead.
“Nice of you to join us, Fledgling.” The words rasp from his throat, sending a familiar shiver up my spine, and my eyes dip toward the jagged seam of pale skin around his neck.
