One centimeter.
Two.
Three.
I start to smile, my captive inhale rising up my throat.
The crow dangles halfway between myself and the stone shelf.
Emboldened, I reel it in faster.
If only Phoebus and Sybille could see me now. How proud they’d—
Crrrr.
I freeze.
One of the braids is fraying.
Tongue thrashing with heartbeats, I tug gently.
A stalk snaps.
Sweat runs into my eyes, and it stings, but I don’t dare blink.
You’ve got this, Fal.
In slow motion, I slide one hand over the other, then repeat the movement until the crow’s head is within reach. I stick the braid beneath my knee and lean forward. My fingers skim the top of the creature’s metal head.
My throat fills with heartbeats. I fist the rope again and pull, and then reach out but the crow swings, and the only thing I manage to snag is the arrow’s teal fletching between my middle and index fingers.
Crrraaaack.
The rope tears.
I tighten my knuckles around the fletching, sweat salting my upper lip, and hold on with everything I’ve got. My knuckles screech and my biceps vibrate as the crow’s solid iron body slides and tows the arrow.
I grit my teeth, dig my knees into the earth for balance, and swing out my other arm. I clasp the shaft just as it tears from my clamped knuckles and slam back onto my heels.
The crow plummets, bumping into its former perch before dropping. All. The. Way. Down.
Drenched and trembling, I carry the arrow to my face and stare at it, then stare down into the ravine where the pewter crow teeters on the crest of an oblong boulder. Why hasn’t the bird blackened yet? Did a piece of obsidian stay inside the crow? I rub the sweat out of my eyes and scrutinize the weapon so hard, I see double. I blink it back into focus.
The gleaming black arrowhead is chipped.
If a sliver of obsidian remained inside the crow . . .
With a frustrated wail, I reel my arm back and launch both the arrow and my torn rope into the ravine. I watch them fall, unable to meet Morrgot’s stare.
The ravine wobbles in and out of focus as my eyelids swell with heat, and yet the metal crow below is in perfect focus. I remind myself that this is a magical animal and not a real one. That his shape can’t be dented or his organs scrambled.
His. . .
What if it’s aher? What if I’ve just knocked down Morrgot’s paramour?
The statue tips and crashes into the foaming stream, beak first, splayed wings keeping it from gliding between the rocks and sinking, or worse, getting carried off into Mareluce.
I swipe my knuckles beneath my lash line to catch errant tears. “I’m sorry, Morrgot. I’m so sorry.”
