“It’s the truth. When I die, bury me before Raska can get me. I can’t go back to Ashkendor, dead or alive.”
Stunned, she just stared at him.
“Promise me,” he said, “that you won’t let Raska take me.”
“But if your mother could revive you …”
“It wouldn’t work.” His voice was harsh. “When we do run out of wyvern bone powder—be that next week or in ten years—you are not to imagine you can save me by handing me over to Raska.”
She glanced away because the thought had occurred to her. Several times. It had been a comfort, even.
“Alright, I promise,” Valenna said, an edge of irritation in her voice. “But it doesn’t matter, because you’re not going to die.”
They fell into a grim silence, and Valenna fought a gathering terror that her passion for Evander was a doomed passion; their love a doomed love. When did forbidden romances ever end happily? She sorted through every fairytale and nursery song in her father’s library as she watched the gray stone slipping past.
“Do you think happiness is ever permanent?” she asked gloomily.
Evander’s shoulders tensed. “I don’t know. That’s why we should enjoy what we have now.”
She wished they’d stayed on the subject of their chaotic house by the sea.
Something groaned behind them—just the mountain growling again, Valenna thought. But when she glanced over her shoulder, the pathway behind them was closing, the walls warping together like clay on a potter’s wheel.
Hera charged forward with a panicked bellow, but the path in front of them began to close as well. Valenna looked around, frantic for a way out, when another path opened to her right. She pointed to it, shouting, “There, Van!”
Evander tried to direct Hera toward it, but she fought him until she, too, saw the opening and sprang into it, scraping her side against the wall. Valenna’s leg caught, and before Evander could catch her, she was falling. Her back struck the ground, and she rolled, the breath knocked from her lungs. Hera charged on without her.
The wall clattered shut behind her, and Valenna leaped up and sprinted toward the open path. Ahead, Evander jumped from Hera and ran back, trying to reach her. She was almost to safety when her neck jerked. She screamed, tugging against her hair, but she couldn’t move—her braid caught in the closing walls.
Evander slammed into the wall beside her, his shoulder braced against the stone as it ate its way up her braid. He drew his knife.
“Hold still,” he said, slicing the blade behind her head. She realized what he was doing too late.
“Don't!” she shrieked as he slashed through her hair.
Evander grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him toward the quiet opening of the second path. The walls scraped at her heels. He gripped her waist and threw himself forward, carrying her with him. They landed hard, skidding across the rough ground. Like puzzle pieces fitting together, the old path slammed shut just beyond their feet, and the mountain fell silent again.
Valenna leaned against Evander’s chest, panting.
“You alright?” he asked, his arm tightening around her ribs.
“How bad is it?” she asked.
“What?” he demanded, his eyes wide with worry. “Are you hurt?”
“No, my hair.”
He wiped his hand down his face. “Oh, good grief, Val!”
“No, I mean it! I love my hair.”
He shook his head, smiling. “Sit up and let me see.”
She sat up, her ribs aching, and he unfastened her braid and ran his fingers through her dark tresses.
“It’s completely beautiful, like everything about you.”
“I’m serious, Vander, how much did you have to cut?”
