I jerk forward, pulled straight toward it, the force controlled, precise, like I’m already caught, already accounted for. Which is exactly what I want.
“Now!” I shout.
He grabs the line near where it binds me, twisting, forcing it off the clean angle it wants.
The creature compensates. Its forelimb drives forward to pin, not kill. He steps into it, intercepting, and the impact hits him square through the side.
I feel it through him, through the line, through everything. A sharp breath tears out of him, but he holds.
“Hold!” he growls.
I do, even as the line tightens around my arm, even as the pull increases, dragging me closer. I plant my feet, straining. The ground beneath us cracks. He shifts his grip on the line, not letting go, repositioning.
He’s using the pull instead of fighting it, dragging the line lower and angling it across the weakest point in the floor. The creature pulls harder, trying to correct, trying to take control back. But it’s too late.
“Again!” he snaps.
I slam my heel down. Once. Twice. The crack widens. The surface gives—then breaks.
The ground drops out beneath the creature. One side of its body sinks sharply into the fracture, twisting its limb at an angle that forces its balance off-center. It catches itself, but it’s not clean or in control.
“Now!” I shout.
He releases the line and drives forward, straight into it.
He brings his fist up under what would be its jaw, forcing its head back, forcing its angle wrong and pinning it against the collapsing edge instead of letting it stabilize.
For a second everything locks. Then it reacts faster and smarter. The second filament deploys at Kael, wraps his leg, and pulls.
He drops to one knee. The sound he makes isn’t controlled.
My chest tightens. No. Not like this. I move, closing the distance and grabbing the line.
I ignore the burn of it as I wrap it once around the jagged edge of the split behind me, then pull with everything I have.
The line goes taut. The tension spikes.
Wrong. Unbalanced. The creature pulls. I pull back. He braces. The rock between us cracks, then gives.
The angle shifts. The line slips, and he rips free.
Not without cost, but free.
“Move!” he snaps.
We break contact together, stumbling back, retreating enough to force space again, but not running anymore.
Behind us, it thrashes. Its body twists, forcing itself free from the fractured ground, rebalancing, recalibrating, still coming.
I grab him and pull him upright before he can drop, forcing him into motion even as I feel how much worse he is now.
“You’re done,” I say under my breath.
“No.”
But he’s close. Too close. We move anyway. Because stopping is death. Behind us, it follows. Relentless. And we’re running out of space to use.
24
