I roll my eyes. “I would thank you for saving my life—”
“Again,” he cuts in.
“Right.Again.” My mind flickers back to the rogue who nearly killed me in the tower. “But something tells me you’re not doing this out of kindness. You want something from me. I just haven’t figured out what it is yet.”
“Hmm.” He cocks his head. “What could I possibly want from you, Swynwraig?”
“What most people want.” I shrug. “For me to use my magic and get you something. What is thatsomething, Taliesin Wynn?”
With a grunt, he abruptly stands. “What I want is for us to get moving. We need to reach the road heading inland by dusk, or we’re in for an unpleasant night.”
Only then do I truly take in our surroundings.
We stand on a clifftop, one not anchored to land. Wind grabs at my clothes, salt stinging my lips. Far behind us, across a ribbon of sea, green slopes gleam beneath the sunlight. We’re not on the mainland.
I turn slowly, my stomach tightening. To my left, the dark mouth of the tunnel yawns. To my right, a narrow ridge snakes across the water. It runs alone for miles, a crooked causeway battered by waves, before finally curving back toward the mainland far down the coast.
My heart pounds. It’s narrow. And treacherous. It will be hard going.
“I thought you said the tunnel connected your tower to the mainland,” I whisper.
“It does. In a roundabout way.” He flashes me a wicked grin. “This is the roundabout part.”
I sigh and close my eyes. “Fuck.”
“We’ll be fine. Just take your time and watch where you step.” He leans past me, pointing to a shifting shadow farther down the ridge. “See? Bryn is doing just fine.”
“Bryn is a pine marten,” I say flatly. “She’s built for this.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “And you’re not?”
I give him a look. “Do I look like I scamper over knife-edges for fun?”
“Not yet,” he says lightly.
A sudden gust hits us, throwing me off balance. My left boot slides across the grass and nearly pitches me forward. Taliesin’s hand snaps around my arm, anchoring me. My stomach lurches, but I grit my teeth and wrench free, following the distant shadow of Bryn.
It’s slow going. As I told Taliesin, I’m not built for this. I’m made for magic and spellwork, for hearing the voices of the dead and untangling what they mean to say, even when they don’t understand it themselves. I’ve trained with Osian—all Swynwragedd must—but training is not the same asthis. I’ve never asked so much of my body before.
My legs are screaming before we’ve even made it an hour.
After a particularly harrowing crawl over a mound of damp rocks, I collapse into the grass, my heart racing from the effort. The cool wind is welcome for once, a soothing touch on my sweat-kissed skin.
For a moment, I curl in on myself with my arms wrapped tight around my knees. The manacle on my wrist digs into my leg, an ever-present reminder that I am not in control. I focus on breathing. In, out…
I hate that this is what breaks me. Not battle. Not magic. Just a windswept ridge and the humiliating fact that my body refuses to be anything but fragile.
My eyes scan the path ahead. The ridge stretching back to the mainland doesn’t look any closer. We’ve made no progress at all. Stars, all I want is to fold in on myself, to stay here and stop.
Taliesin steps into my periphery and holds out a hand. “We need to keep moving.”
Weariness presses down on me, yet Taliesin stands tall and unshaken, his breath steady like this is nothing. It irritates me, and the thought of him having the upper hand has me pushing against the grass. As I do, my fingers brush something strange. A charred feather.
I frown and lean closer. What remains glows a luminous orange, the color of the setting sun. I lift it and angle it toward the light. A firebird feather. Heart pounding, I sweep my gaze over the rocky terrain. Firebirds are the last thing we need right now.
Taliesin gently takes the feather from me. He studies it, brow furrowed in thought.
“The wind probably blew it from somewhere else,” I suggest, though my voice lacks conviction.
