He tilts his head, watching me, and his voice softens. “The most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.”
A few more feet up, and I realize it’s been a minute since I last heard the guards’ shouts. The quiet makes my stomach tighten. I can’t shake the feeling that we’ll breach the lip of the dune and be met with shackles and swords. If they look down into the Tower—if it’s exposed… I don’t know why, but the thought terrifies me.
I peer up into the silver glow of moonlight spilling across the upper edge. No silhouettes. No movement. But the stillness only winds the tension tighter.
My mouth is dry, my swallows thick as I glance over my shoulder at how far we’ve ascended. At this height, the embers smoldering in the altar offering bowl are a small blur of orange light. My legs start to shake, my hands instantly clammy. The drop would be over in seconds. Then my body would meet stone, and that would be it.
“I can’t—” I start, my throat closing up as I stare down at the ground.
“You can. I’m right here. Don’t think about what’s below. Think about the next hold.”
“But what if I miss it?” My heartbeat echoes in my ears. “What if I slip? What if—”
“Satan wouldn’t let his worshipper smash into the ground.”
I whip my head toward him, almost losing my balance in the process. “Excuse me? Did you just call me a Satanist?”
He shrugs as well as he can with his arms stretched over his head. “That’s the old conspiracy theory, isn’t it? Witches dancing naked in a circle, sacrificing goats to the Dark Lord.” He grins, daring me to argue. “So technically you’re safer than I am.”
His fingers find the next hold. He tests it, then moves, pushing himself higher.
“Two things: one, I wouldn’t call myself a witch.” The words rip out in a mix of fury and disbelief as I scramble up the wall after him, anger firing hotter than fear. “And two: even if I did, that is centuries of misogynistic propaganda wrapped up in one asinine sentence.Satanist?! I have read hundreds of books on witchcraft, and that is not how any of it works!”
He only climbs higher, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
“Oh, I see what you did there. You say something heinous so I forget about dying and focus on how much I want to murder you. Real clever, Declan.Realclever.”
He looks down with a wicked grin. “It worked, didn’t it? You’re arguing and moving up instead of panicking and looking down.”
It did. The ridiculous, infuriating moment is a handhold I hadn’t expected—something to steady my mind when my muscles were about to betray me. I move, following his path, my body remembering the rhythm he’s been giving me: breathe, push, reach.
My muscles burn as we ascend. Every step drags fire through my thighs. My lungs and heart keep trying to convince me I can’t continue—that I’ve used up all my oxygen, all the energy I have left—but I do.
I have to.
“You’ve got the strength, Amanda,” Declan says as if he can sense the exhaustion creeping in. “Keep going.”
I can’t tell if the holds are narrowing the higher we go, shrinking from ridges into little more than crumbling nubs, or if the muscles in my hands are so tired the wallmight as well be smooth. My palms are slick, my fingers and toes aching, and every breath I drag in is laced with sand. My arms ache, my calves twitch with warning spasms, but I don’t dare look down. I won’t make that mistake again.
Declan climbs a half step higher, his body angled against the wall like it was carved to fit there. He moves with skilled ease, fingers and feet precise, confident. I mimic him, slower, trembling, my nails scraping into the next handhold.
“Breathe,” he says, steady and calm, the sound of his voice like a rope between us.
“I am breathing,” I grind out.
“Not enough. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Keep the rhythm.”
I try. I try. My chest heaves like I’ve been sprinting uphill. Sweat rolls down my forehead and stings my eyes.
We’re nearly to the top of the wall when the foothold beneath my left toes crumbles away in a spray of sand.
My weight shifts. My stomach plunges. The wall seems to sway, and I’m hanging by my arms, feet scrabbling against nothing.
A throat-shredding scream rips out of me.
“Amanda!” Declan’s shout cracks like thunder.
My grip falters, entire body hanging on by the tips of my fingers. “Declan,” I whisper as if speaking too loudly will dislodge my hand. “I can’t—I can’t hold on.”
