Page 130 of On Brutal Thrones

Talon climbs ahead of me. When I reach the last stretch, he and Thorian each catch one of my arms and haul me over the edge. My arms are trembling so badly I barely manage to push myself upright.

Fenric climbs up behind me, and all four of us catch our breath.

Then I look ahead. And stop.

The broken foothills are behind us, and the actual mountainside rises in front of us.

There are almost no trees here, just scattered patches of scrub and the occasional twisted cactus clinging stubbornly to cracks in the reddish earth. The exposed slope climbs sharply upward, stretching higher and higher until it disappears into the storm.

Then the clouds shift.

My breath catches.

The Obsidian Spire pierces through them.

For the first time since we reached the mountain, I can see it again. But it doesn’t look like the distant black needle we followed across the horizon. From here, I can make out jagged edges in the stone and uneven sections of its walls, details that make it suddenly, terrifyingly real.

It’s still far above us.

But not impossibly far.

“Oh, gods,” I whisper.

Fenric comes to a stop beside me, breathing hard as he stares upward. “That’s a hell of a climb.”

Talon squints toward the Spire. “I preferred it when it looked smaller.”

A tired laugh escapes me, but I can’t look away. All this time, the Spire has been a destination. A black shape in the distance. A promise that if we could just keep moving toward it, eventually we might reach the end.

Now I can see where we have to go. We have to climb that mountain, and if we survive it, Lyra is waiting for me at the end.

My fingers close around the ring on my hand. Hours. Maybe that’s all that separates me from my sister now.

Thorian studies the slope, then looks at each of us.

“Stay together.”

We do.

At first, the open slope seems easier than the broken foothills below. There are no boulders to scramble over, no narrow gaps to squeeze through, no monsters trying to eat us. Just hard-packed earth beneath our boots and the Spire rising above us.

The soil has a strange reddish tint, but I barely notice. I’m too tired.

The wind grows louder as we climb, whistling across the exposed mountainside and tugging at my clothes. The air is cold and sharp enough to burn inside my nose, but sweat dampens my back beneath my leathers. My throat feels scraped raw, and I think about reaching for my canteen before deciding against it. We still have a mountain to climb, and I don’t know when we’ll find more water.

So I put one foot in front of the other.

For a while, that’s all there is. Step. Breathe. Step again. The Spire hangs above us, disappearing and reappearing as storm clouds race around its black walls.

Little by little, my body gets heavier.

Initially, I blame the slope. Then the lack of sleep. Then yesterday. Then every miserable day before that. There are so many reasons to be exhausted that I don’t question it when my calves begin to ache more fiercely or when my back and hips start to throb.

I glance up at the Spire.

It doesn’t seem any closer.

My eyelids feel strangely heavy, and I blink hard, trying to clear them. Just a little farther.