Shards of white and teal stars pulsate. My gaze lifts from the forest to my immediate left, heat draining from my face. The narrowest ramp I’ve ever seen lurches ahead. It stretches over the valley and branches into a mineral-flecked web—a distorted, zigzagging network. Eventually, it condenses to a single plank on the other side, leading into a cluster of trees.
The ramp’s got no rails or handles. Nothing will keep me from toppling over.
Can’t go fast. Can’t go slow.
Sucking in a breath, I test the first the plank. It’s stout, bearing my weight as though I’m a leaflet of paper. I take another step, then another. This is higher than I’ve ever been, the elevation splashing up my calves, flooding my belly. I keep going, conjuring the memory of a chimney suffocating me, soot caking my face, the flakes stuffed down my throat, the bricks scrubbing my knees raw.
I remember hopelessness. I remember desperation.
I remember salvation.
I step, inhale, step, exhale. At the risk of self-destruction, I dare to peek down, but as I gaze at the drop, a sudden sense of calm warms my blood. I’m a tyke pretending to be a bird, and I’m soaring, and I won’t fall.
A heady thrill buffets the fear. I assess the snarl of mineral ramps, give my whip slack, and follow the current. Progress is agonizing. It takes several wrong turns, several slips, and several pauses to reach the halfway point. I tread carefully, then move quicker, then jog.
A whistling sound rents the air. A thin projectile shears through the sky.
It dives, lands, and impales the plank inches from my feet. I flounder for balance, staring at the javelin, its helix blade stymieing the way forward.
I twist but find no one there.
“Mutinous,” a voice observes, urging me back around to where Cerulean stands. “A mutinous one, indeed.”
He’s already dislodged the javelin. The weapon is longer than when fixed at his hip—much longer. Stalking my way, he twirls the weapon between his fingers, rotating it leisurely and executing a dizzying pattern meant to rock me off my feet.
“What can I say?” I grit while backing up. “I give as good as I get.”
“Oh, I hope so. So many clashes, so little time.”
“Why are you doing this!” I scream. “Why?!”
“Why not? You disobeyed our rules.”
“I had no choice.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Cerulean chides, flipping his weapon from hand to hand. “Did your elders not school you? There’s always a choice.”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve never been trapped!”
That does it. Malice scrawls across his features, and he lunges. With a cry, I yank out my whip and lash it upward. Strung in both hands, it pulls taut and blocks the javelin’s descent. With our weapons colliding overhead, the impact forces our chests together, our noses mashing.
“Do not,” he enunciates into my face, “tell me about being trapped.”
“Do not,” I spit back, “tell me what to do.”
Yet I remember. Yeah, he’s been trapped before, back when humans targeted the Fae fauna, back when he tried to rescue them, and my people caught him along with his brothers. He was captured, and he escaped, and he’s more than a little rankled. That’s why he’s doing this.
But it doesn’t excuse him. After what Faeries have done to mortals, it never will.
My arms quaver, laboring against his strength. On the other hand, I shouldn’t be able to put up a remote fight. He’s too powerful. His javelin is honed, and it’s getting the upper hand, cranking down on my whip.
Anger crimps his face. A muscle ticks in his jaw, and his pupils steel, because why won’t I crumple already? Why haven’t I buckled yet?
The skirmish turns into a contest of balance and dexterity. He charges, spiraling the javelin between his fingers. I hop from extension to extension, snapping my whip to block him and toiling for balance.
The only reason I haven’t plunged to my death is that I grew up with a pair of flexible feet. I spent a chunk of my childhood scaling chimneys, my toes poised on the slightest jut of a brick, the only thing preventing me from splattering to the bottom of every flue.
It’s effortless for Cerulean. The prick crosses each ramp as though on fully solid ground, as though the sky itself will catch him.
