1

bowed low in her saddle, Nyx rode out the tempest atop Bashaliia. Her mount’s leathery wings were swept wide, their tips vanishing into the dark clouds to either side. It was as if Nyx were part of the storm, birthed from its fury, heralded by thunder, framed by lightning. She leaned closer to the furry warmth of her winged brother. But their truer communion was in the shared thrum of bridle-song. She sang to Bashaliia, a tuneless chorus of reassurance, while he keened back at her, twining his golden melody to hers. Her message was a simple one. Return to the ship. Within the storm’s grip, Nyx peered through goggles that protected her eyes. The world around her was reduced to swirling mists and lashing rain. Hail pelted her leather-clad body. Above, black clouds cloaked the sun. Below, the land and sea had vanished. She shivered in the cold and clung tight to Bashaliia. It was as if they had never escaped the Frozen Wastes and were still trapped in its perpetually icy darkness. But that’s not so. Last midwinter, she and the others had fled from the Crèche aboard their wyndship. Even with the Fyredragon’s huge forge-engines, it had taken them until the tail end of spring to reach the broken scarp of the Ebyn Mountains that bordered the Eastern Crown.Unfortunately, it was just in time to run into the teeth of the monsoon season, where storm after storm swept the region. The ship’s navigator, Fenn—who had lived most of his life in this half of the world— had warned them of this danger. Still, with the threat of moonfall drawing ever closer, they had dared not wait. Plus, Graylin and Darant had believed the Fyredragon could use the cover of the storms to cross this arc of the Crown, to avoid the eyes of their enemies. But such was not the will of the gods. As they entered the Eastern Crown, the storms had proven far worse than expected. Four days in, lightning struck the ship. The blast ripped away the stern cables that secured the ship’s balloon and destroyed one of its flank forges. The damage forced them to land on the island of Spindryft in the middle of the seas of the Eastern Crown. Repairs proved tedious. An entire month slipped away, and now midsummer would soon be upon them. They all sensed the press of time, especially with the looming threat weighing on them. Moonfall… A full year ago, Nyx had her poisonous vision of the moon crashing into the Urth and destroying all life, a prophecy further supported by the alchymies of Frell and Krysh. Through their farseeing lenses, the moon’s full face had been growing incrementally larger, drawing inevitably closer to the world. Back then, they had all heard Shiya’s own assessment, gleaned from ta’wyn knowledge reaching back to the Forsaken Ages. The bronze woman had placed a date upon this doom. In five years’ time…maybe as short as three. And now a year of that span was gone. Urgency sharpened Nyx’s bridle-song to a demanding note. Bashaliia responded and dove steeply through the lashing rain. Even this storm—unusual for midsummer—was a reminder that all was not right with the world. The ship’s alchymist, Krysh hy Eljen, had expressed concern that the savagery of the season’s storms was likely fueled by the moon’s approach. Tides had become more extreme. Quakes continued to rock the globe. It was as if the Urth itself trembled at the inevitable doom to come. As Bashaliia dove lower, the dark clouds broke around rider and mount. The seas appeared below, lit by flashes of lightning. White-capped waves lined the dark waters, sweeping toward the forested island of Spindryft. The atoll was ringed by reefs and protected by spires of black rock that stuck out of the sea. The route to its small port was treacherous, even in calm waters. Still, ships—bearing sigils from many lands—crowded the docks below. Spindryft was part of no kingdom or empire. It served as a neutral trading post for most of the Eastern Crown. Even long-haulers out of the Western Crown circled the Urth’s seas to come to this side of the world to barter for spices, silks, and rare ores. Bashaliia sped toward the island without any guidance. After a month here, the Mýr bat knew his way back to their ship. The Fyredragon occupied a berth in Spindryft’s mooring field, positioned in the highlands above the port. Scores of wyndships filled other slots, their balloons jostling in the storm winds. Nyx easily spotted the Fyredragon among them. Not only was it the largest, but its sculpted draft-iron figurehead had been carved into a wyrm with its head rearing high, its wings outstretched, hugging the bow’s flanks. Firepots across the open upper deck blazed in the rainy gloom, setting the dragon afire. Their ship’s berth lay off to one side, separate from its neighbors. None dared approach too closely to the Fyredragon, especially given its dangerous cargo. Nyx guided Bashaliia toward their encampment. As they neared the fiery ship, Bashaliia swung in a smooth arc toward the stern, keeping the bulk of the gaseous balloon between them and the other vessels. Nyx had been warned by Graylin to keep her flights hidden from sight. The cover of the storm had offered her this rare opportunity to venture forth with her winged brother. But now it was over. Bashaliia raced the last of the distance. He cupped his wings and landed deftly in the meadow behind the moored ship. Raised voices drew Nyx’s attention to the side. Graylin and the pirate Darant hy Tarn crowded with a group of men near a tent. It served as a makeshift smithy for their repair work. The damaged forge-engine had already been restored and was being dragged on sledges, ready to be remounted onto the ship. Darant and his daughter Glace had also used the time to inspect the remaining forges, resecure the ripped cables, and fill the balloon’s gasses. The hope was to be underway in the next few days. But there remained one critical refurbishment of the ship that was beyond the scope of Darant’s crew. Before they traveled into the sunblasted Barrens, it would have to be completed. Nyx stared through the storm toward the west. She pictured where they must travel next and felt a hopeless despair. For untold millennia, the Urth had circled the sun with one side always facing the burning glare of the Father Above, while its far side remained forever frozen in icy darkness. The Crown lay between those extremes—a circlet of land trapped between ice and fire. Last winter, Nyx and the others had crossed the Urth’s frozen darkness, traveling from their homelands in the Western Crown to this eastern side of the world. In those icy lands, they had discovered the Crèche and its people—the Pantheans—who made their home deep under the ice. There, they had also encountered the distant brethren of Bashaliia—the raash’ke—deadly ice bats who shared those dark and frigid lands. The colony had been tainted and enslaved by a half-crazed ta’wyn, an immortal bronze sentinel named the Spider, one of the traitorous Revn-kree who sought dominion over the planet. The Spider had been tasked to guard one of the massive world-moving machines, the turubya, hidden in the Frozen Wastes. Nyx and the others had defeated that deadly guardian, freeing both the raash’ke and the Pantheans. In doing so, they had also activated the turubya, readying the great engine to do the impossible: to set the world to spinning again—as their planet had done untold millennia ago. Such was the only hope of stopping moonfall, of driving the moon back into its proper orbit. But to achieve that required activating a second turubya, one buried far in the Barrens, the sunblasted half of the Urth. By all accounts, the journey there would be even more treacherous than the one taken this past winter, especially given the threat that awaited them. The turubya in the Barrens was guarded over not just by a single Reven-kree, but by a small army, one led by a ta’wyn far more powerful than that bronze Spider. Nyx searched to the west, recognizing a hard truth. How can we hope to defeat such a force? Still, her fingers tightened on her reins, accepting what was equally certain. Because we must. A shout rose behind her. "Nyx!" Startled, she swung in her saddle and spotted Jace hy Shanan, her friend and former tutor, rushing toward her from a gangway into the Fyredragon. He lifted an arm and smiled broadly, his cheeks flushing above his ruddy beard. The ship’s alchymist, Krysh, accompanied Jace. The lanky older man hailed from the rugged ranchlands of Aglerolarpok and kept an easy pace with his long-legged strides. “You’re both back!” Nyx called over, as she slid out of her saddle and landed in the wet grass. Still, she kept one palm on Bashaliia’s flank. The two men were dressed in traveler’s cloaks, fitted with hoods. They must have come directly from the port. The two had left a fortnight ago, sailing south to the Kingdom of Bhestya. Their goal was to scour ancient texts related to the Barrens. The librarie complex at the kingdom’s capital was said to have the most extensive collection pertaining to those sunblasted lands. Jace closed the distance toward her. “You must hear what we have to tell you! And see what we found! Not just a crate of books, but also a crude map of the Barrens. I can’t wait to show it to Fenn.” Nyx had no doubt the ship’s navigator would find such a chart immensely useful, as little was known of the lands beyond the sandy necropolises that bordered the edge of the Crown. When Jace reached her, Bashaliia twisted his neck with a low hiss of warning. Still attuned to her winged brother, Nyx felt the frazzle of emerald fire behind the golden glow of his bridle-song. Jace backed a step. “Sorry. I should know better than to rush at him.” “At least, he didn’t snap at you this time,” Krysh added, keeping a wary distance himself. Heat rose to Nyx’s cheeks. “Between the storm and being cooped up inside the ship for so long, he’s in poor spirits.” She ran a palm over the crown of the bat’s head, knowing neither explanation was the truth. After defeating the Spider, Bashaliia remained plagued by bouts of fury, which was so unlike his typical calm manner. She pictured the corrupting bridle-song that had trapped not only the raash’ke, but also Bashaliia for a spell. Nyx had broken him free, but some damage remained. She pictured her winged brother when she had first encountered him a year ago. He had been no bigger than a winter goose. Poisoned shortly thereafter, Bashaliia had died, but not before his spirit and memory were preserved by the immense horde-mind of the Mýr bat colony and moved into another body—one larger and older. Then last winter, Nyx had been forced to slit his throat, to free him yet again. With the help of the raash’ke, she had moved Bashaliia’s essence into the abused body of Kalyx, a Mýr bat who had been enslaved by Iflelen forces and tortured into a monster. Nyx’s fingers felt the old scars across Bashaliia’s scalp, hidden now under his regrown pelt. They marked where copper needles had been drilled into Kalyx’s brain. The enslaving needles had been removed, but some damage remained—wounds that went far deeper than flesh and bone. It fueled a fiery madness, an ailment that might never fully heal. As bound as she was with Bashaliia, she herself was not unscathed. It was a burden she accepted and shared, knowing she owed Bashaliia: for his love, for his brotherhood, for his sacrifice. Even the bat’s wary reaction to Jace might not be solely born of madness, but possibly incited by Nyx’s own deep-seated misgivings about Jace. She stared over at her friend, studying him circumspectly. Like all of them, Jace had not escaped the Frozen Wastes untouched. He had nearly died—and maybe did for a spell—after being blasted by the energies of the turubya when it had been activated. Before he had been revived, Nyx had probed him with strands of her bridle-song. She discovered a vast emptiness inside him, one far larger than could be contained within his small skull. Even now, that memory iced through her. After Jace had recovered, that emptiness had vanished. He seemed like her same old friend. Still… She hid a wince. Guilt ate at her for her continuing wariness of him, especially for a friend who had always been loyal. She stared up at Bashaliia. Have you been sensing my unease? Is that why you reacted so poorly?  To soothe her own heart as much as Bashaliia’s, she sang chords of reassurance to him and shook off her angst. She stared up at the bulk of the wyndship. “I’d like to see that old map, but first I must get Bashaliia settled into the hold. I’ll meet you both at the Fyredragon’s wheelhouse. I saw Fenn up there before I headed out.” Krysh’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll leave that task to you and Jace. I must secure the crates in my cabin and begin cataloging the books. In the meantime, hopefully the map will offer some guidance for Fenn and the ship’s captain to determine the best route across the Barrens. We must be underway as soon as possible. We’re already drawing too much attention.” The alchymist glanced over to Bashaliia. “What do you mean?” Nyx asked. Jace’s next words grew doleful. “Over in Bhestya, word of a dragon-helmed ship, one carrying a hold full of winged beasts, has spread to those shores.” “And rumors will continue to fly farther afield the longer we sit idle,” Krysh added. “Until word reaches the wrong ears.” Nyx understood. After escaping the Hálendiian forces in the Frozen Wastes, the enemy was surely still hunting them. She had no doubt that both the King’s Legions and the Iflelen dogs led by Wryth il Faash were scouring the Crown for any sign of them. So far, it seemed their group had not been discovered. But every day they tarried in Spindryft, the risk grew. Nyx pointed to where Graylin and Darant wrestled the repaired ship’s forge-engine toward the Fyredragon. “Jace, alert Graylin and Darant about what you heard.” “I’ll let them know.” Jace swung away but glanced over a shoulder. “Then I’ll meet you at the wheelhouse.” Nyx nodded her acknowledgment and set off with Bashaliia toward the Fyredragon’s stern ramp. Krysh followed her, but he kept a buffer between him and the massive Mýr bat. The alchymist suddenly stopped midstride. He stared up at the layer of dark clouds, which hugged close to the top of the firelit balloon of the Fyredragon. Nyx followed his gaze. Dark shapes scythed out of the storm—one, then another, then three more. Nyx’s heart clenched into a knot, but it wasn’t out of fear. She recognized those who swept down toward the ship. Before leaving the Crèche, the Pantheans had gifted their group with five of the raash’ke to accompany them on this journey, to serve as formidable mounts for the task ahead of them. The hulking ice bats carried riders—all trainees—saddled on their backs. Like her and Bashaliia, the group must have decided to use the cover of the storm to hone their skills. The five shapes spiraled down, sweeping in a tight formation. Though the storm cloaked them all, Nyx had no trouble identifying their leader. She sensed the well of power held at his core. To her bridle-blessed eyes, he was a falling star, blazing through the gloom. She whispered his name, half prayer, half sorrow. “Daal…” Krysh must have heard the pain behind that syllable. “He will learn to forgive you.” Nyx lowered her face. “Better he should not.”

2

Daal guided his mount with gentle pressure from his knees. By now, his efforts were instinctual—more so than any of the other riders. Then again, he had helped refine the saddle they all used, tweaking its cinches from the Panthean tack and gear used to ride the orksos, the horned beasts that swam through the seas of the Crèche. Back home, he had been proud of his skill at hunting those waters from the back of such magnificent creatures. Only after Nyx and the others had crashed into their world beneath the ice had Daal come to understand his unique bond to the orksos. Daal had always known he carried Noorish blood, from a lineage that traced back to a group of Hálendiian explorers who had arrived centuries earlier and been stranded in the Crèche. The crew had traveled there by the very wyndship moored below. Over time, the Pantheans and Noorish people had learned to live in an uneasy alliance, resulting in mixed-blooded individuals like Daal. But unlike most, Daal’s Noorish blood contained traces of bridle-song. That innate talent had allowed him to bond and control the orksos better than most. But the same blood-gift also drew the attention of others: the tentacled Oshkapeers, the godlike Dreamers of the deep. Those ancient creatures had probed Daal, nearly drowning him, and honed his bridle-song into a great weapon, a font of raw energy, meant to serve as a wellspring of strength for another. As Daal stared below, he felt that draw upon him even now. It tugged at his blood and quickened his heart. He had no trouble spotting the lodestone that called to him from below. He watched Nyx hurry toward the Fyredragon’s stern hold. He remembered how she had once described their unique bond. You be my flashburn, I’ll be your forge. Daal easily recalled what that felt like back at the Crèche, when the two melted into one, palms pressed, fingers clenched together. With each breath, his blood-borne font of power flowed into Nyx, allowing her access to that well of energy, to refine that force into purpose. In those moments, both were bare to each other, unable to keep any secrets, each knowing the other’s thoughts, wearing the other’s skin, feeling everything together. It was both unnerving and intoxicating. Such intimacy had drawn them closer. How could it not? But months ago, just as they had reached the Eastern Crown, it had all abruptly ended. The arduous journey had taken its toll on everyone: the stress, the terror, the tension had strained them all. But that was not the true reason for their falling out. He watched Nyx vanish with Bashaliia into the ship. Only then did he lift an arm and whistle sharply into the wind, mimicking the cry of a kree-hawk, the hunting birds that nested in the ice cliffs at the Crèche. The other Panthean riders recognized that note from their homelands. So, too, did their raash’ke mounts, who had shared that cold world. In such small ways did Daal keep his homelands alive in his heart. He refused to completely forsake the Crèche. He had already given up so much. To make this sojourn—to serve as a source of fuel to Nyx’s forge—he had abandoned his mother and father, along with his young sister. His parents had understood the necessity. Still, it did little to assuage his guilt, especially knowing his family’s fate should Nyx’s group succeed in setting the Urth to spinning again. According to Shiya—based on ancient ta’wyn knowledge—the only way to cast the moon back into its proper place was to set the world to turning, which would prevent the planet’s destruction, but it would also lead to its own cataclysm, resulting in deaths beyond measure. Millions would die. With the world set to spinning, the Frozen Wastes would melt. The sunblasted Barrens would flood. The Crown would be torn apart by quakes, storms, and tides. No corner of the Urth would be untouched. Even my home. His mother had faced this tragic fate with a resoluteness that still escaped Daal. Her words stayed with him: No one knows their end. The future remains a mystery until it’s written. We’ll live as if we have endless days ahead of us—and none. What else can any of us do? His parents also recognized that if the moon crashed into the world, not only would the Crèche be destroyed, but all life on Urth would end. Better some should live than none, his father had said, gripping Daal’s arm as they said their good-byes. Daal closed his eyes for a single breath. I must not fail them. With this determination, he opened his eyes and guided the other riders toward the towering wyndship. Winds, lashed with hard rain, battered them. Lightning lanced in jagged arcs across the belly of the clouds. He smelled the power in the air, felt the energy dance across the small hairs of his bare arms. It was as if the storm was drawn to the well of strength hidden inside him. He gritted his teeth and dove steeply, fleeing the storm’s reach—as much as Nyx now fled from him. He pictured the fall of her hair, so dark a hue that it could be misconstrued as black, but within its shadows hid golden strands, as if bridle-song had been braided into those tresses. Her skin was the color of warm honey, her eyes as blue as polished ice, with flecks of gold shining there, too. Anger flamed through him, both at her abrupt rejection of him and at his continuing ache to rekindle what had been lost. He fought against reliving that moment from months ago when passion had turned to heartbreak. Still, the memory burned brightly, fueled by the pain in his heart—and his forearms. For Nyx had shattered more than just his heart. Unable to stop himself, he fell back into that past. __________ As the Fyredragon crested high over the Ebyn Mountain, Daal ignored the crystalline glare off those icy peaks and gaped at the fiery orb sitting on the horizon. For the past half-moon, as the wyndship neared the edge of the Crown, leaving the Frozen Wastes behind, they had been traveling through a perpetual twilight. Each day, the pyre at the horizon had grown brighter and brighter, until the full breadth of the sun rose into view. “It’s more wondrous than I’d ever imagined,” Daal whispered to Nyx. She kept next to him, an arm around his waist, and smiled at the awe in his voice. “Welcome to your first true dawn,” she said, then added with a tired sigh, “We in the Crown take such a sight for granted. The sun never sets during our lives. It only makes a slow, small circle in the sky, one revolution per year.” Fenn stood on his other side. “I wager you’ll get sick of the sight of the Father Above, especially after we head into the Barrens, where the sun will rise higher and higher until its hammering us with its unforgiving heat.” Daal noted the sour turn to the navigator’s voice. Fenn had shown a clear and growing reluctance to cross this eastern half of the Crown. As the navigator kept vigil with them, the young man’s lips were drawn into bloodless lines. The emerald of his eyes was shadowed by heavy lids. His snowy-blond locks, though, reflected the sunlight, as if he were born out of mountain glaciers below, but Daal knew Fenn was actually from the Kingdom of Bhestya, one of the many lands on this side of the Crown. Still, the navigator’s mood had darkened with every league closer to his homelands. According to Jace, Fenn had made sure their ship’s course stayed well north of Bhestya. Any inquiries about his past were met with a stern silence, a dismissive wave, or a muttered curse. He was clearly reluctant to talk about how he had come to leave his homelands and ended up as a navigator for a brigand like Darant. “We should head below,” Nyx said. “You don’t want to stare too long at the sun.” Daal disagreed. “I could look at it forever.” But Fenn reinforced Nyx’s warning. “Once we crest over these mountains, the crosswinds will have us shaking wildly.” As if reinforcing this, a strong gust struck the massive gasbag overhead and sent the ship into a hard roll. Daal clutched the rail to stay upright. Fenn simply balanced on both legs. Nyx’s arm tightened on Daal’s waist. Even through the wool of her sleeve, he felt the cold burn of her skin as it sought to pull the heat from his body, reminding him of the bottomless hunger inside her. But he had hungers of his own and freed an arm to pull her closer.  “Maybe we should return to your cabin,” Daal suggested. Nyx stared up at him. The golden glints in her eyes shone brighter with a mischievous gleam. “Then let us be quick about it—before we get tossed overboard.” They waited until the ship’s rocking eased enough for them to cross the deck to the forecastle’s door. They clambered down to the middeck where cabins lined a long passageway that ran from bow to stern.  Nyx had a room to herself nearest the wheelhouse at the front. As they reached her door, another strong wind buffeted the ship. A hard roll of the deck tossed them across the cabin’s threshold. They stumbled together into her room, clutched together, both laughing. Once the ship smoothed its flight, Nyx closed the door, her cheeks flushed. Daal was still breathless from seeing the sun for the first time. Amazement kept his heart pounding. The blue skies, the shades of pink spanning the horizon, had seemed from another world, one foreign to all he understood. Even the stars—which had blazed continually in the skies of the Wastes—had vanished into obscurity, wiped away by the sunlight. “What wonders you’ve shown me,” he whispered to Nyx. “How I wish Henna was here to see this, too.”  A pang of homesickness struck him as he pictured his exuberant younger sister, with her bright eyes and bottomless sense of wonder. Nyx lowered her gaze, trying to hide a wince. He inwardly kicked himself for his words. He knew Nyx carried a measure of guilt for dragging him from his home, from all he knew, from all he loved. He reached to her shoulders and drew her into an embrace.  “I will show her the sun one day,” he promised.  “I hope that’s true.” Daal used a fingertip to raise her chin. “We’ll make it so.” Despite his words, Nyx’s eyes remained haunted. It was her prophecy that set them on this course, a path that, even if successful, would lead to so many deaths, so much destruction. He tilted his head to catch her gaze. “You’re not alone in this.” To convince her of this, he leaned down and brushed his lips across hers. A now-familiar fire ignited at that touch. She sighed into his kiss, sinking into him, blurring the line between them. As this happened, he sensed that dark well inside her. He allowed the heat of his bones’ marrow to flow and temper that hunger, which further drew them together, binding them even closer.  He again felt that dizzying fall into her. The softness of her lips stirred him, while simultaneously he felt the rough brush of his own stubble. After a time, his tongue probed deeper and became hers. Their breaths mingled, growing harsher. He hardened and pressed himself against her, but he knew she was already aware of his firming ardor, for he felt her own rising passion: the warming of her loins, the tender piquing of her nipples. His hand rose to gently brush a thumb across that tenderness. The fire of that touch ran through him as much as her. Her gasp rose from his own lips. Her fingers reached to his swollen urgency and rubbed that fire into a pyre that burned through them both. Lost in each other, they fell to her bed. There, they explored each other, discovering the familiar balance of their shared senses.  Her desires, too, whisked through him, guiding him to where she wanted to be touched. Fingers fumbled with buttons until skin found skin. With each movement, he was rewarded in turn, as he experienced that exquisite tension himself. His tongue took the place of his thumb. With each teasing lick, fire flamed through his body, reflecting what she experienced.  Each gasp was the bellow of a forge, whetting their flames hotter. They remained balanced on that fiery edge until the room vanished and time grew meaningless. Daal wanted more, knew she did, too, as they could hide nothing from one another, but they had also decided at the outset of this journey to temper their passion, to carry no further than this. Fear, as much as restraint, firmed this line. He drew his mouth from her breast and returned to her lips. It took all his strength to do so. He lifted his face to stare down at her. Her eyes remained closed, her body arched under him.  He whispered into that fire. “Nyx, we must stop—" “No,” she moaned, that single word rife with bridle-song, full of command, along with a hint of a dark edge. “Don’t.” She reached under his belt, cupping his length. Trapped by their combined lust, along with the bridling that linked him, he shuddered under her touch.  Unable to stop himself, he let his weight fall upon her, upon what she clutched, but he continued to fall, sinking ever deeper into the dark well inside her. Its hunger now stoked to a feverish ravening. With each stroke of her hand, with each unstoppable thrust of his hips, power flowed out of him.  He fought to hold it, to dam that tide. Then came one stroke too far. He cried out with the explosion. It emptied everything inside him, spilling forth between them, while bursting that dam inside him. He flailed down her well, carried by his torrent of energy, unable to escape. Still, even then, he felt everything she did. She gasped as much as he had, experiencing the same explosion as if it where her own. Through her senses, he felt the power swelling into her. He fought against losing himself, knowing that he risked death if too much was stolen from him. As he struggled, his hands found Nyx’s shoulders. He tried to push away from her, using all the strength in his arms. As his energies flowed into her, a star appeared down deep in that well, fed by his power. He rushed headlong toward it. As it grew, the star formed a fiery sigil. Nyx recognized it. So, of course, he did, too. In such moments, there were no secrets between them. Fleeting memories from Nyx shredded through him. This sigil was a gift, one granted to Nyx by the raash’ke horde-mind before it was destroyed. It was a map to turn intent into purpose, to give bridle-song the strength of physical force. Unable to help himself—perhaps fueled by Nyx’s own darkest desires—he reached to that star as he fell past it, like a drowning man grasping for anything to keep afloat. With the briefest touch, that sigil exploded into a sun, infinitely brighter than what shone in the skies. The blast shattered the darkness, while shoving him away, too. He flew back into his own body, into his own skin, but there was no escaping the backlash of power. It exploded out of Nyx as he hovered over her, holding her at arm’s length. With his fingers still clutched to her shoulders, his forearms caught the brunt of that blast. Bones shattered under the force. He got thrown from the bed and crashed onto the hard floorboards. His head cracked, sending the world into a twirling confusion. Nyx tumbled after him, landing on her hands and knees. “Daal…” He tried to reach her, to console her, but his arms were bent at useless angles. Agony flared and shrank his world to pinpoints. “I’ll get help,” Nyx called as he fell farther away.> She fled from his side, from him, maybe from herself. Her last words, guilt-ridden and tearful, followed him into oblivion. “I’m sorry…” __________ Daal’s mount landed in the meadow with a hard jolt, shaking him back to the present. To either side, the other four riders alighted with buffeting sweeps of leathery wings. He leaned forward and rubbed the damp pelt of his bat’s neck. “Thank you, Pyllar,” he intoned gratefully. His mount tilted a large black eye toward him. The velvety ruffles surrounding Pyllar’s nostrils vibrated, accompanied by a soft keening. The contentment and pride could be felt as much as heard. The gift in Daal’s blood was strong enough to perceive all of this. He even spotted the slight glow in those dark eyes, shining with bridle song. Pyllar leaned back, offering an ear to be scratched. Daal could not refuse. His fingers found those tender spots and dug nails until Pyllar rumbled with pleasure. As he did, Daal’s forearm ached. The splints had only come off a fortnight ago. This morning was the first time he had been deemed fit enough to take Pyllar aloft. Daal regretted having to neglect his mount these past few months, but he dared not risk his life by flying while impaired. It was with the same fearful reluctance that Nyx had withdrawn from him. The two of them had been careless, playing with a fire neither truly understood—not just the physical act, of stumbling over a threshold neither had been prepared for, but also the incendiary flow of powers between them. Afterward, the anguish in Nyx’s words still wounded him: If I had broken more than just your arms… Daal knew his death would have destroyed her. It was a guilt she could not have survived. Plus, his loss would be a blow to their cause. Nyx needed Daal for more than just his companionship. She needed the power welded into him by the Dreamers. He was a tool forged for her. And in the throes of passion, they had come close to shattering it. Such an act could not be risked again. Nyx had firmed this while he recovered: Our wishes are of no importance, not when balanced against all the lives of the world. Daal had no way to argue against it, even if he had wanted to try. So, he had stayed silent, his tongue tied by fear as much as grief. He could still remember tumbling headlong into that darkness inside her. He could still feel the blast of fury that ignited from that blazing sigil. It had been branded into him, became callused into his bones. He knew his silence in that moment had hurt Nyx. She likely mistook his reticence as anger, but it was not that. Daal stared toward the hold where Nyx had vanished. She scares me. Yet, it was not the force of her power, nor the depth of her passion, that he feared. He knew Nyx was not solely to blame for what had happened. It had not been bridling that drove him onward, to cross over that threshold with her. I had wanted it as much as she did. His gaze lingered on the door into the ship’s hold. He pictured Nyx’s eyes glowing in the dark, the warmth of her lips, of giving himself fully to her. It had taken him these past months to accept a harder truth. I would do it all again. And that terrified him most of all.