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Baltisse rises, her short stature allowing her to stand upright inside the cave, and if Ruby quailed at Dawsyn’s quiet fury, it is nothing in comparison to the ire of the witch. Waves of some unnameable energy ripple in the air, raising the hair on Ruby’s head. It makes her mouth turn dry to be in its presence.

“I would not make demands of me, Dawsyn Sabar. I’ve come on this forsaken quest of yours to assist. I have already proven my allegiance to you. If you try to turn me into your underling, I will take the hands from your body and have them do my bidding, just to prove a point.”

Ruby would rather be anywhere but here. She wonders, and not for the first time, if her decision to leave Terrsaw was foolish. It seems anything but wise to have pushed her way into the middle of a trio such as this.

But she is here now. And she needs to know what they all seem to know already. She must see for herself, thispool… The Ledge… the people on it.

“So then, perhaps you know nothing at all,” Dawsyn says, seemingly unfazed. “And you merely speak as though you do.”

Baltisse’s jaw ticks. “I know that it is centuries old, and I know it shall not survive another year,” she says, when it seems the tension is a rope pulled taut enough to fray. “That it still remains is all the knowledge I need.”

“And of what consequence is it toyou, should it remain?”

“Dawsyn, you can trust Baltisse,” Ryon says now, his voice careful.

Dawsyn closes her eyes at his words, and when she opens them again, they say plainly what her lips do not: that she trustedhim, and he made a fool of her; that he ought not speak, should he wish to keep his tongue.

Dawsyn’s glare hits them all in turn, again and again, her suspicion plain to see. “Keep your secrets,” Dawsyn says to the mage, to the Glacian, to Ruby. “But if I sense your knives nearing my back, I will draw my own.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE

Ryon stares at Dawsyn in the same manner he once stared into the Chasm: with the absolute certainty that it could swallow him whole. She has always seemed immoveable to him. A towering tree born in the soil of this mountain, shifted by no element, and certainly not by him.

That is true now more than ever, but there had been a time – albeit a short one – where he had held the privilege of guiding her. Swaying her. He had spoken and she had listened, eyes gouging into his soul, relentless but curious. He had gained a place at her side; somehow. He’d found a foothold.

Now he was firmly ousted.

Dawsyn looks unperturbed on the surface, but he can see the pulse at her throat, thrumming the same beat as his. She is not unaffected by him, and somehow that makes it worse. She is, he knows, entirely aware of him, just as he is overrun by her.

He knows that he hurt her; he knew it before he set eyes on her again. A woman who was taught not to trust, not to surrender, gave herself to him. And Ryon fumbled that gift.

The curiosity in her stare is gone. Distrust is the only thing left. Each time he sees it, he wants to beg her forgiveness, her absolution, but he knows the look she would cast if he did: the disdain, the burning fury of her soul.

He did not protect her enough. He should have told her everything. This is the price he pays.

“Dawsyn, I won’t drop you,” he vows, arms rising toward her.

They need not tarry any longer. Baltisse has recovered fully, Ryon is strong enough to fly, and their location will be known to the Queens by now. But Dawsyn stands looking at him, regarding his arms with something like distaste. She lets her boots sink further into the snow rather than have them touch her. He realises that it is not falling from the sky that she fears, but simply being at the mercy of his hands.

A stone sinks into his stomach. He sighs, defeated and ashamed that he must reassure her of his intentions, that the words would even have to be spoken. “I would never touch you that way without your permission.”

She swallows, but does not answer, her eyes glazing momentarily before turning away from him, and Ryon sees that he has misunderstood once more. It is not histouchthat she fears, but something else. And he wishes he could siphon the meaning of her expressions and gestures now, but he can’t. Somewhere along with losing her favour, he has lost the ability to read her as he once did. She is both tormentingly familiar and completely new. He is now a stranger to the scape of her, unsure of the terrain they both move on.

Ryon’s arms lower, throat tightening with guilt, longing. “One day, I will earn your forgiveness,” he tells her, tells the sky, tells any spirit who lingers nearby. “But I won’t coerce you. There will be no tricks. I won’t try to force you to love me as you did before. You have my word.”

“You believe I loved you before?” Dawsyn asks. Each word cuts, slices. “Then perhaps it was I who tricked you.”

Ryon doesn’t miss it, the recoil behind the bravado. Some inward reaction that wouldn’t be present if she was, in fact, so indifferent to him.

“It was merely lust, Ryon,” she says. “Nothing more.”

“Then I promise I won’t try to seduce you.”

“Seduce me?” Dawsyn scoffs. “You disgust me.”

Ryon bites his tongue, swallowing a rebuttal. He holds his arms out once more. “Then you have nothing to fear,” he says, “but mere revulsion.”

Dawsyn heaves a breath, black strands of her hair blowing across her face with the wind. When she looks up again, she is resolved, eyes hard.