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But none do.

Baltisse rolls her eyes. Ruby simply looks back to the door of the bone room, and shudders, “I’ll go anywhere but here.”

And then come Tasheem and two other mixed, both male, and one who Dawsyn recognises as Rivdan.

“What is this, Ryon?” the unfamiliar one asks, his voice showing casual curiosity, though his brow furrows and the corners of his lips curve downward at the sight of the present company. “A mutiny, I presume?”

“Not a mutiny, Brennick.” Ryon says. “A rescue.”

The man named Brennick lets his mouth hang open, and then he laughs, short and humourless. “Come now, Mesrich,” he huffs. “You cannot possibly mean the Ledge? It is noble, brother, but we will need many more alongside us. Four sets of wings are not enough. You must know that.”

“I do,” he says. “But I must ask it anyway.”

“And why,” Rivdan adds, appearing to brace himself, “must you ask it?” Unlike the one named Brennick, Rivdan does not seem merely suspicious, but expectant.

Ryon exhales in a gust, before saying, “Adrik intends to take the king’s seat. He wants the Pool of Iskra.”

Brennick’s and Rivdan’s eyes go round, and they wait for something further. They look to Tasheem, who nods.

Brennick laughs again, a hint of desperation marring its casualness. “No… Ryon he only drank from it to unlock the portcullises. That is all.”

“That is not all,” says Dawsyn.

Brennick eyes her cautiously. “How could you possibly know?”

“Because I read his mind,” Baltisse says lazily. “And it is as filthy and insidious as that nest atop your head. Holy mother above, Glacian, do you neverbathe?”

Brennick turns to Ryon, “Who the fuck is she?”

“A mage,” Ryon answers. “We haven’t time for this.”

“She’s a witch?”

“Don’t call her that.”

“Why?” And then he goes down, curling in on his stomach as pain overcomes him.

It is a sight to behold, but Baltisse looks almost bored of it. Before Brennick can shout or scream, his body releases, the pain that gripped him suddenly gone.

“That’s why,” Ryon mutters. He stoops to help Brennick to his feet, and then claps the man’s shoulders with both hands. “Adrik will have us selecting humans on the Ledge to feed the pool before long. I must ask you both to defy him. If you refuse, I only ask you to say nothing. Do nothing. Let us be on our way.”

Rivdan and Brennick look at each other, and then back to Ryon.

“I’ve known you both since we were infants,” Ryon says. “We grew together. I wouldn’t ask if I was not sure I could trust you.”

Ryon steps away. With a gust, his wings are summoned, and he looks to the passage behind his comrades. “Make your decision. We leave now.”

Before either can answer, the sound of approaching footsteps echoes down the corridor. Ryon vanishes his wings again, and Rivdan and Brennick turn expectantly. Tasheem affects an unconvincing casual position by leaning against the wall, and Dawsyn reaches for her ax.

But it is Gerrot who turns the corner.

The man, his trousers belted around his severely thin waist, walks resolutely into their midst. His cheeks are sunken, no doubt a consequence of the tongue that was cut from his mouth by the brutes. He looks, from all angles, as though a gust of wind might fell him – except for his eyes, which are alight with a ferocious kind of determination.

“Gerrot,” Dawsyn says, and the old man’s eyes find her. Without further preamble, without a word of question from the others, Gerrot very purposefully points to himself, his finger to his chest, and then points to a window high above, where the daylight offers a lighter shade of grey.

Every set of eyes turn to the window in question.

“What can he mean?” Tasheem asks.