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Above, the cloud swirled into a vortex. The first sight of white wing appeared, dipping below the cloud, followed quickly by another.

They were here. The Selection was starting, and not one Polson stood where they ought to.

“Fuck,” Briar said openly, her breath misting heavily before her. “Maya. Talk to Dawsyn for a moment.”

“But–”

“Sing to me that song you learnt,” Dawsyn said quickly, her eyes wheeling from the sky, where the Glacians were circling in full view, to the Polsons’ empty stoop, back to Maya, who was blessedly distracted.

“What song?”

“The song Grandma taught you – the… the one of the nymphs.”

“I hate that song.”

“Then sing another,” Dawsyn insisted, spittle flying, her voice far harsher than casualness warranted.

Maya picked a song she made up herself. Dawsyn does not remember it now, only that it was accompanied by the sounds of wreckage as the Glacians dived, tearing the Polsons’ roof apart, collapsing its frame.

There were shouts across the Ledge as the unlucky were pulled from the snow and hauled into the sky, and by the time Maya had finished her song, the Selection was over.

Their grandmother remained, and Dawsyn did not bother to feel guilty as she silently thanked the Polsons for so blatantly drawing attention to themselves.

Then another clamour came, echoing off the Face and bouncing to where Dawsyn stood with her family. Des Polson, bursting from his cabin, blood running down his cheek from a gash on his forehead. He fell to the snow, and even from their vantage, they could hear his retching.

While her grandmother took Maya inside, Briar and Dawsyn traipsed carefully to the Polson cabin. Hector and his father joined them, and like hares approaching a likely trap, they came nearer to the man in the snow, weeping soundly, his blood colouring the powder.

Behind him, his cabin sagged inward, the roof destroyed.

“Des?” Briar said softly. “You cannot remain on the ground.”

He nodded and the crying softened to weak, uneven breaths. “Just one,” he mumbled to himself. “Just one.”

“What is he saying?” said Hector’s father, leaning to help pull Des up from the snow.

Dawsyn heard a noise then; they all did. They looked toward the broken cabin, where the door hung open. In its frame stood a young girl.

June Polson.

“They only took one,” Des mumbled, a keening sound escaping thereafter. “Not as bad.” He shook uncontrollably. “Not as bad.” But as they shuffled him out of the cold, his eyes closed tightly, and the sounds of his sorrow continued to escape unbidden. He muttered those lies to himself, as though they might rally him to face what lay ahead.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-SIX

Ryon lands at the forest edge and places Dawsyn on her feet. She is vacant. While he… he is fracturing.

Away from the haze of smoke, he sees Esra and Salem clearly.

They have been laid down on the forest floor, the inn still smoking behind them. Baltisse already has her hands on Salem’s chest, determined.

“Close your eyes!” Ryon calls abruptly and snaps his own shut. He does not know if the others take his advice, but from the painful, burning light that shines beyond his eyelids, he imagines they have little choice.

The light dissipates, and Ryon opens his eyes again, leaning immediately to take Salem’s hand.

The older man’s mouth is no longer covered in ash. His eyes are open, blinking in rapid succession, scowling when they come to Baltisse, who remains hovering over his body.

“Salem,” she breathes.

“The guards…” he mutters. “The guards came.”