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A procession of noblemen and guards leaves the hall. The icy draft worsens as they descend stairs underground, readying to leave the palace. The sconces on the walls cast a dim glow. She can see the back of Ryon ahead of her, several Glacians in between. The grace of his movement is gone, and his head bobs with each step.

She swallows panic, working to ignore the way it poisons her system, sickening her. They’ll be thrown to the Chasm, just as Ryon predicted they would.

Be calm, she thinks.

But if Ryon is gone, if she has failed, then they will both soon be dead.

They traipse through a tunnel, an entire court of Glacians, a hybrid and a human. A freezing blast rushes through them, hits Dawsyn’s skin, and she can smell it – the ice. The Chasm.

Weak morning light awaits them, and then they are in the open air, through the rattling portcullis, beyond the palace walls, and before the Chasm.

The sight of it, vast and unending, is almost her undoing. And beyond it… the Ledge. She hoped she would never know it again. She makes her feet move in measured steps along the snow, which quickly turns to ice, growing slicker with each inch. Ryon’s form is unchanged. His shoulders slump in a way Dawsyn has never seen.

Wind howls through the gaping mouth of the Chasm ahead, a sound that raises the fine hairs along her neck. It is the sound of the many who have fallen to its belly. It is the sound of the end.

Vasteel leads his court closer and closer to the edge, their talons easily cutting into the ice. He laughs and throws his head back in obvious joy, in victory.

Dawsyn searches. She cannot let her eyes wander far, but she looks for escape. She looks for opportunity, and there is none, only the Chasm below, the sky above. No way out, no alternative if Ryon is truly gone. She is weaponless and alone. Her hands tremble, and with the knowledge that she will die, she feels a burst of cold erupt within her.

It is as deep as bones, splitting the cells of her marrow, unfurling like ink in water. Oddly, it does not freeze but burns, and the feeling is not unpleasant. A cool relief swamps her, lightens the tremor of her hands, and as they come to a stop on the edge of that cavernous abyss, she becomes aware of a presence inside her – an entity that awaits her, beckoning, a dormant servant. She furtively clenches her fingers, flexes the leash of the thing within herself, and feels the frost forming in the very center of her palm.

It croons, whispers along the lines of her hand. A voice she recognizes – the voice of the pool. The magic.

I am with you, it murmurs.I am with you.

Help me, she begs.

She tries to force it into action. She wants it to rise from her body – an avenging angel – and split the Glacians into the sum of their parts. But the more she shoves at it, the more it resists.

The magic is gone just as quick. As though she held it for too long, it now drops into a deep corner of her body and does not come back when she tries to summon it. That small glimmer of hope fades to nothing, and a deep weariness takes its place. Her heart continues to beat in rapid tempo, and on the outside, she is still, her eyes glassy, her posture slouched.

Outside of herself, the Glacians continue their celebration, heedless, ignorant.

“Bring me the traitor,” Vasteel shouts, and the Glacians cheer. “I want to clip those wings before I dispose of him. They will make a fine wall mount.”

The King’s guards push Ryon along, and he immediately submits to their prodding – a docile lamb being led to slaughter. A willing victim, he turns his back in an offer to the Glacian King.

“Summon your wings, half-breed,” Vasteel jeers.

Ryon does nothing. His eyes remain vacant, and the black leather of his wings remains hidden.

“Summon them! Now!”

But he either does not hear or no longer can. Vasteel takes a long dagger from his belt and slices the air. The sound of cut flesh fills her ears, and she watches Ryon’s blood trickle slowly to the ice.

“Your Grace, his iskra is gone,” a guard reminds him, his voice bored. Iman.

“Well, there’s no fun in cutting the unfeeling, is there?”

The Glacians laugh soundly, their insidious barking echoing down into the Chasm.

“Bring them both to the edge.”

Dawsyn is shunted, and she walks obediently forward, a heartwrenching knowing now filling her. This is where she dies – in the very place she always believed she would. In the grave of her people. And if she must die, then at least it can be beside the only other creature in this world who holds a piece of her. The only one who carved his way into her soul. The only one she could ever allow to stay.

The pale lips of the Glacian King curl. “Any other who betrays me will meet the same end,” he vows, and with one last maddened sneer, he juts his chin and says, “Let them fall.”

An icy hand to Dawsyn’s back… a clawed foot to Ryon’s.