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“As a souvenir of our alliance,” he quips.

Her scowl deepens. “If you end up with my ax, it’ll be embedded in your spine.”

“Scary,” he says, his eyes trailing over her – the dress, the boots, her tangled hair – a child playing dress-up. “But I do not think so. By the time we reach the valley, you’ll have begged me to take you into the skies.” With that, he turns again, tunneling back out of the warren to the slope above.

CHAPTERTWELVE

There is something unsettling about the way he moves. How does a form so imposing create such little disturbance as he treads the steep decline, as he jumps from one sharp-edged boulder to the next?

Dawsyn trails behind, her boots leaving long imprints through the powder as she drags them down, down, down. The snow melts into the bottom of her skirts and she is forced to drag them, too. But the temperature is warmer here and if nothing else, she at least knows each step covers more ground, bringing her closer to the bottom of the mountain on which she has lived her whole life. She can survive it a few more days.

Now and then, Ryon stops, his eyes turning to the white sky between the cypress tops. There are no wings to be heard but those of the loons that take flight in swarms. Dawsyn is enthralled by the number of them, the way they form shapes in the sky.

Hours later, when the bleak glow of sun begins to wane, Dawsyn stops in her tracks. “Wait,” she says, turning her face to the east. “I hear something.”

Ryon halts, listening intently. It is clearer now, without the sounds of their trudging. A tinkling. Dawsyn cannot place it exactly.

“I hear nothing,” Ryon says and makes to move on.

“It sounds like… like wind. But… it sings.”

Ryon frowns, his lips parting as though to dismiss her, but then his head cocks to the side. He listens, and then his eyes turn calm once more. He hears it. “It is running water,” he tells her softly, a light in his eye as he observes her. “It is warmer, here. The snow melts and flows down the mountain.”

Dawsyn cannot discern his expression, nor his tone, but at his words her eyes widen. She listens again to that soft sound, calling to her. She turns toward it. “I need to drink.”

Ryon shakes his head. “We cannot afford to stop now.”

“I wasn’t asking your permission.”

He groans, turning to continue downhill. “Another hour and we’ll reach the next shelter.”

“Why don’t you just pass along my possessions and I’ll meet you there?”

He scoffs, “A pitiful attempt.”

Dawsyn folds her arms over her chest, her feet sinking into the powder.

Several seconds pass before Ryon finally looks back at her, noting her stillness. “I do not have the patience for games, girl. Walk, or I’ll drag you.”

“Tempting.”

She hears him curse in response.

“You’re being a child.”

“It does not sound far away, and we wouldn’t even need to light a fire.”

“I’m not affording detours.”

“That’s not how an alliance works.”

He scrubs a great hand over his face. “Walk, child. Before I come back up there and drag your ass the rest of the way.”

“Ah,” Dawsyn muses, “but you’ll need to catch me first.”

For a moment, Dawsyn’s eyes lock with Ryon’s down the slope – his glinting with threat, hers with intention – and then she runs.

Even with the awful garb, she is fast. It hurts and already she is weary, but something akin to thrill imbues her. She sprints in a parallel line from Ryon, across the slope instead of down it. The sound of slow-trickling water comes closer, but so does the sound of her rival, who she knows will outpace her, if only by the sheer length of his gait. But she has the advantage of being uphill and she only needs to reach the water before he reaches her.