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She means to inform him of such, but instead says, “I’ve never known so much space,” and in her voice is that hint of wariness she meant to hide.

He is quiet before he answers, and it makes her jaw tighten defensively.

“I imagine everything feels strange to you?” comes his voice, a question in it.

She considers the way her body still tilts as she walks, her toes curling in her boots to cling for balance. “My feet fight to stay above the snow, even where there is none. My eyes squint, even without the wind. I still lean away from the Chasm. And the air…” She pauses. “The air feels wrong. It is too heavy.”

More silence. She does not want to turn and see his expression. Does it amuse him, this weakness?

But then, “The airisheavier here, and your body has never known anything else. I’ve felt the same each time I’ve descended to Terrsaw.”

His answer makes her turn to look at him, despite herself, and sees he is much closer than she thought.

“Time will earn your trust in the land,” he tells her, his hand rising as though to touch her. He seems to catch himself before it can, clenching his fingers into his palm. He lets it fall back to his side. “This is where you were born to be.”

And it is too peaceful – this moment, with a ray of sunshine turning one side of his face to rich cedar, and the grass whispering soothingly behind her. Food in her belly. No cold in her lungs.

She turns away from him. “I was born to die in that pool your king drinks from.”

“He is notmyking,” Ryon says sharply.

Better, that familiar bite. Better than pity. Without turning to look, she knows how the cords in his neck will stand taut, his shoulders widening, as though preparing to unfurl his wings. “So, who rules you now, Ryon? Do you plan to live as a fraud in Terrsaw?”

“I told you, I plan to kill the court in Glacia or die trying.”

“That’s right – a one-hybrid crusade. You will do better as a fraud, I think.”

“Ah, but you have not seen much of my sword work, have you, girl? Taking the King will be simple.”

Dawsyn laughs. “That ego will have you in pieces before you can step through the palace doors.”

“But what if I succeed? What if the court falls and the Pool of Iskra becomes nothing more than mud?”

Dawsyn shrugs. “The other hybrids will be free to rule Glacia, rising from the trenches of poverty. Free to leave and live as they please.”

“And the Ledge will be no longer,” Ryon adds. “Your people will not be hauled over the Chasm every season. They can re-enter Terrsaw and live as they should have.”

She huffs in disbelief. “And you believe that no other will claim the throne? There will be no one to take the pool’s power?”

“When I am done with that fucking pool, there will be no human or Glacian alive who will brave it even if they wanted to,” he says evenly.

“You sound as though you have a plan,” Dawsyn probes.

“Of course I do. But as you pointed out, we are not friends, so I am afraid you will not be privy to it.”

“You are more foolish than I thought. It would be suicide to return.”

“Perhaps,” he says in a low voice. “But my mother was of the Ledge, and they killed her, so the prisoners trapped up there are not just yours, are they?”

She hesitates. “Never claimed they were.”

Suddenly, she halts in her place. They have reached the crest of a small hill, and below lies hundreds, thousands of rooftops.

“The Mecca,” Ryon says behind her.

She expels a huff of breath. The homes on the Ledge were packed close together for lack of space, but what she sees does not compare. The roofs nearly touch, pitching and unfolding to the next, overhanging other homes. Narrow spaces are filled with impossibly small structures. There are impossibly large structures, too, cobbled and patched in brickwork. And there, in the distance, is by far the largest building of the Mecca. It is not as large as what she saw in Glacia, but one she can only assume is a palace.

Dawsyn nods to it. “Who lives there?”