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Dawsyn does not see if they cross the Chasm. Seconds or minutes or millennia pass before she glimpses the ground rushing to meet her, too quickly, fast enough to flatten her.

She braces, but the very moment before her bones are crushed to powder, there is a lurch in the other direction and she lets out another cry. The Glacian above her holds her suspended in the air and Dawsyn’s toes skim the frozen rock beneath.

They have arrived.

The kingdom of Glacia towers before her, its arctic air filled with screams. She cannot turn to see, but she imagines the other selected souls are suspended either side of her just as she is, the newest prizes of this netherworld.

Her body sags under her own weight, her toes desperately trying for some purchase upon the ground. She feels the strain of her bones bending with each flap of the Glacian’s wings. Despite herself, tears fall down her face, moans escape her and she knows her consciousness is fading.

A voice rings out. She looks up blearily.

“Bring the chains.”

Another Glacian – the biggest she has seen – stands before them, mist swirling at his feet.

Just as she feels her bones will be ripped away from her body, the talons release her and she topples gracelessly to the rock. A grunt of pain leaves her, her face hitting the ground when her arms fail to break her fall. She spits blood, forcing herself to raise her head from the ice, lest they descend upon her again.

She blinks at the figures appearing from the fog behind the Glacian, and her eyes widen. “No,” she mumbles. For before her, six humans come.

She still recognizes their faces. There’s Gerrot, Lisha, and Page. They are much older, more weathered than the last time she saw them on the Ledge. But they are alive.

How can that be?

The giant Glacian barks at them all, and they hurry forward, each carrying a set of manacles and chains. The one closest to her – Page – bends before her and, with practiced hands, closes the manacles around Dawsyn’s wrists, taking care to tighten them. Her breath fogs in Dawsyn’s face, but the girl does not lift her head to look her in the eye.

“Page?”

Nothing. The girl only shakes her head once.

Dawsyn notes the shadows beneath her eyes, the cut of her cheekbone, now so severe against her face.

Page’s hands work deftly to secure more shackles to Dawsyn’s ankles and then she lifts her up. Her arms go around Dawsyn’s waist and heave her to standing. The weight of the manacles on Dawsyn’s wrists pulls on her wrecked shoulders and she whimpers pathetically.

Once neighbors, these gaunt humans hurry now to secure the chains that link the newly selected six who stand, bleeding, some crying, others swearing and kicking at the people they once knew.

The woman closest to Dawsyn – Mavah – calls out desperately to Gerrot, who refuses to answer, “Gerrot! Gerrot, help me!Look at me!” she sobs. “Goddamn it, man! I am your wife!”

Gerrot’s face crumples, but he otherwise does not pause and soon the humans-turned-slaves have chained and linked their newly captured kinsmen together.

The Glacians, who continue to hover above, now land, their weight reverberating through the rock to Dawsyn’s soles. In astonishment, she watches as their talons, blood-smeared and dripping, retract. They disappear, growing shorter and shorter, remolding into feet. Their leather attire is well made, that of warriors. With their wings folded behind them, their talons gone, they look like overgrown, colorless humans.

The female Glacian – Dawsyn’s captor – meets her eye and grins. How Dawsyn’s hands itch for her ax, her blade, but the futility of it stops her.

“Walk them in,” calls the Glacian larger than the rest.

Gerrot tugs on the end of the chain and the assembly line collectively groans as the shackles pull at their wounds. They stumble forward, one after the other, the chains on their feet making it difficult to keep their balance. Mavah falls and a Glacian kicks her in the back, making her scream out. Gerrot does nothing. He simply pulls the chain once more and ignores the pained cries of his wife.

At a torturous pace, they amble along the rocks that slope to the entrance of the Glacian kingdom. Dawsyn’s stomach turns at the vastness of it, a palace made of stone and marble, glistening coldly – a place she always imagined to be fit for demons.

The Glacians and slaves that flank them halt at a portcullis, pulling the assemblage to a stop. The biggest Glacian approaches the gate and the rest watch as his bare hand rests against the steel. There is a white glow that grows from his hand. Ice seems to spread from under his palm, cracking up the steel rungs, then the portcullis clangs heavily and rises.

Magic.

Dawsyn’s grandmother wove tales of Glacian magic, but she had believed they were just that – tales.

When they finally reach the grand wooden entrance to the palace, they stop again. The human slaves turn to the captives, as though to a summons, and suddenly, Dawsyn is blind.

A dark sack covers her head. A hand on her back urges her onward. She hears the gasps and protests of her fellows as they, too, lose their sight. Her toe clips on a rise in the path and she almost topples. They are herded and pulled in every direction, down steps, past voices that echo, until finally, they stop.