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The night before, he had returned to the camp and found Hector. Ryon had always thought the human scrawny, but no doubt stronger than he appears. Life on the Ledge would not have forged a man of meek temperament.

Still seething, Ryon had woken Hector who laid on his side, his front to Esra’s back.

“I need a favour,” Ryon had said in a low voice and waited for the man to find his feet.

“It is Dawsyn?” Hector had asked, rubbing the grit from his eyes with his equally gritty knuckles.

It should have set his teeth on edge, he thinks, to hear Hector enquire after her in that intimate tone. But Ryon has watched Dawsyn and Hector interact since they delivered him from the Ledge, and he knows their relationship is not, and has never been, romantic. It is something else entirely.

And by the way Hector gravitates toward Esra, Ryon needn’t hold further concern.

“Stay close to Dawsyn for me,” Ryon had said, nodding to the gloom due North, where Dawsyn surely still stood, seething as he did. “She is coughing more and more. Watch over her?”

Hector’s eyes had widened with worry. “I will.”

Ryon had given a stiff nod, then left in search of Abertha.

Now, sick dread pools in his belly to not have Dawsyn lying by him, and he regrets stalking off as he did, leaving her in the dark. If the blight worsened her in the night, he’ll curse himself.

Abertha breathes easily beside him, still asleep. The Chasm is still, quiet, despite the yellow river of light above them, signalling daybreak. It seems the longer they remain in this canyon, the more life it leeches from these people.Soon,Ryon thinks,they won’t rise at all.

Donning his sword sheaths across his shoulders, Ryon retrieves his unlit torch and stands. Each morning, he steals away. It is an easy thing to do in a black hole like this. He finds the wall, feeling along its sharp edges, putting distance between him and the others. Then he closes his eyes.

He rolls his shoulders, searching inward. He feels the place between bones where his wings nestle and stretches them carefully. It should feel as easy as stretching one’s legs; the muscles and tendons giving a dull but satisfying ache. Instead, Ryon’s eyes screw tightly shut. His wings spread reluctantly, sending a shock of pain down his spine from where the blade pierced his back. Had that knife been an inch closer to the centre, Ryon is sure he would not be able to walk, much less fly.

His wings shudder as they extend fully, but they do not vanish this time. It brings him a measure of relief. He is healing, if slowly. And it is far more than he could have hoped for.

Yet still, he thinks of Baltisse, who would have had him flying again within moments, had she not given her life to this ploy.

He sags. His friend, Baltisse. How desperately he wishes to confer with her now. No doubt the mage would bolster him, tell him to buck up and walk on. She would bring reason to whatever ailment plagues Dawsyn and the rest, curing them all. She would call Dawsyn a fool and rattle her until she saw sense.

But Baltisse is gone. Dead. Before he even had the chance to repay her for all the ways she fixed him, right from their very first meeting.

Gritting his teeth, Ryon raises his wings, as though he might lift his body from the ground. The pressure in his back is extraordinary, but he manages to hold the weight. His wings remain aloft until he cannot bear the strain, and he finally relents. They vanish, and he falls forward toward the Chasm wall, catching himself with his hands.

“Fuck,” he pants, feeling sweat drip down his chest. Dawsyn had accused him of wanting to fly away. If only she knew how impossible a feat it would be, even if he wanted to.

He recalls the look on her face. The shame and hurt, quickly veneered by her usual indifference, her slow-simmering ire. He wonders if he’ll ever truly see her with those layers stripped away, if she’ll ever fully reveal herself to him.

Or will he always trail after her, scratching the surface, hoping for a chance to see inside.

Last night, he had stared at the sky, and wished he could fly Dawsyn away. That desire still burns hotter than any other now. It is brighter than his irritation with her. Bigger than his fear. And yet, she still doubts his loyalty to her. His attachment.

Perhaps,he thinks, a bitter taste cloying in his mouth,the attachment is one-sided.

Sometimes, it is an easy thing to believe – that she doesn’t need him, even if she wants him. But there are those other times, like when she seeks him out. He can feel it then – the tether between them. Those moments when she buries herself in his embrace and recedes within him. In those small seconds of surrender, he believes that they were meant to find one another. “This girl has the power to destroy you, Ry,” Baltisse had once told him. “Best weigh your choices carefully.”

“I think it might be too late for that,” Ryon had grunted, watching Dawsyn sleep on a narrow cot inside Salem’s inn. Baltisse closed Dawsyn’s wounds and brushed her hair back, still damp with river water. “Then Mother help you.”

Ryon had stared at the mage, asking her silent questions, letting her read his mind.

“I don’t tell fortunes,” she had said. “I do not know if it will work. I only know that the connection is… strong. Strangely so. Sometimes these things are better off left alone.”

“I can’t,” he had whispered, staring at Dawsyn’s blood red lips, darkened by the cold.

“Then stay with her,” Baltisse had said. “And brace yourself. She will not make it easy.”

Ryon shakes his head at the memory. “Pain in the arse,” he says again, looking upward.