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G RAYLIN STOOD NEXT to Darant at the Fyredragon ’s maesterwheel. He watched as the captain sweated the massive ship toward a treacherous berth. Darant had discarded his half-cloak and leaned off to the side of the wheel, which he clutched in a white-knuckled grip. The man’s nose hovered near the bow window.

Beyond the glass, crumbling walls of ruins and sheer cliffs of sandstone rose on all sides. Dust swirled into a gritty fog, blown by the ship’s forges, lit by their flames. Higher up, the front edge of the storm had reached them. The rumbling howl of the desert god’s approach drowned out the roaring of their forge-engines.

It had taken them too long to find this berth for the ship, a dubious haven to ride out the ishuka to come. Esme had warned them they had to find shelter, to bury themselves away from the worst of the sandstorm. Even landing and tying the Fyredragon down with mooring lines would not be enough. The ishuka ’s rage would rip them loose, tear the balloon from its cables. Their Chanaryn guide had suggested one possible shelter, a rocky anchorage where they might weather the storm.

Graylin cringed as the Fyredragon continued its descent into a craggy pocket of the Seekh ruins. With jagged rock all around, they had little room to spare.

The Tablelands offered their only refuge. Cracks and deep ravines split the sandstone massif, exposing the depths of the buried necropolises. After a desperate search, they had chanced upon this wider, deeper pocket, one barely large enough to hold their massive ship. But they had no time to search for a better one.

The dark tempest, raging with the fury of an angry god, had risen into a towering black wave of churning sand, sweeping across the desert. It threatened to crash atop them at any moment.

“How’s the starboard look!” Darant bellowed.

“Clear!” Fenn shouted back from his station, where he skipped between the eyepieces of various scopes, whose mirrored lenses let the navigator view all sides of the ship. “Draw us forward by four cubits! Need more space for the stern.”

Darant pressed closer to the bow window. “Don’t have that much room ahead of us.”

“My scopes say you do.”

“My fekkin’ eyes say we don’t!”

“Then give me three cubits. We can just squeak by with that.”

Darant cursed and called orders to the crew flanking him at the substations’ wheels and levers. The ship drifted forward as the forges brightened the dusty gloom. Ahead, a facade of shattered bricks loomed closer. Ancient chambers pocketed its surface, looking like a broken honeycomb that had petrified millennia ago.

The ship’s sculpted prow skimmed nearer. The jutting dragon kissed the wall, jarring the ship. Bricks trenched loose as the draft-iron figurehead dragged its nose down the surface as they descended.

“Back ’er a nudge!” Darant called out.

Bow engines flared, pushing the prow away.

Fenn hollered from his side, “Hold! What did I just say about—”

From the stern of the ship, a loud scraping tremored throughout the vessel.

Darant winced and growled out final orders, doing his best to deepen their descent. Scraping rose from all sides. Cables shook. The gasbag overhead rattled between walls.

Finally, the captain bellowed to his crew, “All stop!” Darant leaned over to the mouth of the highhorn and called through to the open deck. “Secure our mooring lines!”

Graylin stepped closer to the window and stared up, past the front edge of the balloon. Sand gusted and whipped across the top of the cliffs, not far from the crown of the gasbag.

“Are we deep enough?” he asked.

Darant followed his gaze. “If you want this dragon to still have its wings, this is as far as we go. We’ll be patching holes as it is. Still, we must pray the storm doesn’t pop this cork out of its bottle.”

Graylin glanced behind him, as if his gaze could pierce ship and rock. “What about the Bhestyan warship, the Sharpened Spur ? Did they make it to a shelter, too?”

Fenn answered. “I kept an eye on them. Saw them descending shortly before we found this berth. Though they outman and outgun us, their ship’s smaller. Gave them plenty more options to choose from.”

“How far away?”

“Half a league to the northeast.”

“Did you chart their position?”

“As roughly as I could on our map of the Tablelands.”

Graylin didn’t doubt the navigator’s accuracy. He knew Fenn had a vested interest in knowing exactly where the warship had docked. His sister remained a prisoner aboard the Spur. The navigator was surely also tracking the passage of time. His uncle had given them until the first dawn bell to hand Fenn over or they would hang his sister.

It made for a tight schedule.

According to Esme, the ishuka would blow itself out by then.

Which means we have until dawn to decide what to do about this Bhestyan threat.

Darant shoved away from the maesterwheel, grabbed his half-cloak, and whipped it over his shoulders. “I’m heading topside. To check on our moorings. If we want this cork to stay put, we’d best snug ourselves tight.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Graylin drew alongside the captain and crossed the empty wheelhouse. Darant had chased everyone else out earlier, to eliminate any distractions during this descent. His crew needed to stay focused.

Graylin had also urged Nyx to go with Daal down to the lower hold, to try to keep their winged crewmates calm. It had taken no convincing. With her eyes still clouded, there was little she could see up here. Still, Graylin knew she had agreed mostly out of concern for Bashaliia. Daal had seemed similarly worried about his own charges.

At least this put her out of harm’s way, with someone trusted at her side. Plus, surrounded by those beasts, she had plenty of additional protection. Still, Graylin had sent Kalder down with her, too, especially with Nyx so compromised.

He prayed she stayed put.

For once.

T O HOLD HERSELF steady, Nyx gripped a column in the ship’s hold. The tremoring of the planks underfoot had stopped, as had the cringing scrapes of rock on wood.

We must have come to a halt.

Though far from recovered, Nyx cast out faint wisps of bridle-song. To her shrouded eyes, they glowed like soft embers through the gloom. They brightened upon reaching Bashaliia, ensuring her brother remained calm. She sang faint chords of reassurance to him. They were echoed back, both in confirmation and to check on her.

I’m well, too.

As she withdrew those strands, they brushed across the stout heart of the vargr. Kalder still guarded over her, seated nearby, maintaining his post. She quietly thanked him, which drew a rumble—one of slight warning.

She cast her gaze around. Through the veil of her vision, fiery pools of brightness marked lanterns deeper in the hold. A shadow swept over one, eclipsing its glow.

She didn’t need her eyes to tell who approached. She recognized the salty musk of his scent, as if he carried the sea of his home with him. She knew the rhythm of his breaths, which ended each exhalation with the barest wheeze, like a soft sigh.

“How is Pyllar?” she asked Daal.

“Doing well.” Relief softened that sigh even more. “Some seepage through his wrap. But nothing concerning. Heffik is also keeping a close watch on him.”

“That’s good. We can’t afford to lose any of the raash’ke, and I know how close you two have become.”

A silence followed, stretching into awkwardness. She heard the scuff of a foot, the slight strain to his breathing.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, sensing something was amiss.

Did bringing up the deeper bond between rider and mount remind him of what we have lost?

She longed for that closeness again, especially after just communing so intimately. It had wakened all that she had forsaken. In her head, the decision months ago had made cautionary sense, but now her heart fought against such restraint, wanting so much more—which of itself was a warning.

I can lose myself so easily in him.

“It’s Pyllar,” Daal explained. “There’s something I’ve wanted to talk to you about.”

Pyllar…?

Nyx hid her disappointment. Daal’s silence had nothing to do with her or what they had shared in the air.

“What… What about Pyllar?”

“There are times I feel I can touch his senses, see through his eyes, hear through his ears.” His voice gained a timbre of embarrassment, as if disbelieving his own words. “It only comes in snatches, brief and fleeting. If I give it too much attention, it wisps away. I feared talking with the other riders, lest they think I’m mad.”

“No, Daal, it’s not madness. Bashaliia and I often share the same. Sometimes felt more strongly, other times only faintly. It depends on how powerfully I’m singing.”

“But I can’t sing like you.”

She shook her head. “I doubt it matters. Clearly it doesn’t. I wager the innate strands of your bridle-song are weaving you two together. You’re finding a harmony with Pyllar that’s been growing over time. It’s nothing to fear, but to rejoice in.”

She reached to him. Though he remained in the shadows, she easily found his hand. Upon his touch, her fingers warmed as they closed. While it was nothing like the fire ignited in the past, the connection was there. The burgeoning wisps of their bridle-song—both his and hers—drew them together.

Daal’s breathing deepened.

She expected him to let go, but his fingers firmed on hers. She stepped closer, while at the same time he pulled her gently, tentatively, nearer. She found herself on her toes, balancing there at the edge.

All her senses sharpened in that moment, heightened both by her lack of sight and by her desire. The air—already warmed by the stern forge under the hold’s planks—grew hotter. Her nose picked up the oily note of flashburn from the engines, but also the tang of guano and the malt of dry hay from the nests nearby.

But all that faded away until the world became the hearth of Daal’s body, now only a finger’s breadth from hers. The warmth carried his scent to her, off his skin, from the fall of his hair. She smelled the sea, the musk of raash’ke pelt, even the iron of blood from a wound tended with love.

She leaned until her lips found his, as unerringly as ever.

There was no explosion of fire, no falling into each other. Most importantly, no danger. The faint strands of bridle-song echoed in the background, but they were mere whispers, nothing to fear. They only served as a distant chorus, a melancholy reminder of what they had been forced to set aside.

For now, though, this was more than enough.

Here they were safe with one another.

Still, Daal drew back. “Nyx…”

She heard the caution in his voice. She flashed to the last time he had pulled away, her name a warning on his lips. She had ignored it before to disastrous results.

Can’t I have at least this?

Before anything more could be said, a shout rose behind them from deeper in the hold.

“Daal! Come shut down this squabble!” It was Tamryn. “Before someone crosses a line… one they can’t come back from.”

Overhead, muffled bangs and shouts echoed down from the Pantheans’ cabins.

Daal retreated farther. “I should go,” he mumbled. “See what’s stirred them up.”

Nyx took a step back, bumping into the column behind her. Kalder came around and brushed across her legs. She reached down and drew the vargr closer. Off to the side, Bashaliia whistled a pining note.

It took her a moment to collect herself.

“I’m well,” she finally whispered to her brother, repeating her earlier assurance.

But am I truly?

She listened as Daal retreated with Tamryn. The woman’s words stayed with Nyx. She wondered if their sentiment mirrored Daal’s intent when he had pulled away. Had he been trying to warn her, maybe both of them, that they needed to stop?

And for the same reason that Tamryn had stated.

Before someone crosses a line… one they can’t come back from.

A TOP THE DECK of the Fyredragon, Graylin cringed at the sharp twang as another ballista erupted. The massive crossbow, hewn of age-hardened ash, unleashed a steel spear dragging a thick rope, its length reinforced with draft-iron fibers. The shaft flew through the air and struck the wall with enough force to bury its tip deep into the sandstone.

“Haul in the line!” the chief boatswain bellowed.

Burly men drew the rope taut and snugged the ends to stanchions along the deck.

A blast on the portside signaled another line being secured. A half dozen ballistas towered on both sides of the ship, while between them stood the same number of cannons. Around the ship, ropes strung out in all directions.

The Fyredragon looked like a fly trapped in a draft-iron web.

Darant nodded at his men’s handiwork. “That’s the last of our lines. Pray it’s enough.”

Graylin leaned over the rail, staring up, trying to spy past the rattling balloon. Its fabric quaked, and its thigh-thick cables groaned with the stress. Higher up, the blue skies had gone dark, obliterated by blasting sand. The sun remained a wan glow through the gloom. The roar of the desert god steadily rose.

And this is only the storm’s front edge.

“We’ll be in the teeth of it shortly.” Graylin turned and faced the captain. “You’ll need to do your best, Darant, to keep the ship safe.”

And all those aboard her.

“It’s a mad ruse you’re planning,” Darant warned.

Graylin shook his head. “The Bhestyan warship must be dealt with. We can’t have the Spur continuing to pursue us once the storm breaks. The bastards are only a half league off. With their smaller, more agile ship, they could be upon us before the Fyredragon can reach open air.”

Darant knew this danger, too. Still, he looked hard at Graylin. “I heard you’re taking Fenn. You’re not planning on handing over my navigator, are you?”

Graylin offered the truth. “Only if necessary.”

“What if you took more men, more of my crew—”

“No.” Graylin shut this down. “We’ll manage with those I picked or not at all. If I fail, you’ll need every cannon, ballista, and free hand to fight your way free.” He gave the captain a stern look. “When the storm breaks, you run. Whether we’re back or not. Is that understood?”

Darant stared him down for a long breath, but the former pirate had enough sense to finally nod. The captain knew the stakes as well as anyone.

“Does Nyx know you’re taking Jace?” Darant asked.

“He volunteered. I left it up to him whether to inform Nyx or not. And he’s proven himself no slouch with his ax.”

“Aye, he has. Considering the potbellied scholar he once was, he’s turning into a fine pirate.”

Graylin nodded, but that wasn’t the true reason he had accepted Jace’s offer. He didn’t want to leave Jace behind with Nyx, not after what had happened back in Spindryft. Graylin feared the stress of the next half day might trigger the daemon inside Jace to rise again.

I can’t take that chance.

Graylin had also handpicked a few others for this gambit, but one detail remained paramount. He squinted at Darant. “Have you heard from Hyck? Has he finished what I asked for?”

“I’ll check. But I’ve heard no loud booms, so I assume my engineer has not blown himself up.” Darant turned to face the broken cliffs and bricked escarpments. “Do you think she can lead you to the other ship?”

Before Graylin could answer, the storm erupted with a savage wail, quaking the balloon, shaking the ship. Sand spun and whipped down into the trough. The sun vanished into darkness. One of the mooring lines tore out of the wall. The boatswain and two crewmen ran toward its stanchion.

Graylin looked up, studying the sweeping black skirt of the desert god, Ishuka. “We’ll never reach the Bhestyan warship by crossing overland, not through the storm.” He lowered his gaze to the spread of dark ruins before him. “Only one path offers any hope.”

And only one woman can lead us along it.