Page 172 of Stormvein

Sacha nods, and turns to address the entire group. “We’ll take Silverthread Pass. Most of you will have heard about or faced glassbacks before, but for those who haven’t …” His gaze rests on me for a second. “The pass is named for the threads spun by glassbacks. They use them to hunt by sensing vibrations. Anyone who’s not familiar with them needs to understand the risk ahead of us.”

I shift nervously in my saddle. “What exactlyareglassbacks?”

“Predators. Their bodies refract light, making them difficult to see until they’re almost too close to kill. They secrete a toxin that burns on contact. Their thread network alerts the entire colony to potential prey.”

“How do we avoid them?”

“Move slowly. Stay as quiet as possible. Don’t touch the threads. They can sense the slightest disturbance.” His eyes scan our group. “If they attack, aim for the joints between segments. Their exoskeletons are strongest at the center.”

“Segments?” I’m rapidly building up an image of giant spiders in my head.

“Their blood is caustic. If it touches your skin, wipe it off immediately or it will continue to burn until it eats through your flesh and paralyzes you,” Mira says.

My mouth goes dry as I look up at the narrow pass cutting between towering rock faces.

“And you’re certain this is the only route?”

“I’m afraid so.” Sacha returns to his horse. “We need to wrap the horses’ hooves in cloth to muffle the noise.”

Once we’re done, Sacha swings back into his saddle.

“Mount up. Let’s go. Stay in single file. Keep alert.”

The temperature drops as we enter the pass, cold seeping through my clothes and settling against my skin like a second, unwelcome layer. The mountains loom on either side like sentinels, creating shadows so deep they seem to swallow the moonlight. Everything about this place feels wrong. The air hangs unnaturally still, too dense, pressing against my ears until they pop.

Above us, flashes of silver catch stray beams of moonlight—an intricate network of delicate strands stretched between rock faces at all heights and angles. They remind me of spiderwebs at first glance, but somehow more ... deliberate.

“Remember,” Sacha whispers. “Move slowly. Avoid the threads.”

My eyes immediately dart upward. The silvery threads are everywhere, forming an intricate canopy high above the pass. Some strands hang down, swaying gently even though there’s no breeze. Others stretch between the walls like garrotes waiting to snap tight.

A strand drifts down directly in front of my face. I jerk backward, nearly slipping from my saddle. The filament is thin, almost invisible except where moonlight strikes it. Something glistens along its length—a clear, viscous fluid that catches the light like dew on grass.

We move forward in slow, painful silence, each hoof placement of our mounts sounding thunderous to my ears, despite the cloth wrappings. My heart is hammering so loudly I’m certain it will give us away. Sweat trickles down my spine despite the cold.

The first sound is so subtle I almost miss it. A gentle clicking, like tiny pieces of glass tapping together. Like fingernails on bone. Then silence again. I strain to hear, unsure if I imagined it.

There it is again.

A rhythmic click-click-click. Then, answering clicks from further down the pass. My mouth turns desert-dry.

Sacha lifts one hand, bringing our procession to a halt. He exchanges a look with Mira.

Nobody moves. Nobody speaks. We barely breathe.

A single strand descends between Sacha and the fighter ahead of him, lowering with deliberate slowness. At its end dangles a drop of something that reminds me of mercury—silver, reflective, and to my highly-terrified mind, somehow aware.

My horse shifts nervously beneath me. I tighten my grip on the reins, willing the animal to remain still. The clicking gets louder, coming from multiple directions now, and I fight the urge to look around, Sacha’s warning about movement echoing around my mind.

The silvery drop touches the ground, then flattens, spreading like spilled water. It pauses, then begins to pull itself back up the strand, leaving a glistening trail behind.

“It’s tasting the air,” Mira breathes, the words barely audible.

The strand goes taut. The clicking stops.

And for three of my racing heartbeats, absolute silence reigns.

Then the walls erupt.