Every step sends pain through my wounded thigh, but I don’t stop. Behind me, steel clashes — Venna holding the line, buying seconds with blood.

“I see you coming. Keep moving, don’t slow down.”

“Your wing — can you fly at all?” I talk to Aspis as I can’t leave my dragon in this condition.

“The membrane is torn, not destroyed. Short distances only, enough to get airborne or clear the immediate danger.”

“What about escaping this position?”

“Enough to survive. Stop asking questions and keep running.”

Fifteen yards, then ten. Aspis heaves upright, her damaged wing dragging against the stone.

“The bone holds intact. I can lift us both if you mount quickly.”

“How high? How far before the wing fails?”

“Twenty feet, perhaps thirty, short bursts. It will hurt, but I can manage the pain long enough to get us clear.”

“And after that?” I don’t even want to think about us losing.

“I do not know. We will learn together when the moment comes.”

I grab the ridge of scales along her neck. My arms shake, and my wounded leg nearly buckles, but I pull myself onto her back.

“Hold tight. This will hurt us both, and I cannot catch you if you fall.”

“Do it now before I lose my nerve.”

“You are lying about being ready, but we have no time for honesty. Flying now.”

Aspis lurches upward with a scream of effort. Her damaged wing beats once, twice — each stroke painful, the torn membrane straining. We rise.

“I cannot maintain this altitude for long. The wing is failing.”

“Hold it as long as you can.”

I look down. Venna is still at the gap — the natural chokepoint between two boulders that only admits one attacker at a time. She’s positioned herself at a gate, holding it with everything she has left.

Two elite guards rush her position. Her blade catches the first across the throat, and she pivots into the second with a shield bash that sends him staggering. The return stroke opens his chest before he can recover.

She’s slower now: movements deliberate rather than instinctive. A warrior who knows her body is failing and is choosing each action with terrible precision. The wound in her side is catastrophic — dark blood spreading across her leathers, dripping onto stone.

“We have to help her. Aspis, we have to go back—”

“I cannot do what you are asking. The wing will not sustain another landing and launch. If I go down now, I stay down.”

“So we just hover here and watch her die?”

Aspis says nothing. There is nothing to say indeed.

Below, Venna cuts down another attacker. Her blade work is still precise, but the strength is fading. I can see it in the way she plants her feet: wider now, compensating for legs that want to buckle.

She hated me. She spent months trying to destroy everything I built. Why would she die for me?

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