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She turns to look at me, shaking her head with sadness. “Promises can be broken, Viola. And you’ll never be happy with a normal life, we both know it. I’ll see you around, I hope.”
Darkness engulfs my vision, and I drop to my knees. My blood runs cold, and an unbearable pressure weighs on my chest. Tulip is behind me, her hand on my back, rubbing small circles. “Lola, I think you’re having a panic attack,” she murmurs. I shake my head, inhaling deeply. “No, I’m fine. I just... yeah, I just lost my footing, I guess.” When I look at my hands, they both press a chaotic pattern on my thighs.
I glance up at Max, who is already scaling the face of the mountain. She has always been a swift climber and is already nearing a small outcropping with a rest platform. Tears once more stream down my face, the salty taste lingering on my parched lips as I watch my friend’s retreating form.
Max turns her head to look back at me and reaches blindly for a rock as a handhold.
The rock shifts, sliding out from the mountain face. She struggles to find another handhold, and in her panic, her feet start to slip.
Rocks shower down around us as Max thrashes above.
I am immobilized, unable to help.
She’s too high up.
She’s too good of a climber.
Finally, her hands slip completely, arms flailing behind her as she tumbles backward down the face of the mountain.
Helplessly, I watch her body fall, a silent scream contorting my face, mirroring the very real screams escaping her mouth.
For a split second, I think I see shadows attempting to grab hold of her and pull her to safety. But it is nothing more than wishful thinking.
Max’s body crashes onto the ground below, limbs splayed in unnatural angles.
And my world goes dark.
Chapter 21
Zeph
EversinceMaceheardmention of the elevator, he has been on edge.
The elevator rumor, woven by the Patricians long ago, was designed to ignite hope and anticipation among humans. It whispered of a chance to transcend the Race, an escape from the reality of the pilgrimage.
I’ve always been surprised that humans even understand the concept of an elevator. In Ytopie, we utilize Storm-type magic in a grid to address minor needs. Around the clock, a small team of Bliksem cast their spells to keep it fully charged. I prefer using flames more, but only some have Summer magic, so the grid is exceedingly helpful to our society. Our particularly tall buildings may have an elevator. This small box rises and lowers throughout a building using a crank and lever, which the grid can usually help operate. It’s especially beneficial for our elderly population or those fae with mobility issues who may struggle with the stone stairs. Fae may live a long time, but we’re not immune to the bodily effects of old age and injuries.
Humans, however, do not have such luxuries. They heat their water over fires, use outhouses, and have candles to light their homes. An elevator is as foreign of a concept to them as what it is like to utilize magic. Nevertheless, the rumor seems to have stuck.
It’s hard to believe that a simple myth whispered around circles was responsible for the ruination of a friendship and the loss of life.
The silence in the room is suffocating, each breath heavy with grief and loss. It is only punctuated by Nimh and Cirrha’s soft cries, grief over someone they would never meet. I had not realized until this point how attached everyone had grown to this trio of women. I knew the connection focused on them frequently, but part of me believed it was just me noticing every time it was on them. The room’s reaction tells a different story about the affection developed for this group.
Cirrha, in her kindness, broke the spell amplifying the voices of the travel party, sparing us the heartbreaking screams of a woman falling to her death. The utter silence of the connection is eerie. We can see Tulip, the other of Max’s travel companions, her face contorted in agony and grief. We cannot hear the wails of desperation that undoubtedly envelop Gallant Summit.
Viola is deathly still, tears flooding down her blank face. I know she must be thinking the same thing I do - that there was no reason for Max to have fallen. She was a proficient climber, having already scaled tougher portions of the mountain.
Unable to look at Viola’s stoney face any longer, I push from my chair and move to the window. Looking down at the city below me, I see bustling people, thriving businesses, and shimmering buildings. The sun is high, casting warm tendrils across the square. It is a stark contrast to the melancholy that permeates this room.
Grief strikes my chest. Viola has undergone such trauma, and this is one more for the list. My compulsion to protect her is visceral. Watching her these past however many days has grown my affection for her considerably. It feels like I’ve known her forever, and we were fated to meet.
But she isn’t. Or rather, she shouldn’t be. My loyalty is supposed to be to Ytopie, not to a human woman in the Race, and I am uncomfortable with how often I need to remind myself of that.
I turn my back to the window and gaze at the connection, where a stoic Viola comforts a distraught Tulip. Viola’s face is a mask. There is no emotion behind her eyes, only darkness and resignation. I watch as she takes a sip from her canteen and turns to Tulip, wiping the girl’s face with a rag from her bag.
The only person who seems to not be upset by Max’s death is Mace. When Max fell to the ground as she scaled the mountain face, he was on his feet, moving closer to the connection. His restlessness consumed him, his fingers flexing and stretching absentmindedly. As he fixated on the connection, his eyes gleamed with a disconcerting mix of anticipation and fascination as Max fell to her death.
Mace’s restless energy infects the room, his customarily composed demeanor replaced by an uncharacteristic agitation. He paces back and forth along the side of the room, his steps echoing with an unsteady rhythm. The mutterings that escape his lips are a jumble of fragmented thoughts, disjointed like he cannot make sense of his own mind.
