Page 47 of On Burning Paths

"Come here," Talon says, his arms coming around me. His voice sounds almost normal. Almost. But there's a tightness beneath the usually easy cadence that tells me he's holding himself together by a thread just like I am.

My tears wrack my body, convulsing through my chest and into my stomach so hard I think I might be sick. I can’t breathe, and I curl into Talon’s body, my only comfort at a time when I can’t be comforted.

Fenric is dead.

The man who looked at me like I could hold the moon. Who saved my life at the sacrifice of his own. He was so smart, so considerate and gentle. He managed to soften even Thorian, whose granite facade softened at Fenric’s jokes and generosity.

“I’ll kill those fucking wizards,” Thorian growls, and when I glance up, I can see, through the flashes of lightning, his white knuckles around the hilt of his blade. “I’ll fucking kill them.”

Another barrage of sobs rolls over me, and I struggle to suck in a breath.

“Breathe, Nyx,” Talon says, trying to sooth me. He murmurs words I can’t make out, then tips my face to the drizzling sky and commands me to breathe.

But I can’t.

I’ll never be able to breathe again.

My chest is tight, and with Talon's coaching, I fight for air, sucking in great, heaving gasps that never feel like enough. Everything hurts.

Losing my parents was the worst thing I'd ever gone through, but this is different. A different kind of love, a different kind of loss.

I have no idea how long we've stood at the edge of the cliff. No idea how long I've been crying, or how long Talon has been holding me, or how long Thorian has been pacing, growling his threats to the Vultures.

Then Thorian is there, and without a word he takes me from Talon's arms and pulls me against his chest. One hand comes up to my hair, stroking slowly, carefully, and he murmurs to me in a low voice, words I can barely make out over the rain and the wind and the ragged sound of my own breathing. It doesn't matter what he's saying. It's the sound of it that reaches me, that deep, steady rumble against my cheek, unhurried and certain, like he has all the time in the world and intends to stay until I'm ready to move. Like he isn't going anywhere.

Slowly, incrementally, my breathing evens out.

But, finally, Thorian takes a step back and looks down at me. "We have to keep going.”

"I can't just⁠—"

"He cut that bridge so the warlocks couldn't follow us across and finish what they started." His voice is quiet but firm, and he holds my gaze steadily, like he's decided I can take it. "We can't let that be for nothing. If we stay here, we dishonor what he did."

"Thorian—"

"Not only that, but the gods will change the trial for the teams still on the other side. And when they do, whatever comes next will be worse." He glances toward the canyon, then back at me. "We don't want to be anywhere near the other teams when that happens."

I close my mouth.

He's right. I hate that he's right. I hate that Fenric is gone and we have to keep moving and there's nothing else to do but keep moving, and somewhere in that canyon is the warmest person I've ever known and we're just going to walk away from him.

But I think of his face when he cut the rope. The deliberateness of it. The choice.

He knew what he was doing. He made sure we got across first.

“Nyx,” Thorian says gently, swallowing and finding my eyes. A muscles ticks in his jaw. “I’m sorry. But we have to move.”

It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him apologize.

And it’s not even his fault. I hope he knows that. I’ll have to tell him.

I know that in this competition, there’s no time for mourning. Both Fenric and Talon lost their teams. If they had taken time to mourn, they wouldn’t have stayed alive long enough to join ours.

It dawns on me, not for the first time, that I’m not fit for these games. That I don’t have the constitution to move on from death so easily.

“Okay,” I manage, because this isn’t just about me.

This is about Lyra.