Finally, he risked a glance behind him, breath catching in his chest when he saw how close his pursuer was. He’d already cut the distance in half, climbing at least twice as fast as him, despite the added weight of his armor. The soldier said nothing when their eyes locked, but Tomas could see the determination in that look.

“Go,” he urged himself, looking upward. He was perhaps three quarters of the way to the top, and yet it felt like an insurmountable distance, what with his strength already flagging, his sweat-soaked grip struggling to find purchase on the rough rope even as it bit into him.

His pursuer’s speed wasn’t helping matters.

He climbed, sensing the guard getting closer. Refusing to make it true by confirming it with a look back. He was almost there, the rays of sunlight warming his skin directly through the jagged hole in the glass roof.

I’m going to make it, he thought, an unexpected wave of hope crashing inside him, sending a fresh burst of energy to his limbs. He reached for the edge of glass…

It broke, cutting into his hand and forcing him to drop it as his body dangled by one hand, twisting in a vicious circle that seemed intent on ripping his arm from its socket. Fresh blood dripped from his fingertips.

Pain arrived in the form of stars dancing before his eyes. His grip wavered, tendons of rope digging deep into his palm. And, to make matters worse, the guard caught up to him at the same time, grabbing at his ankle.

All the emotions he’d been holding back—shock, anger, fear, desperation, frustration, relief—broke through the dam, spilling upwards into his chest, then throat, then out through his mouth in a roar. As that sound erupted from him, he did two things: First, he kicked his foot free from the guard; and second, he swung his bloody hand back up, clamping it onto the rope once more.

He heard steel shriek from a scabbard, close enough to set his teeth on edge. Then came the pain, slashing through his calf. He looked back to find the soldier grinning, even as he raised his sword to offer another blow. For once in his life, Tomas couldn’t claim any foresight to his actions, no meticulously planned stratagem designed to make his opponent appear foolish. For once in his life, he acted on pure instinct, pulling as hard as he could with his arms, ignoring the pain that flared in his cut and bleeding palm, and then tucking his knees up to his chest as far as they could go, his stomach muscles crunching.

The soldier’s blade struck.

For a moment, time seemed to stop as their eyes locked, both of them realizing the damage that had been dealt by the blow. Not to Tomas’s leg like the first time, but to the rope. Somehow, the blade had been repelled, avoiding a clean through-cut, leaving only a few hair-thin tendrils holding the guard’s weight. They began to twist, snapping away one at a time.