It was the soldier’s turn for desperation, his fingers releasing the sword to tumble away into empty air, clattering to the floor a moment later. His arms reaching, stretching, trying to snatch at anything it could, even as the last few skeins of rope weakened and then broke.

Somehow, someway, one of his hands managed to stretch high enough to grasp Tomas’s ankle. Except, this time, he was ready, his opposite knee coiled upward like a snake preparing to strike. And then he did, slamming his heel into the guard’s face with every bit of force he’d hoped for, bones crunching, the soldier’s mouth issuing a wet, gurgling protest that did nothing to prevent his fingers from losing all strength as he was knocked free.

For a long second, it almost looked like he was floating, like he might slowly and gracefully make his way to the floor, where he would settle onto his back as if only sleeping. The moment passed and he flipped arse over teakettle, twisting and flipping wildly until, with a vicious crunch! he landed.

Tomas looked away, surprised at how easy the final few feet of his climb now felt, not making the same mistake as the last time, grasping onto one of the metal dividers that separated panes of glass, shimmying his way over the edge. And then, smearing blood the entire way behind him, he slid down the curved dome until his feet planted on solid rock.

And then he ran.

Interlude: The River of Life

Hern, Finfalla

The River of Life was a myth, a legend, a story passed down from father to son, mother to daughter, ear to ear and soul to soul, until its meaning, its true meaning, had been lost to anyone who still breathed air into their lungs.

Faryon dar Lamassi wasn’t one of those people.

He was both a pragmatist and a dreamer, a meticulous planner and a wayward searcher. But more than any of that, he was as determined a man as the world had ever known. From the day his father had told him about the River of Life, he had made it his life’s purpose to find it. Not because he sought eternal life, or unimaginable wealth, but because that myth, that legend, called to him. In the last moments before sleep dragged his mind into the abyss each night, he heard its song. And the moment he awoke, even before he’d rubbed the sleep from his eyes and shaken away the last of the cobwebs, he heard its cry.

It is out there, just waiting to be found, he would always think to himself in those moments. And I must be the one to find it.

But one couldn’t simply run off into the woods on a lark and a prayer. One needed resources, and as fate would have it, he was born into a wealthy family, at least by Hern’s standards. His father was the mayor, his mother a lesser noblewoman who’d grown tired of Marchessault’s endless politicking and backstabbing, seeking a life of adventure promised by marrying a leader at the edge of the great frontier.