He’s looking at her with a whole new expression—something like fear, like respect, like a student looks at a teacher, and then he nods.

“Together,” he says.

“We could help—“ Valeweaver offers.

“No.” The other witch shakes her head. “Let our new brethren learn.”

Nightsinger offers her hand again, and this time Lucien takes it without hesitation. The wind blares between the silence, between their fingers growing black at the tips and upward, and then it happens.

I’ve learned magic is silent, until suddenly it’s not.

There’s a persistent, quiet crackle like a sugar crust being broken, and then the empty space of cloud between our plateau and the main land springs to life, the clouds shifting and moving and reassembling into one flat white plane, wispy lattices growing around and up until they enmesh as one.

It’s a tunnel. A beautiful, unreal tunnel spun out of clouds.

Nightsinger and Lucien let go, and she starts walking across, flanked by her two witches. Y’shennria follows, and I’m about to yelp for her to stop—she’ll fall through. They’re clouds. But her silk shoes land as if it’s solid ground, the only clue it’s not being the little puffs of white wisp eking from under her soles with every step. And the fact she’s not plummeting to her demise.

“I suppose this would be a bad time to mention I’m afraid of heights,” Malachite drawls.

“Close your eyes,” I tease. “I’ll lead you by the hand.”

“If you wanted to hold my hand, Six-Eyes, all you had to do was ask.”

I boop his nose. “You’re delusional.”

Lucien turns to us then and says, “Let’s go.”

“Do we have to?” Malachite asks. “It looks like death.”

“Oh, please,” Fione snorts. “It’s just magic.”

She’s the first to walk past Lucien, to set foot on the cloudbridge and cross it with her head held fearlessly high.

“The polymathematical genius is right,” I chirp, walking after her and stamping my boots hard on the cloud for effect. “It’s. Just. Magic!”

Malachite follows, one toe at a time, swearing in beneather the whole way as I tug him along. Lucien catches up to me and slides his left hand in my free one. Even if he can’t move it, it feels good. A reassurance.

“It was hard for you in that forest for three years,” he murmurs. “Wasn’t it?”

The question catches me off guard and digs far deeper than it should. Than I want it to. Did he—

“I saw it,” he admits. “Through Nightsinger.”