Ra clatters against my chest in its scabbard. I try to pull it out, but it spins away. The blood rushes to my head and pounds. I kick and I shout, but it’s no use.

A rough yank at my ankle triggers a fresh wave of panic and I hook one leg over the other to stabilise myself. I know what’s happening. It’s carrying me. It’s flying me away like some roadkill snatched up by a vulture.

I have a vague sense of someone below charging after us, but I’m spinning, losing consciousness. Over a buzzing in my ears, I hear the double blast of a gun.

Blam! Blam!

Something cuts through the air with a sharp whine. A wet thunking sound and I feel a spray of blood. I hear the gun firing, again and again and again. The Reaper screams and beats its wings, and I jerk violently.

It’s freezing. Flakes of snow swirl around me. The light is silvery and the air seems to wobble. I’m thrown about like a rag doll.

And, incredibly, that’s when my hand bangs into Ra.

Focus, I think to myself. Focus on surviving.

I grab hold and pull it from the scabbard in one clean move.

Using every ounce of strength in me, I stab it hard upward into the pink-skinned, black-veined underbelly of the beast. Hot blood gushes over me.

The Reaper howls. And, as I feel the claws retract, the world turns dark.

Gravity pulls, sucks me down.

And then releases.

I lift.

I float.

—

I Fall.

Tir

It is the mercurial nature of TIR, the fourth realm, that confounds Pathfinders Fallen into this world. First located by the Persian mathematician, philosopher, poet—and Pathfinder—OMAR KHAYYAM. Many say his poems invoke the multiverse; Tir, in particular:

Oh threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!

One thing at least is certain—this Life flies;

One thing is certain and the rest is Lies—

The Flower that is once blown forever dies.

32

Pain. White-hot. It shoots up and down my back. My teeth throb in their gums and there’s a buzzing in my ears. It feels like every bone in my body has been broken and reset wrong. And it’s hot. Furnace-hot. I tear off my jacket and my hoodie and gasp. I try to stand, but the ground spins and I thump back down and lie there, stunned in the sudden heat, watching my breath blast up puffs of dust. The ground is chalky and white. I gaze at a crack, splintering, forking away from me and try to organise my worming thoughts.

Malik—his gun firing. The Reaper—its pink, bony wings. I remember being jerked into the air. A vile stench. Then, blankness. A blur. I lose the field and the sky and the Reaper and Malik below. The red sky, the freezing cold—everything goes. My head pounds.

Keep it together, Ana. Don’t lose it.