The woman frowns and leans in, lowering her voice. “Trys, you know I’m not supposed to let you through without Vothe.”

“Her leg’s broken in several places,” Trystan cuts in severely. “You know she won’t get proper care on this side of the border.”

“That’s a Red Level transgression.”

“Does she look like the Black Witch, Minyl?” Trystan asks harshly, and my anxiety ramps up.

Minyl’s lips tighten as she deliberates, her dark eyes tensing. “I’ll let you through,” she finally bites out, surreptitiously scanning the surrounding skies before flashing Trystan a hard look. “But find Vothe as soon as you can and report back.”

“I will,” Trystan promises as I wonder who this Vothe could possibly be.

Minyl lifts a rune-marked disc and the runes orbiting our skiff blink out of sight. Then she turns and pilots her skiff into motion, Trystan following suit, both crafts rapidly accelerating. We follow her toward the rune border, pivoting upward to soar toward her apex-segment, then clear over it. Minyl’s skiff noses straight into the runic dome like it’s made of water, an arc-shaped hole rippling open that we follow her through.

And then we’re soaring over the Vo River toward the purple-and-blue-glimmering world of Voloi while Minyl switchbacks around, raising a hand to Trystan in quick farewell as she soars back to the border.

Relief floods me so intensely a light-headed disorientation takes hold.

Noilaan.

I’m in Noilaan.

All the preparation Lukas and Chi Nam and Valasca did to get me here is suddenly circling down, their glaring absence opening a hollow ache in my heart.

You were supposed to be here with me. All of you.

Instead, Lukas is a world away, in terrible danger, Chi Nam is dead, and Valasca—Ancient One knows where Valasca was transported by our incompletely charged portal.

My chest-tightening anguish makes a rapid slide to steel.

I’ll find you, I vow to Lukas and Valasca both, as we soar toward the glimmering city, wishing with everything in me I could send the thought straight to them.

Our skiff turns due south, and a pair of island-mountains are before us, the vertical landmasses rising so high they pierce the clouds. Tiers of onyx castle-like structures spiral up their dark surfaces, their corresponding tiers connected by walkways, like the rungs of some giant’s ladder. A huge bas-relief carving of an ivory dragon wraps around each of their bases, a multitude of living dragons and military air skiffs encircling them.

Ancient One. It’s Noilaan’s military academy.

“That’s the Wyvernguard,” Trystan says, giving me a tense look, and I drop closer to the floor.

We fly past, my breathing measured as I watch its highest reaches near then recede behind us, slumping with relief once we’re well past it.

“Where’s Rafe?” I ask Trystan, desperate to be safely surrounded by family. And desperate to see my beloved eldest brother.