Her feet hit the ground. Instinct took hold, and she transferred into a roll. Two rolls. Maybe three. Then she landed on her back as the last of the branches holding the Eridysi broke in two.

Safi curled into a ball, head protected.

The Eridysi hit the ground. The earth trembled. Splinters flew. Then it was over. She was alive and she was safe.

For several moments, Safi stayed tucked in her ball. She waited for the cracking sounds to dissipate from her hearing, for the ground to stop its trembling. When eventually she felt safe enough to breathe and look around, she unfurled. Then patted her pockets: the Threadstones were still safe.

Caden lay sprawled nearby, but no one else. No Lev, no Zander, no Leopold. She jolted upright, gaze spinning. The flying machine was a wreck of wood and branches and shredded sail. “Lev?” she called, towing in her feet. “Zander? Polly?”

“They … fell.”

Safi spun toward Caden. He looked as bad as Safi felt—a deep gash across his cheek. Twigs and dirt in his hair. “They fell,” he repeated.

“No,” Safi breathed. “How far back?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll go after them. We have to go after them.” All clear, all clear.

“Yes,” Safi agreed. She moved to help him rise … only to get a full view of Caden’s leg. Blood oozed outward from his calf, and his pants were stained through. “Can you stand?”

Before he could say this, though—before Safi could get him up to test the leg—footsteps thumped out in the forest. Hope surged in her chest. She spun about, ready to welcome Lev and Zander and Leopold. Ready to laugh and hug them close.

But it was not her friends who charged out from the underbrush. It was two Windwitches, each with Cartorran armor and air spinning around them.

“Surrender,” barked the nearest, “or die.” Then he and his partner lifted two pistols and aimed them at Safi’s and Caden’s hearts.

Iseult shambled through the fog. Without sight, she was aimless. Without breath, she was fading fast. And without touch, she was nothing but her insides. Her soul. Her emotions gushing outward: hate, love, frustration.

And regret. So, so much regret. I will fix this. I will fix this. She had to fix this. Her face seared, her eyes streamed, but at least she sensed no Threads tracking behind.

Except now that she was reaching and stretching, no other senses to interfere, there was something new within her magic. Unfamiliar, tinted yellow, and sparkling with air. Windwitchery. It was the power she’d leeched, but with no ghost attached, no voice to shout at her and drag her into nightmares. Just a tiny well, finite and waiting.

Esme squeaked into her ear. Use it, use it now. And Iseult didn’t need any more prodding. She had stolen that power, but now it would be her salvation.

Go, she told the magic. Fly.