Yara fell hard.
The rocks bit into her side, scraping deep along her forearm as her boots skidded off the slick edge of the cliff. Her shoulder slammed into stone, jarring her spine. She would've screamed—if the wind hadn't already stolen the air from her lungs.
Below her, the drop yawned wide and deadly. Jagged crags stabbed out like broken teeth. Further down, the distant glow of a ley-channel shimmered faintly between shifting mists, pulsing in steady rhythm like a distant heartbeat.
Wind howled past her ears.
Then came the shriek.
The hawkbeasts.
She didn't look up. She knew the sound. The warbling screech, the massive wings that made the air thrum, the sharp steel-colored beaks designed for puncturing dragonhide. The inner scholar in her would have been a mess trying to get a better look at the beasts, but this wasn't the time to gawk.
