Val's breath came hard and fast, white clouds streaming from his lips as he stumbled into the ravine.
The snow here was thinner—melted by veins of underground heat, or maybe scorched by the last surge of fire he'd lost control of. His boots sank into mud more than ice. His cloak dragged behind him like a shadow that wouldn't let go.
The hatchling chirped weakly from the crook of his arm. He tightened his grip and whispered a soft, breathless shushing sound, not daring to stop until they were under the outcrop of stone nestled between the jagged roots of the mountain.
Only when they were half-hidden by the curved stone wall did he allow himself to sag to his knees. His shoulder throbbed where a crossbow bolt had grazed him—too close, too lucky—and the rough scrape across his back hadn't healed right.
