Chapter 66
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
LEINA
We tear through the Veil, slipping between the edges of the world in jagged, merciless bursts.
Every attack is a sharp burst of speed, not meant to decimate, but to herd, to drive the Kher’zenn back on a knot of fear and rage.
Each time we pass, though, they’re snarling out orders. Tactics. Strategy.
They adapt quickly, spinning and tracking our movements, their sharp eyes gleaming with hatred and a terrible cunning. Their whips crack through the air, not wild, but calculated, aimed to intercept our next dive.
“There! The veilstrider!”
“Break the beast’s wings!”
“Box them in—NOW!”
We dance beyond their reach, but barely. Their lines don’t break, at least, not for long. They won’t be herded like the Elder wanted. These are not mindless monsters. They’re warriors, strategic and organized.
“They’re predators,” Vaeloria says, as we slide back into the Veil, each of us bleeding anew from a shredwhip. “Predators can’t be herded like sheep.”
Oh my gods. Of course. I’m an idiot.
“We need to be the sheep, Vaeloria,” I say, mouth tight with grim resolve.
She laughs, the not-quite-a-sound brushing against my mind—dangerous, alive, and humming with anticipation.
“That’s not something I’ve ever been mistaken for,” she says, a wicked gleam of amusement in her voice. “ But there’s a first for everything .”
This time, we leave the Veil behind the Kher’zenn. Vaeloria flutters her wings like she’s struggling to stay aloft. There’s enough blood pouring from her wings that my own heart stutters, and my fear for her blooms sharp and pungent on the air.
It’s a perfume that calls to them.
Their heads snap around, mouths pulling back in ragged grins that are far too human to be anything but horrifying. They come. They come for us with whips flashing, wings snapping, and claws reaching. There’s little strategy here, just instinctive hunger—the will of a predator after faltering prey.
And gods help us, we are faltering. We wheel toward the storm, feigning panic, but somewhere in the choked spaces of my mind, I know it's not entirely a lie.
Blood from a gash on my forehead slides hot into my eyes, half-blinding me.
My arm burns from the shredwhip, my fingers are going stiff with shock and blood loss.
My vision narrows, my grasp on the Veil slips, like my mind is as bloodied as my fingers.
Even my thoughts feel battered, fragile.
Vaeloria stumbles once, twice, and I don’t know if it’s real or for show. Her body quivers beneath me.
We plunge toward the cloud recklessly, and they follow. Eagerly.
Because this—this is their hunting grounds.
The storm looms, thick and restless, a churning mass of mist. A thrill ripples through them, the savage glee of the predator that’s cornered its prey exactly where it wants it.
I catch flashes of them as we breach the first ragged edge of the storm: leathery wings snapping open to slow their descent, whips coiling, teeth bared, claws spread wide.
Hunters in their element. Masters of this broken, bleeding sky.
But we aren’t prey.
We’re the lure.