Chapter 77
The ancient silver Sabersythe soars across the Loff, scales aglitter like the crush of a thousand stars. In her wake, the equally silver ribbon droops and sweeps about, trailed by the other threads—tangling as they dance.
Together in their misplacement.
It dips almost low enough to kiss the tip of a lookout perched atop a rounded, rust-colored mountain … nipping at the heels of the magnificent dragon now scooping into the coppery embrace of The Burn’s illusive capital. Urging her farther south with delicate flitting motions.
The Sabersythe doesn’t jolt or even so much as slash her tail at its presence, already so innately familiar. For it was she who the ribbon gave some of itself to so many phases ago.
Not that the Sabersythe seemed to mind. She gleaned the gift for what it was.
A plea for help.
The ribbon may be pretty—ever orbiting the world that does not spin, helping folk track the passage of time—but it’s not there by choice. It’s shackled to the sky. For the ribbons were once part of something more.
Something whole.
And threading the many lost pieces of Caelis back together could not be done without solid entities to do the stitching. The ribbons know that. Have been doing their part to make things right.
Slow-going as it is.
Another dip. Another herding flick as the Great Silver Sabersythe cuts past the Imperial Stronghold for the first time in eons.
Folk flood the streets to watch the once-in-a-lifetime spectacle. Many gasp when they notice that, riding between her massive wings slashing the air like axes, is a white-haired fae with a tense jaw, staring south through eyes like cuts of ice.
The silver ribbon hopes Grihm understands—if not now, then eventually—that everything has a place, a purpose. And some things …
They were always meant to be.