Losing Ground
The rain did not let up.
Lark had hoped foolishly that crossing the washout would mark some kind of turning point.
That the universe would reward their effort with a break in the weather, a glimpse of the sun, anything to suggest they were moving in the right direction.
Instead, the downpour only seemed to thicken, pelting against her hood with a relentlessness that matched her own.
She walked faster.
The road stretched ahead of them, winding between hills that had turned to mud and trees that dripped with every gust of wind.
Somewhere beneath her boots, there might have been signs left by an army on the march, but she could see none of it.
The rain had turned everything to soup, erasing evidence as quickly as it was made.
Behind her, she could hear Pippa’s breathing, too heavy and labored.
She was not built for this kind of travel, having spent her life in a workshop where the most strenuous activity was climbing a ladder to reach a top shelf.
But she had volunteered anyway, had insisted on coming. Rion was her best friend after all.
Lark walked faster still.
“Lark.” Darian’s voice cut through the rain. “Slow down.”
She did not slow down. “We’re losing ground. Every hour we waste is another hour they get ahead of us.”
“We’re not wasting anything. We’re traveling as fast as conditions allow.”
“We could travel faster.”
“Not without killing ourselves.” His voice was harder now, with an edge beneath the calm. “The footing is treacherous. Visibility is terrible. If one of us turns an ankle or walks off a cliff, we’re done.”
“Then watch where you step.”
She heard him make a sound that might have been frustration, or might have been the beginning of a response he thought better of. His footsteps continued behind her, slow and measured, refusing to match her pace.
Noctis trotted alongside her, his black fur plastered to his body, his tongue lolling despite the weather.
He at least did not complain. He seemed to understand what was at stake, to understand that his master was out there somewhere in the hands of people who could hurt him.
Every few minutes, his nose would lift to the air, searching for a scent he could not find, and Lark would feel a sharp knife twist beneath her ribs.
Not despair. She would not let it be despair yet.
They walked for another hour. The terrain grew rougher as they climbed into the foothills, the path narrowing and steepening until Lark had to use her hands to scramble over rocks slick with rain.
She pulled herself up without pausing, without looking back, without acknowledging the sounds of struggle from behind her.
“Lark.” Darian again. “Stop.”
“We can rest when we make camp.”
“Pippa needs to rest now.”
That made her turn.
Pippa had fallen behind, her tall frame hunched against the rain, her curls hanging in sodden ropes around a face that was pale with exhaustion.
She was braced against a boulder, one hand pressed to her side, her breath coming in quick gasps that spoke of muscles pushed past their limit.
When she saw Lark looking at her, she straightened and tried to smile.
“I’m fine,” she said. “I just need a moment.”
She was not fine. Even Lark, who had spent years ignoring her own body’s complaints, could see that. Pippa was shaking, whether from cold or fatigue or both, and there was a grayish tinge to her skin that suggested she was close to collapse.
Guilt rose in Lark, but she pushed it down.
“Five minutes,” she said. “Then we keep moving.”
“She needs more than five minutes.” Darian had reached Pippa’s side and was examining her with the practiced eye of a soldier who had seen exhaustion kill as surely as any blade. “She needs food. Warmth. Rest.”
“She can have all of those things tonight.”
“Tonight is hours away.”
“Then she’ll have to manage until then.”
The words came out harder than she intended, knife-edged and cold in a way that made Pippa flinch.
Lark saw it happen and felt her stomach clench, but she could not make herself take it back.
Could not make herself soften when every passing minute was another minute Rion spent in captivity, another minute for his captors to hurt him, break him, destroy everything that made him who he was.
Darian stepped closer to her. He was taller than she was, broader, and he used that size now, putting himself between her and the path forward.
“We’re stopping,” he said quietly. “It’s not a request.”
“Get out of my way.”
“No.”
The word hung in the air between them, heavy with challenge. Lark felt her hands curl into fists at her sides, felt the familiar pulse of aetheria in her blood, ready to be shaped into a blade. She would not actually hurt him. She knew that. But the urge was there, dark and desperate.
“You don’t understand,” she said.
“Then explain it to me.”
“Every hour matters. Every minute. They have him, Darian. They have him, and they’re getting further away, and we’re standing here in the rain arguing about rest breaks.”
“Lark,” Darian’s voice was still quiet, but there was steel in it now.
“He is our best friend. We are here for him as much as you are. But if we push until Pippa collapses? If we have to stop for a day, two days, because she’s too sick to move?
We lose more time being reckless than we do being careful. You know this.”
“I know that he’s out there.” The words tore out of her, raw and ragged.
“I know they took him because of me. Because Duskwood wants me, and Rion was the next best thing. Every mark they put on him, every hurt, they're mine. Mine because I wasn’t fast enough or smart enough or strong enough to stop it. And you want me to slow down? You want me to rest while they’re doing moons know what to him? ”
Silence. The rain continued to fall, oblivious to her outburst. Pippa was staring at her with wide eyes. Darian’s expression had changed to understanding.
“Lark,” Pippa said softly. “This is not your fault.”
“Don’t.” She held up a hand, cutting off whatever comfort Pippa was about to offer.
“Don’t tell me it’s not my fault. Don’t tell me I couldn’t have known, couldn’t have prevented it, couldn’t have done anything differently.
I've thought all of those things already. None of it changes the fact that he’s gone and I’m here, and the distance between us is growing with every second we spend standing still. ”
“Killing yourself won’t bring him back any faster.” Darian had not moved from his position blocking the path. “And neither will killing us.”
“I’m not trying to kill anyone.”
“You’re trying to outrun your own guilt. I’ve seen it before. Soldiers who lose someone under their command, who push themselves and their units past breaking because stopping means thinking and thinking means feeling.” He paused. “It doesn’t work. The guilt follows you no matter how fast you run.”
Lark wanted to argue, to tell him he didn’t understand, that this was different, that Rion was different.
But the words stuck in her throat because some part of her knew he was right.
She was running and had been running since they left Autumncrown.
Since she had learned what had happened at the Narrows, and she had heard Darian say the words captured and prisoner and Duskwood.
“I can’t stop,” she said. Her voice came out smaller than she had intended. “If I stop, I’ll think. And if I think …”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.
Pippa pushed herself off the boulder and crossed to where Lark stood. Her face was still pale, her breathing still labored, but there was that determination in her eyes that had nothing to do with the trail ahead.
“Then don’t think alone,” she said. “That’s why we’re here. All of us. Not just to help you find him, but to help you survive the finding.”
“Pippa …”
“Lark, I know I’m slowing us down. I know I’m not built for this.
But I’m here anyway because Rion is my friend, you’re my friend, and I refuse to let either of you face this without me.
” She reached out and took Lark’s hand, her fingers cold and wet but her grip surprisingly strong.
“So yes, I need to rest. And yes, that means we lose a little time. But we’re still going to find him.
We’re still going to bring him home. A few hours won’t change that. ”
Lark looked at their joined hands, then up at Pippa’s face, looking down at her with an expression that was equal parts exhaustion and affection.
She thought about Rion’s hands. Long-fingered and elegant, made for turning pages and tracing lines of ancient text. Made for conjuring fire out of nothing, for cupping her face in the darkness of his doorway, for reaching toward her even when she gave him no reason to hope she would reach back.
What were they doing to his hands right now?
She shoved the thought away before it could take root.
“One hour,” she said. “We rest for one hour. Eat something. Get warm if we can.” She looked at Darian, who had not moved. “And then we keep going. Agreed?”
Darian studied her and whatever he saw in her face seemed to satisfy him, because he finally stepped aside.
“Agreed,” he said. “There’s a rock formation ahead that should provide some shelter. I spotted it earlier.”
They made their way to the formation in silence.
It was not much, just an overhang of stone that blocked the worst of the rain, but after hours of being pounded by water, it felt like a palace.
Pippa sank to the ground with a groan of relief.
Darian began unpacking food from his bag, travel provisions they had purchased at the crossroads.
Lark stood at the edge of the overhang and stared out at the rain.
The world had shrunk to a veil of water and mud. She could not see more than fifty feet in any direction. Somewhere beyond that veil, the army that had taken Rion was marching further into the foothills.