The sky rained boulders. They pocked the clearing, shaking the ground with each impact. Thunk, thunk, thunk.

She sidestepped, dodging an arrow-shaped boulder of charred stone. If it’d hit her . . .

Her body would’ve been pulverized. He strained harder, working his wings to free his legs. She would have died.

A real death. He’d heard of Sorceri ended by illness and by stab wounds, for gods’ sakes.

She was almost back to this clearing. She ran under one of those gigantic trees for cover, nimbly skipping over its roots.

Then she—stopped. Her upper body jolted forward before she righted her balance.

Their eyes met. “Melanthe?”

She peered down, frowned.

She . . . no. She couldn’t be caught in a pit. “I’m coming for you!” Every muscle in his body strained. Though the quakes had stopped, the onrush of boulders continued. He could hear their deafening descent down the side of the mountain.

A monolith the size of a garbage truck was heading for Melanthe’s tree. She gazed up in horror, hunching down.

“No, no!” He thrashed, kicking, sweat pouring into his eyes, wings heaving. Damn it! The backdraft was cooling the resin, only solidifying its hold.

High in the tree, a giant limb caught the boulder. He and Melanthe shared a look of relief.

Until they heard the first crack of wood above her. The limb was about to give way. She started struggling in a frenzy.

He’d never get to her in time! He flared his claws to sever his legs, slashing at his skin. When the top tree limb snapped, the boulder landed on the next one down. It was already bowing . . .

He bit back yells as he cut, hacking through his calf muscle, baring the bone. Gripping his bloody leg in two fists, he wrenched his hands in different directions. The bone wouldn’t break!

She murmured, “Thronos?” Across this distance, he heard her distinctly, felt the timbre of pure fear in her voice. She had to know a boulder that big would kill her.

“I’m coming!” Even as his talon gouged chunks of flesh from his other leg, the process was taking too much time, too much! Three failed tries to break one leg!

Craaaack. His bone snapped just as a tree limb did. A leg free! But the boulder was plummeting like a juggernaut, crushing one limb after another until it caught on the one directly over Lanthe, not twenty feet above her head.

A final defense. Could he reach her in time, and have the strength to pull her from her own pit?

She’d gone still, as if she feared making too much movement.

“Start cutting!” he yelled as he set to his other leg, balancing even as he swung his razor-sharp claws.

She didn’t answer. Never slowing his gruesome task, he glanced at her. She was holding up her bare hands, with their tiny pink fingernails. No gauntlets. Tears began trailing down her cheeks.

The last tree limb was about to go; splinters fluttered over her, dusting her braids. “Tell my sister I love her”—she swiped at her eyes—“and f-for what it’s worth, those months in the meadow . . . I was happy. Happiest.”

“No, NO!” He was free of the pit! Using wings, hands, and what was left of his legs, he sped toward her.

Their eyes met again, tears pouring from hers. She raised her chin and gave him a pilot’s salute.

The wood broke. The boulder crashed down.

One second Melanthe was standing there. The next she’d disappeared, crushed.

Dead.

He bellowed, “NOOOOOOO!” She couldn’t be gone!

When he reached the boulder, he thought he could scent blood and . . . ground bone. Because there was nothing left of her.

With a strangled yell, he dug his claws into the stone; using his wings for propulsion, he shoved with all the strength he had left.

Moved it not one inch. She’s dead.

Another desperate shove. Not a godsdamned inch.

She was dead. He felt it. Knew it.

He roared with agony. He had five centuries’ worth of hate to give that stone—his new enemy. Another shove. Another. And another. And another. He rammed his horns into it until blood poured down into his eyes.

In the midst of this frenzy, memories of her flashed through his mind.

Of him telling her they would be wed when they grew older . . .

“Would that make me a princess of heaven?” she asked with a chuckle. “Would we have much gold up there?”

“You’ll have me—and you like me far better than gold!” He tickled her, chasing her around the meadow while she squealed with laughter.

Of the first time he’d taken her flying . . .

She peeked up from his chest, her eyes wide, as blue as the sky they crossed. “Thronos, this . . . this . . . let’s never go back down!”

Of them as children caught in the rain, on the very day his father had later raided the abbey.

Thronos took her in his arms, and she leaned against him.

When the drops grew heavier, he spread his wings over his head, creating a shelter. “I’ve always room for you too.”

She nestled against him. As they watched the rain fall, she sighed, “I love you, Thronos.”

His heart felt too big for his chest, and he had to swallow past the lump in his throat to answer her.

He’d squandered the treasure he’d been given.

His claws and horns were gone, but he hadn’t budged the stone. Blood from his hands and head painted his enemy.

That stone . . . not a godsdamned inch.

Unmovable. So too would he be.

Tears blinded him when he realized the stone would be her grave marker. Thronos closed his eyes and took comfort in knowing that they would share it.