“I have heard it said that the Windwalkers were the children of the sky.”
His words barely registered as she looked upwards at the heavens above. It was an engrossing scene, as though she was at the very place where the earth and sky met. Vhalla took a tiny step forward, sweeping her gaze back to the glittering city below.
Perhaps it was her enchantment with the wonder surrounding her. Or perhaps it had been the wind filling her ears. Whichever, it masked his last footsteps. The prince placed his hands lightly upon her shoulders.
“Trust me,” he demanded, his lips barely brushed over her ear.
Vhalla did not even have a moment to turn her head before he pushed her effortlessly into the empty air beyond.
SHE PLUMMETED THROUGH the air in a surreal trance. Her shoulder hitting the golden rooftop jarred her back to life with a sickening crunch. Vhalla half tumbled, half bounced small distances down the slope of the roof, desperately trying to grab a handhold. But the pitch was too steep, and each desperate grab resulted only in a fingernail being pulled back or ripped off. Soon there were no more golden shingles and there was nothing left to reach.
Vhalla had heard stories of one’s life flashing before one’s eyes in the moments before death, but all she saw was the round moon overhead, staring down at her. As the wind whipped around her body she began to twist in the empty space. The celestial body departed her field of vision as she spun head over heels. It was replaced by the ground rushing to meet her.
She was going to die.
She opened her mouth to scream but the force of the wind pulled her voice from her, flooding her lungs.
She tried to turn herself to fall toward a nearby balcony, a landing, or even a decorative molding. Her body slammed against the castle wall, succeeding only in knocking all the air from her lungs with a cry of agony. Then she was falling again. Her small frame smashed against an arch before tumbling back into the night sky. She searched for a stone that would catch her, but every attempt tossed her back to her death.
Her vision blurred and blood smeared her hands. She held out her arms, the ground was close now. She could only see the sky above but she knew it had to be over soon. Vhalla groped at the empty air, clinging to nothing but the wind slipping through her fingers.
An explosion rang out through her—and she sat upright, jolted awake.
Vhalla instantly regretted opening her eyes. The world looked hazy, both too bright and too dark; the colors twisted, and her eyes had trouble focusing. She turned quickly, retching over the side of the bed. Hot bile splattered on the vaguely familiar floor. The process of vomiting caused her abdomen to object to the tightening spasms, and she let out an agonizing cry as she fell back onto the bed in a heap.
Her entire body felt wrong. It felt as though someone stole her soul from her old body and placed it in a different one. Nothing matched up, nothing obliged in the way it should, and everything worked in ways it shouldn’t. Her brain felt scrambled, and under the fingers clutching her abdomen she felt the sickening angles of broken ribs. She likely shouldn’t be lying on her side but it hurt if she moved, and it hurt if she didn’t. So she only endured her current position over risking any change.
Through the sliver of light between her eyelids, Vhalla tried to orient herself. The first indication she should panic was the window; it was three times larger than anything she had ever seen before in the apprentices’ and servants’ halls. When her eyes found the dragon molding around the top of the room, Vhalla tried to scramble out of bed, making unreasonable demands of a broken body.
Muffled voices and quick steps approached on the other side of the door before it burst open for two figures frantically approaching her. The older man she recognized instantly—the Minister of Sorcery. But the woman, she was a surprise. Vhalla blinked at the fuzzy shapes of the people.
“Larel?” Even her own voice sounded strange to Vhalla’s ears, and she struggled not to retch again. The dark-haired woman departed quickly from the room. Vhalla grimaced. The woman should be ashamed her role in Vhalla’s current state. If it wasn’t for Larel thrusting that book in her hands, she would have never met the prince.
“Don’t talk,” the minister demanded sternly. Vhalla cracked her eyes open against her better judgment. His hand ran between her forehead and her shoulder. Vhalla did not have the strength or will to fight against his touch as she would have wanted.
The minister rolled her onto her back, and Vhalla’s body objected painfully. With a scream she tried to push him away. This man, his world of magic, and all the sorcerers within were nothing but pain.
“Vhalla.” She stilled at the sound of her name in his mouth. “You need to believe me now. I am here to help you.” The minister’s voice was gentle, more than it had any right to be.