Page 125 of Cursed Shadows 4

He lifts his cerulean gaze to the icy tower of the mountainside, a distance ahead. Not a side of the mountain to be scaled, not a side of the mountain to run towards.

Nari must have panicked. She took any direction she could—and the others chased.

But she ran towards a death sentence.

And the others with her.

The crack in the mountainside splits the earth in two. Death drops fall from ledges and overhangs all over the incline, giving a death drop straight into crevices and underwater caves, the kind no one ever escapes from. Any slip, any wrong footing or stumble ends in a fall that would kill any fae, not just Nari.

But the longer they study the crevasse off in the distance, the sharper their sight becomes.

The overhands and ledges are crafted from ice and snow.

If one loses their grip, it’s a straight fall down—with spearing icicles ready to tear a fae in two.

Daxeel is the first to move.

He throws himself forward and pushes into a barrelling chase through the trees.

Rune is hot on his heels.

But they are both racing against time.

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††††††

Punishing bootsteps chase behind me like lightning strikes.

Thump,

strike,

thump,

strike.

The deafening symphony is rising, a crescendo of death that thrums in my bones. The boot-strikes don’t soften, they only louden; they don’t fall away, theyadvance.

Faster,

Thump, strike.

Louder,

Thump, strike.

Closer,

Thump, strike.

My breath catches on the icy fear. I feel each particle pierce through my lungs like icicles, aching my insides, pleading with me to stop, to rest.

But I can’t.

I can’t afford to so much as lose my footing on this uneven terrain, to trip the toes of my boots on foliage or arched treeroots, I can’t afford to even look back at the litalf right behind me.

Loose strands of chestnut hair whips at my reddened cheeks as harshly as the winds snapping at me. The whistle of the winds is a high-pitched cry in my eardrums, like the air itself wants nothing more than to disorientate me, to waver me just once—because that’ll be enough for the litalf warrior to close the slight distance between us, between my spine and his swiping hand, fingernails grazing over the fabric of my sweater.

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