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Chapter Twenty-Two

They don’t smash through the wall.

They smash through the stained-glass window instead—the main hall’s only weak point—sending shards of glass raining down as Thæon ducks behind Anther’s horn, face buried in the crook of his elbow. Flecks scratched his hands and his arms, but they were nothing to think about when Anther pitches awkwardly into the small space and Thæon dares to open his eyes as they tilt; biting out a swear as he realises, he’s staring down to the floor that is carved far deeper than he realised; the hall far larger than Morak’s conjured shadows having revealed.

Stomach lurching, Anther falling, Thæon braces himself when Anther’s claws carry them down, snagging pillars and columns to slow his decent where—despite the size—there isn’t enough room for him to stretch out his wings completely, leaving him to fall rapidly and crash into the flagstone far below. The sound is like and explosion, and reverbed in the stone chamber; glass crushed underneath his paws like it was sand; his growl rising in the same instant that Thæon steadies himself, taking a step forward so that he’s stood atop Anther’s brow, closer to his eyes, one hand still gripping the horn behind him and simultaneously he feels small and mighty.

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