Falling did not feel like falling for long. The first impact stole the scream from my throat.

My shoulder struck rock. Something cracked or tore. I spun through black mist, hit a wall of stone with my hip, then dropped again. Branches—or roots—snagged my dress. They

I woke with one hand twisted in Isolde's robe. She was still there. That surprised me more than the pain. Most people in Blackthorn had learned to leave the moment my anger became inconvenient.

Isolde sat in the same chair beside the bed, reading a stack of yellowed pages b

The scout came back three weeks later. By then, I could walk the length of the sanctuary without a healer following me. Not quickly. Not without pain. But on my own.

My ribs had stopped feeling like knives every time I breathed. My shoulder still protested if I lifted my arm too