At that, Eryndor's fingers dipped, almost lazy.
And the Netherbreed answered like a falling tower. Heat scythed forward; breath went white-hot and straight; plates locked as if they were the jaws of a trap closing.
The ridge held its breath.
Fog pulled apart in long, pale scrolls as the Netherbreed's roar rolled through the stone and pressed at their ribs.
Fire popped in shallow bowls where old oil had found the air; each flare lit the world like a shutter click—motion, freeze, motion again—until even the shadows seemed to change their minds.
A leaf let go of a branch above them, drifted through the hotter layer of air, and crisped to ash before it could touch the ground.
The Netherbreed slammed four claws at once.
Boon!
Concentric rings shivered out from the impact, skittering gravel and bowing weeds.
Bennet braced and still slid, boots carving commas in the grit. Heat walked over him in waves; his breath came back tasting like struck copper.
