They flew far before they stopped.
The Mountain was generous in its hiding places, and Lyra found them a good one: a deep cleft high on a quiet shoulder of rock, sheltered from sightlines on three sides, its mouth narrow enough to watch and wide enough to hold the grounded Dragonfly. She seeded the approaches with her eyes and her snares, and only then did the team let themselves breathe.
Their five bells floated among them, one apiece, exactly as they'd claimed them in the first hour. The thirty had carried none to take. Aelira gave each bell a glance to confirm it sat secure, untouched by any rival hand.
The hours passed quietly. They rested in shifts, ate, let the easy ache of motion drain out of them. Beyond the cleft the Mountain churned with distant violence, flares of combat blooming and fading across its immensity as the cull ground on.
Three hours into the quiet, Lyra's ears went up.
