Chapter 16 · Untitled Chapter

"Rowan! The western anchors are gone!"

Lyra's warning vanished beneath the shriek of buckling timber. Rowan turned, and pain ripped from his ribs to his shoulder. His knees folded.

Lyra caught his coat and slammed him against the old lift shaft. "Stay upright."

"I'm considering other options."

"Consider them after we stop a mountain from landing on us."

The farm dropped.

Not fell. Dropped.

Weightlessness punched the breath from Rowan's lungs. Fields tilted. Rows of winter beans tore loose and slid toward the western terraces. Water burst from the irrigation channels, hung in silver ropes for one impossible second, then splashed across the decks below.

Pip screamed from the central orchard.

The young storm-antler stood beside the black beacon, fur bristling with blue-white static. The device pulsed once. Then again. Red light spread through the roots of the sky-island.

Far below, Brineveil Basin opened like a dark mouth.

"The beacon's killing the island," Rowan said.

"I noticed."

"I need to get underneath."

"No. You need to stop bleeding on my boots."

Another tremor threw them sideways. Lyra's shoulder struck his chest. Her hair brushed his jaw, silver strands snapping against his skin.