The rain had let up from its hard drumming to a more peaceful, steady murmur by the time Dalliance mustered up the nerve to go all the way down the spiral staircase. Every turn felt like it was going to be his last, and around it, he was going to see that mouth and those teeth.

  As he approached the bottom of the stairs, he saw the light growing from the blackness of the storm to the dark gray of the late afternoon it actually was.

  He took the last few steps quietly, aware as he did of the sound he was making—the clack of new leather on stone. And with his ears peeled for his own sounds, he heard the muted voices of others, and the arrhythmic shake-shake of chain mail.

  They were coming along the wall top. It only took a second for him to realize why: the gatehouse had been proven, in dramatic fashion, to be not safe at all.

  Sterling and Circe led the group, followed by Effluvia, Earnest, Charity, then Zenith and Fallowfield.

  The walltops were uneven. Paving stones were missing in places, sometimes with the understonework missing as well, such that he could see down into the gravel and dirt that made up the middle part of the wall. Circe picked her way around the holes carefully, while Sterling, who quite possibly couldn’t see his feet because of his mail hood, kept stepping partially into the holes, making most of the noise he’d heard.

  Dalliance realized that the total he had hunted alongside for the first time was now the total in actuality. He wondered where Servility had got to, if they’d ever see him again. He wouldn’t bother blaming the boy if they didn’t.

  “They’re okay,” said Charity, in what Dalliance generously assumed to have been an attempted whisper. Earnest shushed her, which he appreciated.

  The magazine. He glanced over the courtyard. He would have to cross it. He would have to trust Woebegone to make the move that would work for everyone else. Dalliance didn’t care if it wasn’t fair; he wasn’t feeling very fair.

  “The wall isn’t safe,” Circe said as she came up to him. Sterling continued around him, having to turn sideways to do so when Dalliance did not give way, and entered the tower.

  “We saw how big it was,” she said. “There’s no way it can get up there.”

  Dalliance wanted to scream. I know, he hissed instead.

  He engaged [Prediction].

  His knees shook.

  “Go go go go!” he yelled, waving his arms frantically, physically shoving Sterling towards the tower.

  No matter what anyone did, it was coming.

  It had already smelled them.

  Circe was right behind him, and Charity and Earnest had broken into a run. Zenith on the other hand hadn’t even been looking their direction, and continued in picking her way along sedately.

  It was coming. It was going to scramble up to the wall top again, and it was going to eat her. Dalliance didn’t follow the vision far enough along to have to watch that, but he did see that if Fallowfield tried to slide down the wall to evade the bear, he wouldn’t move after. Broken ankles, maybe.

  “It’s coming?” asked Sterling.

  “No shit,” barked Dalliance. He did not have time for this.

  Sterling looked off the wall side, apparently doing his own calculation, and pushed roughly past Dalliance and the newly entering Effluvia at the stairwell's entrance, heading out onto the wall.

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  “Sterling!” Effluvia barked, grabbing for his wrist, but he pulled past her as if she were made of cobwebs.

  Dalliance followed him back out onto the wall just in time to see Sterling heave the log they had climbed up with—formerly left lying flush on top of the wall for ease of access—like a javelin at the oncoming form of the bear.

  How was he that strong?

  For its part, the bear charged directly through the log’s impact, which sent a rebounding, woody thunk echoing through the hill fort without slowing the beast.

  Its claws skidded in the detritus-covered courtyard before it launched itself at the wall in a replay of its previous climb. But Sterling was waiting for it.

  Charred fur and gore-covered snout bared fangs at the oncoming fire blade of the son of Worth. He struck it, and it flinched. A great paw jammed claws between stones, breaking mortar and sending gravel pinging away. Sterling slashed it, resulting in said paw being withdrawn to be scrambled elsewhere. Sterling hit it again, and it fell ten feet with a deep thud and a coughing growl.

  “Get the others to safety!” Sterling yelled, his blade reigniting, its afterimage sloshing down like liquid fire, burning silver-white with a blue aura.

  “I’ll hold him off!”

  “Get high!” Dalliance yelled to Effluvia. From above, he could see she couldn’t cast lightning without striking Sterling from where she was. She took up her skirts in one hand and began to sprint up the stairs.

  The bear threw itself at the wall again, the impact enough to send a tremor through their boot soles.

  Dalliance was so focused on Sterling that he didn’t see Zenith fall until it was too late. As the beast fell once more, she passed by Sterling, her face full of hero-worship and admiration for him. She stepped on a paving stone, recently undermined by their foe. It slid right off the wall, bearing her foot with it, and then she herself was gone.

  The bear was still where it had fallen, slowly rolling to get back up. And now, there was no future in which Sterling wouldn’t be an idiot.

  But there was one in which he wouldn’t die.

  Sterling sheathed his sword, turned his back to the wall, put his hands on its edge, dropped to his full extension, and then let go.

  He rolled when he landed and had his sword out before the bear charged him.

  Dalliance's spear hit the bear full in the face—there was no angle for a better strike. His shoulder ached from the effort of the throw.

  And now? No spear.

  The sword at his hip had never felt more useless than it did looking down at those claws.

  The bear flicked its attention to him, up on the wall, its charge aborted. Sterling began to circle around it, now behind it with respect to the wall.

  Sterling's fire petered out. His sword was spent.

  Lightning rained down from the tower. The bear howled in fury.

  Cursing Sterling for a fool, Dalliance followed his example. The fall was only about eight feet or so, and he was lightly dressed. His stupid new shoes, though, caught on the uneven wall as he fell, jerking his knee into contact with the stones.

  The best he could do was minimize the damage—pushing outward would result in broken ankles, or worse.

  He heard the impact of chain-mail on cobbles behind him as Immaculate landed heavily behind him. There wasn't time to look. Or think.

  He ran for the magazine, horribly exposed, things crunching or squishing horribly underfoot, his eyes burning.

  The sturdy door was closed, as was no surprise, and locked, but Dalliance hammered on it with his fist. There wasn’t time for anything else.

  “Get your spear, Lackey! You have to help Sterling!”

  The possibilities of the conversation branched out in front of him, but he could only choose to say one thing at a time . . . and there wasn’t time for experimenting.

  “LACKEY!”

  “Why does everybody call me that,” Lackey complained, opening the door. His spear was in his hand, he was opening the door.

  The futures changed as Lackey’s eyes fell on the fight in the courtyard.

  And Lackey slammed the door.