I bound to you.

Motionless, the flier gazed upon his opponent. Though his breaths were shallow, he refused to give in to death's call. Abruptly, his wings snapped open and he shifted his gaze to the . . . boy's hand and then to the blade that lay stained with crimson. The blade he had . . . dropped.

"What has you hesitating? The crowd waits."

The familiar voice made the flier flinch, and he pivoted to find himself face-to-face with a set of eyes that were an uncanny shade of blue.

"Is this not the moment you have waited for? Longed for?" She emerged between two braziers and stepped toward him; her silvery fur shone brightly in the eerie light. "This is now, at last, your moment of truth. You have told me so many times that I have long given up counting them. You want nothing more than to be free, no? And the only way to free yourself from a parasite is—"

"—to kill it." The flier could not avert his gaze from the lifeless body of the boy in the sand, with a pool of thick, dark blood seeping from his stomach wound. His claws would soon be tainted if he did not—

"Well?"

The sand shifted beneath his talons as his jaw clenched tightly. She was right, and he knew it. This was ridiculous. All the waiting, all the anticipation, and for what? He has and will never see you as an equal. At most, a mere servant. It is not worth dedicating your life to someone who will never acknowledge your efforts. What would your former self—the glorious flier who prided himself on his independence and scoffed at those who gave too much—say if he could see you now?

A servant, he was not. He would not be shackled to someone who . . . You are too kind and caring for him to deserve. He will never comprehend, nor will he cherish it. He will not release you as long as your bond remains unbroken. And there is but one way to irrevocably end a bond. You know as well as I that you won't have genuine peace as long as he remains out there, wherever he may be.

The flier's mouth tore apart for a gut-wrenching scream. He cowered, his eyes focused on his target. This was the moment he had envisioned countless times, and he had always come to the same conclusion: it was the only way. The only way . . . She had said it was the only way—

I have no doubt that, given the chance, he would not hesitate to take your life. If you display an unwillingness to serve him, he will consider you irrelevant.

His head snapped up, and he fixated on the crimson-stained blade. Not hesitate to take your life . . . her voice spoke in his head. Take your life. His expression darkened as he finally gave in to the urge to glance at the boy's face. The face . . .

"He has . . . surrendered."

The silver gnawer who had come up beside him froze. "What?" Her tail twitched. "How is that of any importance now? Can you not hear them?" She inched closer. "The crowd is eagerly anticipating his end. Will you let them down? More importantly, will you let yourself down?"

The flier intook the frantic crowd and spotted not a single tail pointing upward. "But you said . . ." He shook his head, focusing on the boy again. "You said that he would not hesitate to take my life, should he ever get the chance." Despite his best efforts, he couldn't shake the memory of the boy's face, just as he had relinquished his sword. For the longest time, this face had not stirred any positive feelings in him, yet . . . Forgive me . . . but here is my word. Something deep within him shuddered.

"Oh, I cannot fathom his reasons either. But it hardly matters."

The flier frowned at the sudden cold in her tone. She had never sounded cold; he had questioned whether she even could. She had also never . . . contradicted herself.

"What do you mean?" He staggered a step back, tearing his gaze away from the boy with force. There had been a sense to it all. Every word she had spoken had been logical, whether from his own observations or her accounts of events. But . . . A single word echoed in his mind, growing in intensity until it became an ear-piercing siren—the same word that had previously caused his blood to boil, spoken with an utterly uncharacteristic and heartwrenching vulnerability: Death.

"I told you that this plan would fail; he was never going to follow through with it!"

With a wince, the flier whipped around to face the sight that nearly stopped his heart. A seven-foot-tall gnawer with sleek brown fur had just shoved Tonguetwist aside. "I shall kill him now, and the boy too, for good measure."

"I told you to stay out of sight, he—"

"You are with him?!"

"I—" The pretty silver gnawer jumped, but the flier paid her no mind. He stared in disbelief at the rat with the wicked grin and the scar, just as he had left it, nearly . . .

"And so we meet again, Skullface," snarled Longclaw, falling to all fours. "Down in the icy caves, you escaped me, but not this time. You wear that scar well, if I dare say so. It complements your face." He wheezed. "Either way, I would introduce Tonguetwist, but as you are acquainted, we shall not waste time on that. Now seize him!"

In an instant, many gnawers vaulted from their seats on the bleachers, pouring into the arena and closing in on the flier. His gaze instinctively shifted to Tonguetwist, who stood serenely by Longclaw's side, neither rushing to aid nor beseeching him to stop his rats. She was not . . .

"You liar!" His piercing cry reverberated painfully in the ears of all present; even Longclaw winced and flattened his ears. "You are . . . are . . ." She was a liar. She had been a liar all along. All this time, she had . . . He glimpsed at the spiteful Longclaw. She had lied. She had lied, and she had . . . betrayed.

The word sent a shiver down his spine, his eyes darting frantically over the pack of bloodthirsty gnawers. Longclaw and Tonguetwist stood together, their gazes cold and unyielding. He had to escape. Right away, or else . . .

The moment the first rat from Longclaw's pack leaped toward him, he lunged forward and sank his teeth deep into his neck. A distressed squeak escaped the gnawer as he crumpled to the floor. But he wasn't alone, and the flier couldn't possibly take on all of them.

Overwhelmed by panic, he searched for something, someone amidst the chaotic frenzy of rats . . . and found the only one here who sought not to kill him. Who had refused to kill him.

In a split second, he evaded another gnawer's leap and rammed his head into his abdomen, sending him hurtling backward. One single thought rang in his mind: he had to escape . . . they had to. With lightning speed, he ensnared the boy's arm with his claw and flung him into the air with such force that none of the gnawers could match. In heartbeats, the flier was beyond their grasp and deftly caught the boy before he could plummet.

Out. Out . . . they needed out. He flew in frenzied circles beneath the ceiling of the expansive cave that housed the arena, scanning for a possible exit. A way the rats could not take.

Finally detecting an opening, he quickly descended, barely avoiding a collision with the wall. His head was filled with static—a chaotic mixture of images and flashes that he couldn't be certain were real—as he navigated the tight passageway.

The flier nearly crashed into the wall again as he felt a slight tug on his fur. Suddenly, an arm wrapped tightly around his neck, and scathing memories flooded his mind—of a trek that had almost left him unable to fly. He could acutely feel the pain from the tear in his wing, inflicted by the same boy on his back. The boy . . .

His jaw clenched as he shot forward like an arrow, searching for something . . . There had to be something . . . Where was he to go? His frustration mounted, and he doubled back, feeling lost. Where was he? He had to . . . to . . .

The boy on his back twitched. Only now did he become aware of the blood that had already soaked through his fur. The boy was . . . Help. He needed help. The flier heaved. Help, or the boy would die . . . As I wanted him to, the flier forced himself to think. Mere hours ago, he had craved the boy's death so avidly. Up until . . . The boy could not die.

His flight became unsteady as he swerved to avoid hitting a dead end.

The boy could not die before he had . . . had . . . explained what he had done earlier. What he had said. What he had meant. Why he had looked at him like . . . He must explain, thought the flier. He must . . . must . . . live.

The thought surged through him, consuming him—dreadfully reminiscent. Will it forever be so? He shivered with apprehension. Is it actually me who keeps holding on? Me, who is not strong enough to—

Amidst the flurry of his racing thoughts, he only registered the noise when it had become deafening. It flooded his fatigued, hurting body with renewed hope . . . it was the sound of gushing water.

As the flier darted out of a tunnel, he found himself in a cave bathed in a vibrant orange glow. Instantly recognizing where he was, he battled to keep his wings steady. Finally, he touched down on the shore; the sight of water and light reassured him. This was . . . it was water, it was light, so it was good. The gnawers would not have followed, so he was safe. He was . . .

Without hesitation, he pivoted to face away from the lake and the waterfall and shook the boy off his back. His fur was coated in blood; it pooled on the ground below and glistened in the orange glow, but it wasn't his own.

"Hen . . . ry?"

The name left a strange taste in his mouth, and yet the flier drew nearer to the boy, who lay completely still. His face was nearly translucent and sunken, with little movement in his chest.

A swell of panic suddenly engulfed the flier, causing him to almost lose his footing in the blood that had pooled around them. He scooted closer, seeking refuge. He . . . would not really die, would he? The boy could not . . . die. He could not . . . You wanted him to die. Tonguetwist's voice in his mind made him shake his head in revulsion. You craved for him to release you more than anything. So much so that you were willing . . . eager to come here today. To see him. To kill him yourself.

A shiver ran down his spine as he shoved the voice aside. She had no right to speak to him, not after—

"W . . . what . . ."

He flinched when he caught another faint voice, and after a brief pause, he realized it wasn't simply a product of his imagination. It was real.

"H . . . Henry?"

The boy's eye flew open, and he locked his gaze with the flier's momentarily before a shock surged through his body. He let out a cry and struggled up in an attempt to scoot away, but failed and fell, clutching his stomach in agony. "N-No . . . !" Before the flier could move, the boy attempted to rise again, his hand desperately searching for a grip on the slippery ground. "N-No, please . . . please don't . . ." His eye squinted, and as soon as the flier moved an inch, his hands abandoned their search and flew up to shield his face. "Don't hurt me!"

A never-experienced type of pain stabbed into the flier's heart at the words. His talons dug into the solid rock, but he barely felt it. This pain drained him; it sliced him open and allowed all the remaining willpower that had gotten him and the boy out of that arena to bleed out until he was an empty shell yet again. There was nothing he could bring himself to say. His throat clogged and his mouth opened . . . he had to say something. Something . . . "I . . . will not—"

"He will not, but I may when all of this is over!"

Startled, the flier recoiled and adopted a defensive stance. Yet his apprehension dissipated when he recognized Kismet emerging from the tunnel. Her claws scraped against the ground as she rushed toward them, heading straight for the boy. "Henry? Henry!"

"K-Kis . . ." His lid fluttered again, but he failed to finish the word.

"Henry, it is me! Good grief, you're beyond help, you fool!" She rolled him on his back and ripped the lower part of his shirt to reveal the source of the bleeding.

The flier's teeth gritted as he beheld the gaping tear in the boy's flesh that stubbornly bled thick, dark blood.

"Shit . . . This is shit!" Kismet hissed through clenched teeth and swiftly made her way to the lake to dampen the torn fabric. She hurried back to the boy, who emitted a piercing scream as she applied the fabric to his wound. "I will kill you myself, you hear? I will save your worthless life and then kill you with my own claws! I told you to stay put, and what do you . . . hey!"

When she called out to him, the flier's head shot up, and he recoiled instinctively. Would she . . . had she seen it had been he who . . .

"What are you loafing around there for?" she yelled. Already, the cloth was drenched in blood.

"I—"

"I cannot save him," she cut the flier off. "You hear?! I cannot save him! This isn't a mere scratch that may be covered with a bandage and forgotten about. It's a stab wound, and a significant one. If we're fortunate, I might be able to control the bleeding since it appears that you haven't hit any major arteries, so we have that going for us."

"I . . . didn't mean to—" He had meant to. As he looked at the boy's lifeless body, a crushing wave of self-hatred washed over him. He seemed so frail that the flier suddenly thought Kismet may be pushing too hard—so hard she might break him in half.

"Hey!" Kismet's vexed voice pierced the uprising storm in his head. Despite her shortsightedness, she gazed directly at him. "I have but one question for you: Do you want him to live?"

***

For the following half hour, the flier was lost in a daze. All that echoed in his mind was the order from Kismet: Considering the great distance to the human settlement, I shall take Henry with me to my cave while you return to the arena. They may be holding prisoners there—individuals or resources that could be of assistance. Only if all other options fail should you head to the Fount.

He barely recalled the trek and the circumstances that led him to the prison pit of the arena. Only when he laid eyes on a pair of spinners, shackled in a distant corner of the pit, did a surge of relief wash over him.

Anything and everything they wanted, he promised, along with their freedom, if only they would come and save the life of his . . . He paused, questioning what the boy even was to him anymore, until the larger spinner stepped forward and accepted the conditions.

Despite his urgency, the flier didn't neglect to free the pair of pinchers and the shabby rat, who had also been imprisoned, before he headed toward Kismet's dwelling, with the spinners secured on his back. Time stretched out infinitely, with each tunnel feeling unbearably long and twisted. He forcefully banished any shame from his mind—all the intrusive thoughts about how, if he hadn't been consumed by rage, they wouldn't be in this predicament.

Yet as time elapsed, it became increasingly difficult to push aside that if the boy died now, it would be by the flier's own talon.

An unearned wave of relief washed over him as he emerged into the vast cavern that led to Kismet's cave. The moment he touched down, he was met by the gnawer; her front paws were stained in a consistent shade of crimson. She immediately directed the spinners to join her, while the flier remained near the entrance and stared after them, transfixed.

Time slipped away unnoticed, with hours melting into one another in dreadful silence, disrupted only by the occasional distant screams of the boy from the depths of the cave. For the flier outside, it was as if the world had frozen—motionless and unchanging.

In the past, he had always strived to remain in control, especially of his own thoughts. Yet now he didn't even make an effort to sort through the mess that swarmed his mind. Words of Tonguetwist, of the boy . . . Henry, he consciously thought the name. Of Henry. And . . . his own. With each passing moment, the memories bore on him heavier, and he inched backward until he found himself teetering on the cliff's edge.

Then, suddenly, he absorbed the haunting silence. The silence of . . . the boy. He no longer screamed.

"Hey!" The flier nearly toppled off the cliff as a voice cried out . . . Not the voice of Henry. "Where the hell do you think you are going?" said Kismet, planted before him, her paws still stained in blood. "It will be your turn soon. That wing needs stitching."

"I—" He cut himself off and gazed at her helplessly, attempting to articulate his jumbled thoughts and convey the one realization he had managed to extract from the confusion.

"I what?" Kismet uttered. "I will hear no excuses, is what I will."

"But I cannot—"

"Cannot stay?"

When the flier did not reply, Kismet's eye flared with an angry spark that sent a shiver down his spine.

"You still don't get it, do you?" she hissed. "Wish you to break him irreparably, or what is your objective?"

"No—"

"That is what I figured," she continued before he could elaborate. "And so, do you still not comprehend?"

"Comprehend—?"

"Comprehend," she repeated emphatically. "That it is your rejection, your absence, that breaks him. That it is you who holds the key to—" She cut herself off, shaking her head. "I shall not be forced to lie to him and claim that your return has been a dream. For, if you leave, that is what I must do. I cannot—" She inhaled sharply. "I cannot!" The flier twitched at the pungent despair in her shriek. "I can no longer!"

The flier had no reply. He barely had the mind to comprehend what she meant and what the emotion in her voice signified.

"Listen, I have very little comprehension of what exactly occurred between the two of you," said Kismet after a pause. "Whether that is even the cause of Henry's state, or whether it was something deeper. It may as well be. But you know who he is . . . Who he should be. You told me yourself—he has infinite hope."

The flier clenched his talons around the unyielding stone. The boy . . . had hope. Infinite hope. This notion . . . Only then did it hit him how meticulously Tonguetwist had compelled him to abandon this association. But it was the truth.

The boy was hope. Was he not hope? The flier looked not at Kismet. The boy had not been hope in a long time. He had not given hope since their flight over the waterway. And the flier could not—

His head jerked up when Kismet dragged a talon along the floor. "As I've mentioned, I have very little comprehension of what occurred between the two of you, but what I do know is that I cannot allow you to leave. For his sake."

"For his sake?" uttered the flier tonelessly. "After what I did—"

"After what you did!" yelled Kismet. "You did, and he did. And you know why?" She wiped her paw on her fur, then produced her vision aid to stare directly at him. "Because . . . Do you know what he says on his bad days when he perches atop that pillar or stands by the cliff, staring into nothingness? "I want to fly." Over and over, "I want to fly." And he cannot fly on his own."