Rowan’s eyes went wide. “It’s a trap!”
And before any of us could react, the stone floor gave way beneath our feet.
We fell as one, the world turning into a long, brutal second—air whipping past my face, my sword a hot weight in my hand, Rowan’s shout a ragged sound above the roar of my ears. I hit hard, chest slamming into cold stone, breath pushed out of me like a struck bell. For a breath I tasted iron and rain and the old memory of a rope pulling tight.
Rowan landed atop a pile of rubble beside me with a curse, rolling and flinging himself up. He spat blood and grit and growled, “Alive—by the gods—alive.” His shoulder hung wrong; the wound we’d already given him opened anew with the fall. He grabbed at his arm like a man who had been given back a weapon and then had it wrenched away
