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Chapter 10.

​Breakfast was a quiet, solemn affair. Fenris had insisted on a small table tucked into an alcove of the Great Hall, shielded by a heavy stone pillar from the prying eyes of the pack. Rhiannon ate with a mechanical focus, her body demanding fuel even as her mind remained miles away. She picked at a bowl of thick, creamy porridge swirled with wild mountain honey and topped with tart, dried berries. Beside it sat a plate of toasted dark bread and a small crock of churned butter. The food was simple, wholesome, and a world away from the scraps she’d scavenged in the brothel.

​The herbal tea Fenris had provided was hot, smelling of peppermint and birch bark, the steam rising to dampen her pale face.

​"The trees are still screaming, aren't they?" Fenris asked, breaking the long silence. He was watching her over a mug of black coffee, his own plate of eggs and thick-cut ham largely untouched.

​Rhiannon paused, her spoon hovering over the oats. She looked toward the high, narrow windows where the dark tops of the pines swayed against a bruised morning sky. "It’s not screaming anymore. It’s a low, rhythmic thrumming. Like a heartbeat that doesn't want me to sync with it. They know I’m hollow, Fenris. They know I’m missing my vibrancy."

​Fenris stood up, the legs of his heavy chair scraping against the stone floor with a sound like a low growl. "Then we need to change the conversation. Put on the boots I left in your room. We’re going up."

​"Up?" Rhiannon blinked, her dark green eyes wary as she set her spoon down.

​"To the Spine," he said, his voice firm. "If you can’t talk to the trees yet, you’ll have to learn to talk to the mountain. It’s less judgmental than the wood. Stone doesn't care if you have wings or not- it expects everyone to fall eventually. It only cares how you stand back up."

*~*~*~*~*

​The Spine was a jagged ridge of granite and basalt that rose sharply above the treeline, where the wind whipped with enough force to tear the breath from a mortal’s lungs. Rhiannon struggled- only used to walking on clear, flat floors. Without her wings, her center of gravity felt permanently skewed, a phantom weight pulling at her back where there was only scarred, empty air. Her tiny, malnourished frame buffeted in the gale like a scrap of blue silk.

​She slipped on a patch of loose rocks, a sharp cry escaping her throat as she began to slide toward a steep, rocky drop.

​Before she could fall, a hand clamped around her waist. Fenris didn't just catch her; he anchored her. He pulled her flush against his side, his body a solid, immovable wall against the mountain wind. The heat radiating from him was staggering- a furnace of lupine vitality that made the goosebumps on her arms prickle.

​"Steady," he rumbled near her ear. "Don't fight the wind, Rhiannon. You’re trying to use balance you don't have anymore. You're looking for the sky to hold you up. It won't."

​"I can't do this," she spat, her voice thick with a sudden, hot frustration. She pushed against his chest, but it was like trying to move the cliffside itself. "I’m a creature of the canopy! I was meant to glide, to hover, to never touch the dirt unless I willed it. My body was built for the air, Fenris. Now I’m just... a heavy, stumbling thing."

​"You aren't heavy," he said, his voice quiet but stern. He didn't let go of her waist. Instead, he moved behind her, placing his large hands firmly on her shoulders to square her against the slope. "You're just grounded. Look down at your feet, not at the drop."

​"I hate the ground," she whispered, her lip trembling as she stared at the grey stone. "It’s where the men are."

​"The ground is also where the strength is," Fenris countered. He guided her toward a narrow ledge of solid rock. "Try again. Step up. Put your weight into the heel, not the toe. Trust the stone to hold you."

​Rhiannon took a tentative step, her thin legs shaking with effort. As she shifted her weight, the wind gave a sudden, violent shove. She tilted backward, a gasp of terror catching in her throat, but Fenris was there. He caught her by the hips, his fingers digging slightly into the wool of her tunic to keep her upright.

​The touch was intimate, necessary, and terrifyingly solid. For a heartbeat, Rhiannon forgot the wind. She felt the calloused texture of his palms, the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back, and the sheer, overwhelming power of his physical form. It wasn't the invasive, slick touch of Gorgon. It was the strength of a foundation.

​"I have you," he murmured, his breath warm against the back of her neck. "I’m the anchor, Rhiannon. Use me."

​She hesitated, her hands hovering in the air as if searching for her missing wand, her missing sky. Then, slowly, she reached back and gripped his forearms. His muscles were like coiled iron under her touch. She leaned back, just a fraction, letting him take her weight.

​She didn't fall.

​"There," he said, and she could hear the small, gruff smile in his voice. "The mountain didn't eat you."

​"Not yet," she muttered, though she didn't pull away. The silence of the stone beneath her feet was a relief compared to the judgmental vibration of the trees below. She looked out over the edge- the vast, rolling waves of green and grey that made up his kingdom. "Why are you teaching me this? Why do you care if I can walk on a ridge?"

​Fenris let go of her hips but stayed close enough that she could feel his heat. "Because one day, you might want to run. And when that day comes, I want to know you won't trip on the first pebble. A bird with broken wings can still outrun a wolf if she knows the path."

​Rhiannon turned to look at him. He looked every bit the ruthless Alpha here- his dark hair windswept, his blue-gold eyes scanning the horizon with a hunter’s precision. He was a creature of blood and bone, of ancient, violent laws. And yet, he had spent his morning playing crutch to a broken fairy.

​"You're a strange monster, Fenris Nightshade," she said.

​She reached out, and for the first time without the fog of fever or the desperation of a fall, she touched him. She placed her small, pale hand on his bicep, feeling the hum of his pulse beneath the skin. It was the first spark of true trust- not in his words, but in the simple, undeniable fact of his strength.

​"I’m just a man who knows what it’s like to lose his path," he replied, covering her hand with his own for a fleeting second.

​Rhiannon looked back at the trail ahead. It was steep, jagged, and unforgiving. She still had no wings, and she still had no magic. But as she took the next step, her heel landing firmly on the granite, she didn't look up at the sky. She looked at the stone, and for the first time in ten years, she didn't feel like she was falling.