Lindarion stepped back without fanfare and motioned toward the group. "We fly."
Thariel raised an eyebrow. "All of us?"
"You said the boy doesn't have long."
She hesitated for a half-second.
Then nodded.
"Alright. We load up."
The elves moved quickly. Efficient. No wasted movement. The stretcher was braced between the curved ridges of Ashwing's shoulders.
Two of the guards climbed up first. Then Thariel. Lindarion took his place last, just ahead of Ashwing's left wing joint, fingers braced against a gold-spined ridge.
"You know where their fallback is?" he asked Thariel.
"East. Ravienel Valley. Old hunting forest past the barrier trees. Twenty miles."
"We'll be there in ten."
Ashwing's wings snapped once.
The wind kicked off the ground in a burst.
And then they were airborne.
—
The wind over the valley was sharp.
But the sight below was a different world from the one they'd left.
No smoke. No burning.
